The Elements of Zion: The Vine, The Branch, and The Thorn

Chapter 1

I paused at the threshold, taking in the small, stark room with a sense of trepidation. The clinical setting, with its pristine furniture and soft hum of air conditioning, felt intimidating. The walls, painted in muted tones, seemed to close in on me, amplifying my anxiety. Behind the therapist, a framed diploma declared "Dr. Jeremy Simmons, Ph.D., Clinical Psychology." The official-looking certificate was meant to reassure, but in that moment, it only underscored the gravity of why I was here, adding weight to my already heavy apprehensions.

The chair seemed to swallow me whole, my limbs stiffening as reality blurred at the edges. My pulse escalated, and in response, my eyes shut tight, as I attempted to find solace in a forced calm. Silence enveloped the room, punctured only by the relentless ticking of a clock perched on the sterile white wall. Tick... Tick... Tick...

Darkness swathed the inside of my eyelids, a canvas where my thoughts ran wild before succumbing to the emptiness that was burgeoning around them. Tick... Tick... Tick...

My leg trembled, a sharp, involuntary response to my inner turmoil and disdain for the clinical detachment of the room. Breathing grew laborious, the air thickening around me like invisible shackles, binding me to the suffocating confines of the room. Tick... Tick... Tick...

"Isaac?" A faint murmur emerged from the clock's mocking cadence.

Startled, my eyes snapped open to meet the source of the call, my therapist. "Yes?"

The man before me peered over the rims of his spectacles, his gaze heavy with empathy. "I know this is difficult," he began softly, "but I truly want to help you. The only way I can do that is if you are willing to share with me exactly what happened."

"I know," I murmured, meeting Dr. Simmons's steady gaze yet feeling as if I were looking right through him, as if he were just another ghost from my past.

An eerie emptiness pervaded the room, making me feel isolated in my struggle. My desperate need for help clawed back the encroaching shadows of my mind. Sleep had become the rarest luxury, eluding me like a phantom lurking in the shadows. The relentlessness of being triggered by the footsteps behind me in public restroom stalls, unable to sit through a movie without instinctively seeking the nearest exit — this was not a life I could bear.

The man glanced down at his papers, tapping his pen thoughtfully. "Let's start with something a bit more approachable," he suggested, breaking the silence. His voice seemed to echo in the otherwise still room. "Your assessment indicates you suffer from frequent nightmares. How often do they plague you?"

"Almost weekly," I replied, the soft murmur of my voice betraying the storm of emotions whirling inside me.

He pressed on, "Would you be willing to share what they're about?"

A shiver wracked my body, but I forced out a few words. "It's the same damn nightmare, over and over," I started. "I'm not even back in Iraq, no firefight or nothin'. I'm just in bed, and the room's pitch black. Then, in the corner, way back there, I feel this presence, even darker. I can't explain it, but I just know it wants me dead..." My voice trailed off, leaving the room thick with tension.

He cocked his head, "So, you can't actually see what it is?"

I paused for a moment trying to gather my thoughts, "If I had to guess what it looked like, I'd say it was this giant, evil cloud of smoke."

He settled back into the deep embrace of his tufted leather chair, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. In the dim lamplight, his eyes gleamed with a mix of concern and curiosity. "Well, that's a new one, indeed. What happens next?"