Shatter Me At Dawn

4

"It's called dissociative amnesia," said the spectacled woman sitting on the plush red chair in front of me. She was perhaps fifty years old, her conservative chin-length hair just beginning to show signs of grey. I was seated in a similar chair, but while the woman held a clipboard, I nervously refolded my hands on my lap.

"I don't understand, Dr.—"

"Dr. Molina," provided the woman. She removed her spectacles and set them on a small table beside her chair. Taking a short breath, she met my eyes, her blue eyes clear and sharp. "You were in a severe car accident a week after giving birth to your second child. Falling asleep at the wheel was the official cause of the crash. You were in a coma for three weeks. There were lingering...concerns about your mental state. Water?" She gestured at the clear glass of liquid on the table beside me.

"No, thanks." My throat felt so tight I wasn't sure how I'd ever be able to swallow anything ever again.

Dr. Molina cleared her throat. "But it appears that something has gone awry. Instead of your mind healing properly, you have somehow compensated with the creation of another identity. I suspect you've been visiting this identity each night as you sleep, building more and more with each visit."

I didn't know what to say. She had to be wrong. My life as Sophie Andress was the real one and that this—this Sophie Walker—must be the dream. The created identity. But this all felt so real, and I had no idea what to think anymore.

I picked up the glass of water, three cubes of ice tinkling softly against the glass. A fine sheen of condensation moistened my fingertips, small bubbles dancing to the surface of the water. Could a dream have this fine level of detail? Was it normal to be able to notice the slight wear in the weave on the arm of the red chair I was sitting in? The ammonia and lemon-clean scent of this room? The small noise of Dr. Molina breathing in and out? Discomfort wormed behind my eyes, and I rubbed my forehead trying to make sense of my surroundings.

"Perhaps it would help to talk about it," said Dr. Molina gently.

"Talk about what?" I snapped, setting down the glass of water as if it had suddenly become scalding hot.

"The life you live when you dream. It is likely is a manifestation of your subconscious desires, a place where you can hide safely from the problems in your real life."

"What—what problems do I have? I can't remember ever being here. At all." I glanced at the door, somewhere behind where Ben and my "children" sat waiting.

"Ah, the amnesia, yes." Dr. Molina spread an arm out wide. "Talk about anything you remember from your dreams. We can identify and work through whatever is causing this." Her expression was calm and open, expectant.

"I don't know," I shrugged. "I work, hang out with friends..."

"Ok, in your dreams," emphasized Dr. Molina, "you work and hand out with friends. What does your average day look like in this dream world?"

"I wake up in my house—"

"What does this house look like?"

"It's...big. It's mine."

"You live alone?"

"Yes."

"Continue."

"I drive to work—"

"What kind of car?"

"A blue Audi—I don't take the Lambo out much—

"Mmhmm," nodded Dr. Molina, scribbling notes on her clipboard. "What kind of things do you do in your spare time in these dreams?"

Her heavy-handed emphasis was beginning to annoy me.

"I relax, watch TV, take bubble baths, hit clubs with my friends—"

"Who are your friends in these dreams?"

"Lex, Asha, Janet..."

"Tell me about them."

"Well Lex is really—" I stopped. The absurdity of the situation hit me like a semi truck—I was talking to a complete stranger who thought she knew me, who claimed she was here to help me—who didn't believe a thing I said.

"You know what? I don't really understand the point of this."

"It's part of the healing process," smiled Dr. Molina benevolently.

"I don't need healing," I snarled, snapping to my feet.

Dr. Molina remained seating, as calm as ever. She slowly unfolded her spectacles and reapplied them. "My patients often tell me that. Still, I'm here to help."

"And how exactly are you helping? This—" I gestured at the room around me—"this isn't real. It can't be, it just can't—"

"If this was a dream, Ms. Walker, wouldn't you be able to have some level of control?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever realized you were in a dream before?"

I nodded. Of course.

"And you woke up, right?"

I nodded again.

"And if you didn't wake up immediately, you were probably suddenly able to control your movements, alter your surroundings?"

Another nod.

"It's called lucid dreaming. Awareness that you are in a dream. When your conscious mind realizes it is dreaming, it begins to meddle in the story. If you were in a dream right now, you could will yourself out. You could change the very appearance of this room. In real dreams, our brain starts waking up when we realize we are dreaming."

I brought my hands to my head, trying to squeeze out the truth. What she said...it made sense. I should have been able to wake up, to change out of the stupid flowery dress I wore, to—hell, I should have been able to fly if I willed it hard enough.

A deep sickness settled like a stone in my gut.

Dr. Molina continued, but in a softer tone of voice now, settling back into her padded chair. "I'd tell you to try to wake up, but I know you've already tried."

And how I'd tried. Pinching, slapping, biting my cheek until it bled—

"Ms. Walker, your brain is sick. You need my help."

I can help myself, I thought as I paced the room like a caged animal. I am not sick. But as soon as I thought it, I knew it was a lie. The cage wasn't the room—it was the entire world I now found myself in. And my brain...my sick brain couldn't work itself around this new reality, couldn't comprehend the magnitude of what had happened.

"It will only get worse," said Dr. Molina.

I turned abruptly, the now familiar panic reawakening in my veins. My shaking body brushed against the side table, the glass of water toppling off the surface and shattering a crystal-studded dark spill of moisture across the blood-red rug under my feet. The clear, perfect cubes of ice scattered around my toes were the last thing I saw before I turned and bolted from the room.