In Anguish

“And that was when I woke up, and realized it was sleep paralysis, doc. Haven’t had an attack in years, though, so it’s odd it would start up again now…”

The redheaded doctor nodded thoughtfully, listening to my words, emerald eyes glittering with quiet warmth. Meanwhile, the office’s clock softly ticked away seconds on the little wooden desk in the corner, settled next to a large potted aloe plant. The heater in the adjacent corner hummed very softly, warming the old building, yet still my hands felt cold, still they fidgeted.

This woman was not Dr. Rosewater.  This woman’s name was Dr. Hearth. Dr. Rosewater was on vacation for the holidays and left a substitute in her stead, and well, let’s just say that I don’t exactly like change. There is a distinct bond one forges when speaking to a trusted authority figure, particularly one as personal as an anxiety counselor, a bond of trust. Almost like a friend, albeit a professional one who knew exactly what to say to assuage your fears, and understands you a bit deeper than most.

That bond, however, is not very easily transferred to a total stranger, particularly one that you’ve been told focuses more on marriage counseling than on anxiety disorders. And especially not when said stranger has been substituted due to your normal counselor being on vacation.

“I mean, it’s not like I haven’t had any sleep paralysis before,” I continued, staring at the floor. “I just haven’t had it in years, and I’ve never had an attack that vivid. It was almost like it wasn’t a dream, you know? Like that thing was actually in my room, attacking me…”

“Well,” the doctor said, brushing a fiery wave from her face, “It’s not all that uncommon for stress to cause sleep paralysis to flare up, especially after a traumatic experience like yours. Vivid ones, especially, can happen after trauma.”

“And what does that mean?” I asked, leaning in nervously.

“It means your anxiety is a direct cause of the sleep paralysis, Michael. And that your emotional pain from this whole ordeal is… How do I put this…?”

The woman sighed a second, then pulled out a small yellow notepad and pen.

“I’d like you to imagine a bottle, Michael,” Dr. Hearth finally said, sketching a small bottle on the notepad and a few little stick figures inside of it. “These,” she said, pointing to the stick figures, “Are your feelings about this whole thing. Now, what do you think is going to happen if too many of them get put in there and not enough can get out?”

“I’m… sorry, I don’t see how this is helping,” I murmured, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I’m sorry about that, Michael,” the woman said, setting the notepad aside. “What do you think would help you?”

Her eager eyes shone with an internal glow, searching for a response, any response at all.

That warm gaze made me uneasy. Sure, it seemed friendly enough, but something about it felt dangerous, something about it reminded me of embers, little embers seeking something to ignite. A challenge. That’s what it felt like, a challenge to me to say something. Anything.

“I… don’t know what would help at this point,” I said truthfully, clasping my fingers together to keep my hands from moving. “Just talking about it doesn’t seem to be helping, but there’s nothing I can do…”

“There’s always something you can do, Michael,” Dr. Hearth responded, setting her dainty hands in her lap. “After all, even if a fire burns you, it’s probably burning for a reason… you’d agree, right?”

I thought it over a moment, then nodded.

“Well, in my experience, many times anxiety expresses itself as frustration or internalized aggression,” the doctor continued, “And I believe that your fears over your wife are leaving you frustrated and confused as well as afraid. You probably consider yourself fairly capable in the relationship, so when a conflagration like this one happens, you start asking what’s wrong with yourself instead of asking how you can control the flames. Essentially, you’re so upset at the scenario that it becomes frustration with yourself, and it’s manifesting in your nightmares as a result.”

“But I don’t feel angry,” I responded, confused. “I just feel tired and nervous and I’m sick of it.”

“And that’s understandable, of course you’d be tired after a nightmare like that, since sleep paralysis can contribute to insomnia.” The doctor pulled out her clipboard, and began to jot something on the paper there. “But I more often find that stress can cause nightmares to take on meaning, and I find it rather worrisome that the apparent meaning of this one is self-deprication.”

The confusion became irritation. I was way too damn tired for this shit today. Why did she keep going back to the anger thing? Was she trying to upset me on purpose? Did she have any idea how scared I was? Did she even care?

“I’m not angry and I’m not deprecating myself, though,” I protested, chafing. “Why do you keep dodging the issue? I just want to talk; I just want help…”

“Michael, please, I am trying to help,” Dr. Hearth replied, her emerald eyes now seeming to flicker with strange light as they continued to fix me with that challenging gaze. “But I do honestly feel that this internalized I-Should’ve that you keep doing is going to hurt you. At the very least, it’s stressing you out and it’s already making you angry at me for doing nothing other than try to help. Why on earth are you so angry at me, Michael? Is there something you don’t want to tell me?”

My face burned and my nails dug into my palms. She knew nothing. She knew absolutely nothing. She couldn’t help me, and not only that, but she wouldn’t. What exactly was I supposed to tell her? That I was seeing people and things that didn’t and shouldn’t exist? That I was so damn sure it wasn’t just a sleep paralysis nightmare, and I would have bet her on it? She’d think I was nuts. She’d tell Dr. Rosewater I was hallucinating and then they’d put me on yet more pills. Like I needed more drugs.

“Besides that, Michael,” the doctor added, setting the clipboard aside. “I’m sure Alicia’s going to make a full recovery, and then you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

I saw red.

“Her name is Andrea!” I shouted, “And don’t fucking tell me how to feel about her condition!”

“Michael, please, calm down!” Dr. Hearth responded, not even standing to face me. “I know you’re upset, but yelling at me won’t help. I’m really just trying to help you deal with your anger, that’s all…”

“I am not fucking angry at myself! I’m fucking scared as hell, you instigating bitch!”

“Michael, if you don’t calm down, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“Don’t even fucking bother, I’ll show myself out! I don’t need this shit from someone barely out of fucking college!”

The door slammed behind me as I stormed out of the room, barely hearing Dr. Hearth’s call to the front desk that the appointment had been cut short. Who did she think she was, anyway? A professional? What kind of professional derails a conversation to focus on something completely unrelated? What kind of professional says she’s helping you deal with grief and then tells you to ‘get over it’? All she did was fan the flames and accuse me of shit that isn’t even a problem. How the hell did she graduate college with her doctorate with a track record like that?

I leaned against the wall of the hallway that lead to the building’s entrance, head pounding as I set it against the cool blue wallpaper. Enough, I thought. Dear God, enough of this. I’m so tired of it all. I just want her to get better. Please. She needs to get better. She needs to…

“Are you alright over there?”

I looked up at the familiar grimy voice, slick as oil. A pair of sick hazel-green eyes peered at me over the top of a newspaper, open to the obituaries. It was the Surgeon again, there was no mistaking that odd septic smell about him, or the bloody blue scrubs he wore.

“… You?” I asked, morbidly curious. “What are you doing here, doctor…?”

“Oh, just waiting for another patient of mine,” he responded, folding the paper up and putting it under his arm. “He has severe hypochondria, you see, and I’ve been… keeping an eye on him for his family, so to speak. He’s been seeing someone for it lately and I’m just waiting out here for him is all. That, and I have news about your wife, Michael…”

I nervously fidgeted.

“What… kind of news?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer. That sickly, septic green gaze made me ill, just being close to this man made me ill…

“She is not doing well, Michael. Not well at all.”

I felt as if the earth had suddenly slammed into me. Oh God. Not this. Not this again. Please not more bad news about Andrea. Please.

“H-how so…?”

“You look ill, Michael; perhaps you should sit down,” the surgeon commented, setting the newspaper aside. “The surgery went well, Michael, and she’s recovering nicely. But her cancer is spreading. Rapidly.”

The blood drained from my face as I shoved my shaking hands into my pockets.

“And h-how…” I swallowed nervously. “How do you know it’s spreading? All the other doctors said she was going to be alright…”

“Simple,” the surgeon replied. “She isn’t, Michael. And as for how I know… I simply know. My intuition has rarely steered me wrong. But back to your wife…”

“No, no I don’t want to –”

“The cancer has metastasized at this point, Michael,” he continued, hands reaching to his surgical mask to loosen it. “It seems to have taken up residence in her arm’s lymph nodes and it may have started growing in her brain as well. At this point she may well have only a week or so left to live…”

He pulled the mask down under his chin, letting it hang like a dead fish as he looked up at me, and… oh God.

Oh God…

His entire lower face, from his nose to his chin, was rotting away, coated in the slick green filth of gangrene. He had no nose, he had no lips, nothing fleshy to speak of anywhere the mask had covered. His teeth… his decaying, blackened teeth, riddled with pits and holes, were set into even more decayed, shriveled black gums. The sick stench of rotting flesh was everywhere, I couldn’t escape it, I wanted to vomit. And then, just when I thought it couldn’t have gotten worse, he spoke, voice as smooth as ever despite his ruined face.

“I’m truly sorry, Michael,” the surgeon said, speaking clearly despite his destroyed mouth, “But there is nothing else that we can do for her.”

I couldn’t take anymore. I ran.

The last thing I remember is the door swinging open, scaring the ravens that had gathered in a nearby tree, the ravens that were watching the front door of the building, into flight.

No, I thought, shakily unlocking my car’s driver-side door and pulling myself inside the vehicle. No, they’re watching me. They know, don’t they? They know what I’m scared of, and the Surgeon knows, and the Man and the Girl know, and they… they all know. None of them were ever human. They aren’t even real, and I’m the only one who can see them.

I slammed the Xanax bottle against my hand, shakily palming the pill, and swallowed it feebly. Michael, stop. Michael, calm down. There is a reason for all of this. You’re not sleeping well. You’re literally worrying yourself sick. They aren’t really there and they can’t hurt you. They can’t hurt you.

But what if they can?

Tap tap. Tap tap.

I looked up at the hood of my car at the raven perched there, its beak tapping gently against the window. No. Not now, I can’t deal with more of this now, I…

I started the car and floored it in reverse, startling the bird on the hood of my car as I did so, and drove off. No. I’m done with today, I’m going to the park to clear my mind, and then I’m going home.

I’m done.