Parasomnia

Part 1 - The Shrink

"It happened again."

The words­­­ echoed through the silence, bouncing off the cheap carpet and cracked walls before striking the bargain-bin floral paintings that made the place feel more like a hospital than an office. It was a hospital, Leo reminded himself, a single-room hospital shoved in the back of some unassuming office complex.

He sipped his coffee. His breath forcing the steam to bend and curl, forming strange shapes as it dissipated into the stale air. His jeans squeaked against the red leather couch as he shifted his position, crossing one leg over another as he leaned back and closed his eyes. This couch was horrible, uncomfortable for laying or sitting. Shrinks were supposed to have comfortable couches, but this particular shrink must have missed that part of the class. She probably just liked the color. Doctor Ipsom was like that.

"Same time?" Her voice was like steel wool grinding against sand paper. He winced. He would have found a new shrink months ago if his insurance had covered it. Unfortunately, he was stuck with Doctor Ipsom.

He opened his eyes, strands of eyelashes catching and tangling before breaking away. Doctor Marie Ipsom sat near the corner of the roo­­m in a hideous mustard armchair that looked even less comfortable than the couch. Her gray hair was pulled back in a too-tight bun. If she pulled it tighter, maybe it would smooth the wrinkles that mottled her otherwise boring and unassuming face. Leo had a hard time imagining her as a younger woman, though the image came to mind of a librarian, shuffling from book to book, terrified of the world. The face remained hers though, long, thin, and wrinkled with age. She was terrible at her job, even as a librarian.

"Yea. 2:30. On the dot." Leo muttered between sips of coffee, his eyes studying the hospital paintings as the doctor scrawled notes in her tiny book. Anything would have been more welcoming than sterile prints of pastel flowers. They clashed with the furniture in the most uncomfortable ways. He took a deep breath. That was just the artist in him, always critiquing color choices, always seeing the discord in inadequate works. God, there were so many bad pieces of art in the world.

"Can you describe to me what happened?" She lifted her eyes from the pages and folded her hands. Dead stare boring into him. The look of a narcissist. Anyone could get a psych degree, and anyone with enough commitment could get a doctorate, though not everyone was cut out for the job. Doctor Ipsom certainly was not, though looking at her you could tell she thought she was the best that ever had or ever would live. ­

Leo tapped his foot against the carpet, boots beating silently to a rhythm that existed only in his mind. How many times would he repeat the same story to this woman? How could he clearer than 'it happened again'?

"Well, Doctor. As I've told you numerous times in our many visits, it always starts with that damn ringing."

"The phone?" She interrupted, scrawling more notes in her tiny book.

He sighed and took another sip of coffee, "Yes, a phone. Ringing somewhere in my apartment, plain as day. I can even picture it, build an image in my mind just from the sound. It's an older phone, one of the types that hangs up horizontal, with a rotary dial on the face. One that jacks straight into the wall and doesn't need power. So, I get up, or I think I'm getting up. I never really know, but I always glance at the clock. 2:30. Never a minute earlier, never a minute later. As soon as my feet touch the floor, there's this blinding white light. Hot, like phosphorus behind my eyes. Have you ever heard the color white, doctor?"

She shook her head, eyes studying him even as she jotted more notes into her book, pen scratching like cat's claws against the paper.

"It's terribly loud. It's like all the sounds boiled down into one long, miserable symphony of pain. I scream, or try to scream, there's not really sound inside that white... just light. There's a voice. It says something to me. The same thing every night, though I've never been able to make out what it is. It's deep... but... high pitched at the same time. All garbled nonsense, I can't make heads or tails of it. I just know it's not any language I've ever heard. Then the light blinks out, and I wake up. Analog clock by my bed always reads 3:30, and the one on my microwave is always blinking like the power went out. I have to reset the damn thing every morning."