Today's Heartache (Peterick)

Part 12: Dreaming of You

Patrick's POV:

Darkness. There'd been a lot of that lately but not because of the cloudiness that had once been in my brain. That had began to clear and part with each new day and was barely ever there unless I saw the engagement ring on the desk or went a while without seeing Luna. My dreams were what held the darkness. I didn't know what it all meant or why they had become much more surreal and haunting especially now that I was faced with the fact that Jon was going home and leaving me with another psychiatrist.

He told me it was the stress of his near departure causing the dreams after I'd described them to him, and I supposed he was right. Though, it didn't make much sense after the fact. His replacement stood in front of me with golden hair pulled into a tight bun and blue eyes brought to life behind long lashes. She was an actual embodiment of positivity and warmth, a bright and cheery contrast to the blandness of the hospital. Dr. Jenna Black, one of the most skilled in the facility and quite possibly the entire practice- he had introduced her as.

Her strong personality oozed out of her in waves of a patronizing smile and handshake I considered much too menacing.
"It's nice to meet you, Patrick," she said once Jon had finished praising her for her outstanding record of recovery rates in her past patients and stroking her ego like there was no tomorrow.

I nodded and turned back to my drawing of the man I'd been somewhat working on for the past couple of weeks. She leaned over my shoulder and observed the piece for herself.

"Jon filled me in with your mental health history and other important information."
"I don't see how that's any of his business to share so freely," I replied.
Jon cleared his throat and stepped around the bed so he was on the other side of me as I smudged the black some more, staining my fingertips.
"Patrick, she has to know if she's going to help you. She's only here to aid you in your self-recovery, not pass any judgement."

"That's right. Think of me as a guide on a trip for a vacation you're on."

"This isn't exactly much of a vacation destination," I said.
They mumbled something among themselves, and Jenna sat on the chair near the bed. Jon quietly left the room so my new psychiatrist and I could be alone. I didn't think I wanted that, but no one besides Pete actually listened to my opinions nowadays.

"Who's that you're drawing?"
"I don't know yet. I'm trying to remember."
"Right. You've got that memory loss. Any luck with those dreams?"
I shook my head and laid the paper down in my lap, defeated and tired out for the day.

It was difficult to grasp these ideas being randomly thrown out into an open space in my head with no context or chronological order, and I hated the process of putting it all together when I hadn't the slightest clue of where the pieces went. Jenna looked at my stained fingers and furrowed brows and put a hand on my shoulder that felt like hot iron sizzling down into me.
"What emotions do you get with this?" she questioned, indicating to the sketch with her eyes.

"I don't know," I told her.
"Are you sure you don't know, or you just don't want to participate in my evaluation?"

I shrugged off her touch and walked over to the desk to lay the drawing out across. She meant well. What she had told me about wanting to help was true. I could tell that much, but my brain wasn't trusting enough to allow for the possibility of recovery. A nurse entered after knocking on the door, and Jenna was led to a corner to discuss something I could mildly make out.

"He's not ready for that yet. Tell him to wait," Jenna muttered.
The nurse left, and I heard Jenna's clacking heels approach me from behind.
"Patrick? You mind telling me about your father?"
"My father?"

I turned to face her and render what she had just said. It didn't cross my mind at all whenever I thought about my mother that I had a dad. Sure, it was logical, but the idea of him- this father figure- never appeared even in my most strained, unclear memories. I figured the blank amount of time uncalled for in my adolescent years must have contained him in some way, shape or form. Religion was a central theme to my dreams with its roots deep in my past, and a church always popped up if for a second or for a majority of the time I was asleep.