"Then what? The imagination is a finicky thing, Alice. I believe every mental process is tied together, conscious and subconscious. Perhaps if we can construct the pieces of your real life - if we can improve your waking memory - we can understand why your subconscious is flooding you with these images and ideas."
Twirling a strand of hair around her finger, her eyes locked on the skin turning white from lack of blood flow. "I like to think it's a psychic connection. Delilah is communicating with me. She's telling me what's happening to her."
With another tap of his pen, the doctor straightened his posture where he sat. His movement was sharp, dignified, but quiet so it wouldn’t startle her. He leaned forward until she looked at him, but somehow still managed to keep his face obscured by shadow. "Like twin communication? Is Delilah your twin?"
A simple shrug was followed by Alice's weak voice. "Might as well have been, we look just alike."
"Are you Delilah? Are you making up this sibling in your head to protect yourself from something that frightens you?"
Her eyes shot to his face, tracing the cut of his jaw before moving up in an effort to see the features concealed by the lack of bright light. "That's ridiculous."
"You've never told me about your family. Nothing substantive, at least. I have theories about what is most likely occurring with you. Tell me about your family, about events that happened before the day your sister disappeared."
Ignoring his request, she laughed. "Theories." The word fell from her lips with disbelief weaved into the two syllables. "I have theories, too. You just don't want to hear about them."
"You have dreams."
Her body tensed, the movement a full shudder that ran through her bones. "What makes your theories more important than my dreams?"
He paused, the silence between them birthing other sounds in the room. The ticking of a clock. The sound of dripping water from that damn bathroom faucet.
"My theories are based in science. Your dreams -"
Mimicking his earlier words, Alice argued, "Science is a finicky thing, Doc." When he didn't respond, she admitted, "and if I were Delilah, I wouldn't be here."
"Where would you be?"
"Trapped in that damn house. Where else?"
His voice was no longer soft or soothing when he asked, "Are you saying you believe the owner of the house you were selling has taken your sister? Do you honestly believe that your dreams are so accurate that you know where she can be found?"
"No," she confessed. Shaking her head, she slapped away the strands of hair that fell in front of her eyes. "That's not what I'm saying." Her voice trailed off, reality shifting again to a point where she didn't know how much time had passed since she'd last spoken.
Breathing out a sigh, she acknowledged his accusations. "If you don't believe I have a sister, you can check the news. Her name was everywhere at one point in time."
"At what time?"
"I don't know," she admitted.
Two more taps of his pen and he relaxed against his seat, his attention fixed on her.
The tick of the clock filled the silence. The faucet continued to drip.
"If I listen to your dream this afternoon, do I have your agreement that you'll listen to my theories during our next session?"
She wasn't sure she could make that agreement. She never knew when the fog of confusion would swallow her whole. But what other choice did she have? She needed to understand the dreams, and the doctor was her only hope.
"I agree," she managed to lie.
A simple nod of his head. With his pen poised over paper to record and dissect the lurid details, the doctor gave her his rapt attention, waiting to explore her hidden and prophetic world.
A thin, black shirt did very little to disguise the fit body beneath. Shadows traced lines of corded muscle, the cloth stretched over shoulders too broad for such delicate fabric.
Dark linen pants wrapped around thin hips, traveling lower to bulge out over thick, solid thighs. Max's booted feet were set at shoulder width where he stood motionless and silent.
When he cocked his head to the side, the thick wave of his black hair dusted his shoulders, the obsidian depth of color drawing the eye to his face half marred by scarring that could only have been left by fire.
Even with the disfigurement, his features were captivating and haunted.
"I'm sorry it had to come to this."
Alice swallowed, the lump thick and sticky, barely sliding down her throat enough for her to speak through parched and cracked lips. "To what?"
Taking one step forward, he braced himself from moving closer, his eyes darting around the room before settling back on her face. Alice’s thoughts were cloudy, perhaps lending to the odd feeling that he was fighting his desire to approach.
"The use of drugs is unfair and barbaric. I realize that. Technically, it's just as bad as a caveman knocking a woman over the head with a club." He paused, his facial features tightening as he winced as some unspoken thought. "But you wouldn't stop screaming. I just wanted it to be quiet, you know? Homes should be quiet."