"Dreams are illustrations....from the book your soul is writing about you"
-Marsha Norman
Max had no idea where he was. His memories of last night were foggy at best, but one thing he knew for sure, this definitely wasn't where he had fallen asleep.....
He remembered being in his dilapidated apartment in Chicago, third floor, apartment 3-D. He moved in shortly after his release. The social worker helped him find the place, it was cheap and would allow literally anyone rent there.
Angry is the best word you could use to describe him, pre inpatient therapy. His lawyer had gotten him a reduced sentence, probation and an intensive rehabilitation, instead of doing any jail time. PTSD they said. Six months in a hospital that was pretty much the same as prison.
Last night, he had returned home from the bar where he worked, at around 3 am. That was the only job he could find being a washed up, formerly institutionalized, thirty something army veteran. He sat down on his old threadbare couch, with the springs that dug into his butt. He didn't care that it squeaked every time he shifted position or that the thing couldn't possibly be anymore uncomfortable. He popped open another bud light and turned on the tube. He recalled Jerry Springer was on and someone was telling their boyfriend she had slept with his father and they were in love.
He began to drift off to sleep, the sound of a screaming red neck woman and a chanting crowd the last thing he remembered clearly. He thought he remembered leaving, walking around the city, stopping in some bars, getting kicked out of said bars, stumbling. Maybe someone grabbing him, helping him walk? It was all very clouded, just still frames from a movie, did he remember doing those things? Did they really happen? He couldn't remember clearly.
Now, he opened his eyes, blinked a few times to knock the sleep out. The brightness compounded his searing headache. He realized he was standing on a cold, hard, inclined surface. A cold wind stung his skin as it blew across his haggered face. The ground was rocky and hard under his feet, the two day stubble providing little protection from the cold. He shook his head attempting to clear his mind and think straight. He used a relaxation technique his counselor taught him, count backwards from ten, take a few deep breaths. Max reopened his eyes, but he was still cold, still had a dull throbbing in his head and was still thoroughly confused. He needed to put together the clues. Up ahead he saw a snowy mountain peak. Under his cold, bare feet were dark, ice slick rocks.
"So I'm on a mountain." He said aloud his voice sounded muffled and distant in his ears, echoing . Again he looked ahead, and saw a cave, a deep, black blemish on the face of the mountain. He suddenly felt an uncontrollable urge to get to that cave. Not just to get warmer but some deep seeded urge, like a craving or the call of addiction.
Max climbed toward the darkened, wide open eye socket of the cave but after a few minutes it seemed no closer. He stopped, looking around again. Confusion still overpowering all other thought. His need to get to this cave was overwhelming, so he hardened himself against a burst of trepidation, and continued.
Instantly he was there, except now there was no cold, no mountain and no headache, just the mouth of the cave like a huge, gaping maw, a dragons mouth, opened and ready to devour him. It seemed to be calling him, drawing him in. Someone or something inside was trying to get him to join them. He started to walk, step by step into the mouth of the beast.
YOU ARE READING
Dream Therapy
General Fiction"Dreams have always expanded our understanding of reality by challenging our boundaries of the real, of the possible." -Henry Reed Ex-army Ranger Max was angry and depressed. Mental illness plagued him. Now he's stuck inside his own dreams with only...
