Perhaps it was this one dream. This one moment in time, in which everything can be accounted for.
The dusty floorboards at his feet creaked and groaned every time he shifted in his chair.
I cannot blame anyone though, or so I believe. We humans like to shift blame so easily.
The candlelight cast shadows across the wall. They danced with every breath he expelled.
I should have expected it. I should have seen this coming. I should have.
The father’s eyes darted like sparrows in a tree, illuminated by the soft glow of the room. Sweat glistened as it rolled down his brow.
But I keep asking myself; given the chance, would I change anything I have done?
“I cannot say I am any expert on…” The man paused for a moment. The floor groaned once more. “…these kinds of matters”.
There were three people in the room. One was a nervous man, apparently the father of a little girl sitting in the corner of the small room. I could only see the girl's sillouhette.
The creaking of floorboards. He did not know what the man was thinking, but why should he care? He was not the insane one here.
The third was apparently a psychiatrist of some kind. A pretty shabby one, if you were to ask my opinion. It would seem the father of the girl was asking him for some kind of advice.
“But…but you must.” His breaths became sharper. The man noticed. “You’re a psychiatrist, aren’t you?”
The man smiled. A dark smile, slashed grotesquely by the sharp shadows scarred across his face. The chair squeaked. The man noticed.
“My friend, I deal with little boys who cannot sleep. I tell their mothers to give them a glass of milk before they go to bed, and to read them a story before they go. Your daughter is…well, I suppose I don’t need to tell you that she is an exceptional case.”
The grating of wood.
“Please, you must be able to help. You must. You must!”
The man paused, and this time it was he who caused the floorboards to grind. As he leaned forward, his hoarse voice turned into a harsh whisper.
“I suppose I could recommend you to someone who deals with…these kinds of cases.”
The grinding grew louder.
“Yes! Please! Anything.” Tears swelled up behind his eyes. “Anything. Anything. Anything.”
His head was filled with the grinding. It didn’t stop.
The girl in the corner raised her head slowly, as though she was a marionette. Her head turned almost mechanically. Her eyes widened at the sight of her father’s plea.
The grinding became unbearable.
“Anything!”
I awoke.
YOU ARE READING
Angel
Mystery / ThrillerAngel, if that is in fact his real name, is an underground psychiatrist. He has the gift, or perhaps the curse, of being able to tap into the dreams of patients who have mental illnesses. But what will be the consequences of digging up the mysteries...
