"Please," she begged, "let me go. I won't -"
He laughed, the sound soft before he answered, "You know, it's always the same - in real life as well as in entertainment. It never ceases to amaze me how the same lines are used in movies: Please let me go. I won't tell. I'll keep this a secret. They never change the script, and even when it actually happens, people follow the same typical path. What do the victims expect to happen when they beg? That they'll be let go? That the person who took them will respond: Oh sure, here, let me loosen those ties, and would you also like my name to take to the police? Perhaps a copy of my driver's license would be helpful?”
He paused, a resigned sigh filling the dark room. "I'm sorry, Alice, but that won't be happening this time. Save your breath."
He knew her, the use of her name a jarring realization. Changing course after gathering her wits and an odd bit of bravery, she said, "I can't see you. Where are you? At least show your face."
No response, no noise, nothing.
He stepped into view after a minute, but only so much that Alice could see his silhouette, a dark shadow in contrast to broken and dirt-filtered light.
"Is that what you want? To know your monster?"
Seeing him, knowing he was real and not an illusion cast by a frightened and disorganized mind, didn't help her in the slightest.
Unable to peel her eyes from the form of his body, she watched silently as he sat down in a chair she hadn't noticed before, the wood feet scraping against the cold, concrete floor.
"Where do we go from here, Alice?"
She didn't know. Her mouth opened again on her screams.
12:30 p.m.
Gray walls.
Black table.
Plastic red roses.
"Good afternoon, Alice."
Still safe.
"Hello, doctor."
"Follow me into my office. We'll start where we left off last time."
Five steps across the room, three steps over the soft, patterned carpet. Four cushions. A white throw draped loosely over the armrest.
Still the same.
"We spoke of the first dream you had last time. Do you remember?"
Alice sat back against the cushions of the couch, her mind unsettled by the doctor's determination to start in again without giving her the breathing room that came with conversational pleasantries. "You just jumped right in there, didn't you, Doc? No how are you? No questions regarding my medications?"
He chuckled, although the smile on his lips didn't quite reach his blue eyes. "Would you remember taking them if I asked? Has your memory improved so much that you recall anything beyond my office walls?"
"There's nothing wrong with my memory." Spoken on a frustrated sigh, she couldn't hide the resentment in her words. "I remember every little sordid detail..."
"Of a dream?"
"Several," she quipped. A chill ran along her spine, exhaustion gripping at her heart and thoughts, every bone in her body sore for some unknown reason. Stress was the most likely culprit. No matter how hard she concentrated, she couldn't pinpoint any one certain trigger, it all blended together into a shapeless, filthy mass of memories and pain.
He studied her, his eyes taking in every detail, his mind recording every minuscule symptom in her behavior. "Have you had any restful sleep?"
Chortling at the ridiculous question, she gave him an answer that meant nothing. "Yes. No. Maybe a little. I don't know." Her eyes clenched shut, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. "I'm not sure it even really matters. I'll just wake up and discover that nothing has changed. She's still lost."
"And may always be." It was a quiet reminder.
As an afterthought, and perhaps to soften the blow, he added, "but I hope that isn't the case."
The tip of his pen tapped against his notepad. "You've studied neurology. You should know how important sleep is for the brain."
"I know..." Her mind went blank before she could finish the sentence. What, exactly, did she know? When it came to this? To the dreams? To the past and present that seemed to endlessly slide together into a mush of chaos and jumbled images?
There wasn't much she knew beyond the fact that reality was no longer a definite and tangible thing.
"Sleep is something I'm afraid of. It's something that is intended to refresh, but instead leaves me screaming in my head."
A single tap of his pen. "We should discuss something else. Your waking life, for instance. You told me you went home after your sister disappeared. What do you remember of that?"
Shaking the terror from her thoughts, she bunched up in her seat, her bent legs pulled tightly to her chest, caged by arms that were trembling. "Not much. I can't seem to settle my thoughts on anything, any one event. It's as if the memories have been shaken up and scattered, bits and pieces that come through the haze to slowly reveal themselves."