Timeless Snow ✓

Ch. 10 - Dream

You had to shake this off. That was the only solution. Trying to force yourself to forget something was easier in theory than practice. It was like cleaning the permanent marker off a dry-erase board. You could blur it or distract away from the markings but at the end of the day, they lingered in the white abyss. To not understand your own mind was troubling and caused more anxiety than you'd like to admit. In the end, you couldn't help yourself from seeking the answers you craved even if the answers condemned your sanity.

"What do dreams mean?" A single eyebrow peeked as you looked across the glossed cherry wood table that separated you from Dr. Andrews. A new addition to his office, likely in attempts to add an element of comfort in a clearly hospitalized room. A coffee table didn't make you feel more at home. A piss pore attempt seeming more welcoming and relatable. What could you possibly have in common with the 'crip-keeper'.

"Something you've dreamt about you want to discuss?" He readied the pen in his wrinkled hand and lined it with the top of the paper. Searching eyes peered back up at you through thick black-framed glasses. You could see hope festering in his aged blue eyes, was today the day he'd finally get a breakthrough with you?

"No." Lies came easy when you had something you wouldn't discuss with someone you barely knew. You had no bond of trust with Dr. Andrews. "I've just been wondering why they exist." You hid your motives in innocent curiosity, hoping to not give the doctor any reason to analyze you for asking.

He paused as he let his mind drift in the possible reasons you were asking a topic out of thin air. He was trying to read you, decode your cryptic behavior before he'd answer. " Dreams are related to waking-life experiences that are associated with REM theta activity. Emotional memory processing takes place in REM sleep... " His words grumbled and cracked as his stretch voice came out as robotic and cold. As if resighting his college textbooks word for word.

"Very 'shrinky' answer, Doc." Your eyes rolled back with an unimpressed sigh. God forbid you managed to get a more genuine human response from someone who took 'How to be Indifferent' and got a master's degree in it.

Grabbing onto the grey blanket that you brought with you to each therapy session you wrapped it around your arms and waist, hugging it close for comfort in the stuffy hospital office. Kicking up your ankles you placed them on the rim of Dr. Andrew's brand new coffee table. A flash of defiance in your eyes as you narrowed your gaze on the doctor. You could see the visual cringe he had at your careless actions, finally a pinch of emotion out of the lifeless Doctor.

"Many endorse that dreams reveal insight into hidden desires and emotions. Other prominent theories suggesting that dreams assist in memory formation, problem-solving, or simply are a product of random brain activation."

"Better... I guess." Digging your elbow into the arm of the chair you leaned your weight to your right side. You rested the point of your jagged chin into the palm of your hand and took in a slow breath, trying to prep yourself for your next question. "Do you think dreams can be memories? Or are they always just fictional events that we make up?" You were mindful of your tone, keeping it airy and light as to not cause further suspicion. "You're having trouble discerning between dreams and reality?" Dr. Andrew's asked in a rushed tone soon after your question. God damn it, here we go ahead. You knew whatever you said now was moot. He only heard what it is he wanted to hear, ignoring the fact that his question wasn't without reason.

"I'm not saying that." You were quick to reply, raising a boney finger as you pointed it toward your therapist. " I'm just asking a question." Pulling your hand back you tucked your fingers into your palms. The points of your nails dug into the skin of your palm with resentment, trying to soothe the irritating rage you could feel building in your gut. The point of therapy was to figure you out but you hated that everything you said had to amount to the greater picture of your psyche. You could never just ask a question for the sake of knowing the answer.

Silence set in before the frantic sound of a ballpoint pen scraping against the stock paper. Dr. Andrew's eyes peer through his glasses in concentration as he took notes on your behavior. It was times like these where you felt like nothing more than a lab rat. Your suffering brought profit to Dr. Andrews. It brought generous checks from your parents to Chocia's Psychiatric Hospital each month for your care. As long as you were ill, the people around you profited from that pain. It was hard to convince yourself that they truly sought to help you with good intent.

"We've still haven't established who Sam is." Dragging his pen off the yellow pad of paper he lowered his hand down on the arm of his leather chair. His boney chest heaved with a slow breath, his grey suit hanging onto his lined pale skin that had lost its glow. It was as if you were watching him weather away through the years. "Is this what th--"

"Just stop!" Quickly you barked toward Dr. Andrews and slapped your hand into your lap. Your eyes lit with a fire that burned deep in you. "Samuel is just something my imagination cooked up!" Waving your hand in the air you tossed it up in frustration. Visibly getting tired of the constant questionnaire. "You fuckers were screwing with my meds, I was out of my head." You tried to mind your language, figuring it didn't look the best on your record. They knew how to make your blood pressure rise, never had you found people so good at that task. You weren't always able to bite your wicked tongue.

"Y/N, you locked yourself in the employee bathroom. You were crying and begging someone to get this 'Samuel' fellow..." Those bushy grey brows lowered, narrowing his bearing gaze as he tried to apply pressure with social cues. You could feel his judgment from across the room, like a disgusting slum that clung to your skin and making it crawl with rage."We found you shaking uncontrollably in the shower."

"I fucking get that!" Your voice erupted loudly from your throat before you thought to control its volume. A thud rang through the cold office as your left foot left the coffee table and stomped against the floor causing Dr. Andrews to flint. Quickly you regretted your choice. Tucking your arms in you folded them against your chest and sunk back into your chair trying to lock yourself up from his belligerent banter. "Again, Sam was just a figment of my imagination. I know that, so stop trying to find deeper meaning in a fucking made-up name." Wasn't that what you were doing now? Trying to find meaning behind Christopher Horn? You couldn't even take your own advice. All you wanted was answers, not a SAT questionnaire. "Is our time up yet? I'd really like to get back to my room and finish reading more of that book you gave me before lights out." Again, lies. Anything was better than this though. Even if you had to read that book some more to put on a face for him, you'd do it.

Dr. Andrews straightened out his arm with a thrust as his white long sleeve shirt was pulled higher up his wrist. Mimicking your disappointment with an exasperated sign his hand laid down on his lap. "It's a few minutes early but, I suppose we can just pick this up later..."