Insomnolence |Ryden AU| ✔️

~2~

The building is a bit smaller than I expected, but comforting and maybe even a little reassuring.  It's quaint and picturesque with a sign in the window, painted in baby blue lettering, stating that this is in fact a dream therapy clinic.  At least I know I've come to the right place.

I can't help but feel apprehensive as I push open the door, a small bell ringing and alerting anyone inside of my arrival.  What if this whole thing is just a waste of my time and energy?  I've never heard of a dream therapist.  This might be a load of garbage, but....what's the harm in trying?  If this supposed miracle man can help me with my nightmares and sleepless nights, then I won't have any room to talk.  Here's hoping I'm not throwing away my money on this.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I approach the front desk, where a pretty woman with dark shoulder-length hair and dark eyes sits typing away on her keyboard.  She looks busy, the stoic expression on her face anything but welcoming.  Am I interrupting something important....?

"Excuse me, miss?"  I say hesitantly, my head low.  Don't draw too much attention to yourself.

The woman looks up, her eyes locking with mine.  She retracts her hands away from the keyboard and folds them in her lap.  "Yes, sir?  How may I help you?"

I gulp, sparing a glance at the nameplate on her desk.  Sarah Orzechowski.  She can't be that bad, right?  "I, uh....I have an appointment."

"Name?"  she asks.  She returns to her computer and pulls up a tab of patients.  The words are too small for me to read.

"R-Ryan Ross."

She types my name into a search bar, or something of the like, and another screen flashes before her.  I hope that's a good thing.

"Yep, I have you marked down for 4:30,"  she says, turning to me with a smile.  So she isn't completely emotionless, then.  "Right on time, Mr. Ross.  Go on in.  Dr. Urie will be waiting for you in his office."

"Thanks,"  I mumble, wrapping my arms around myself as I turn away from the front desk.  It's cold in here, way below average room temperature.  Either that or my body temperature has dipped to unsafe levels again, thanks to my lack of sleep.  I don't think I closed my eyes once last night.  The fear of what lurked in the dark was too much for me to handle.

I really hope this guy can help me.

I start down the narrow hallway, the lighting faint and the air quiet.  I can't hear Sarah typing on her keyboard anymore.  It's just me and my exhausted thoughts, me and my aching body.  The door at the end of the hall feels like it's getting farther and farther away with every step I take, morphing into a twisted whirlpool of mahogany.  All I can do is try to blink it away.

My soft knocks echo around the silent corridor, rattling in my ringing eardrums.  A voice sounds from the inside, inviting me in.  It sounds distant in my mind, but I open the door nonetheless and step inside.

A clean-shaven man sits behind a desk, his gaze cast down at a stack of paperwork.  His dark brown hair shows no signs of imperfections or flaws, and although I can't see much of his eyes, they look kind, warm, welcoming.  I suppose you have to look cordial if you plan to be a therapist.

He glances up at me as I shut the door, but only for a mere second.  Then he returns to his paperwork.  "Please, have a seat.  Make yourself comfortable,"  he tells me.

I do as I'm told and sit down in the cushioned chair before his desk.  The metronomic ticking of the clock pounds into my skull, the scribbling of his pen drilling a hole in my brain.  Migraines aren't alien to me, but something about this one makes my stomach twist and churn.