Dr Forrester pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and folded her hands in her lap. “So, Nieve, how are the dreams?”

We’d agreed not to call them night terrors.

“I’m still having the same one. Every night.”

“Would it help to talk about it some more?”

I blinked, and the memories began to resurface – being frozen still, as though pinned down by some invisible force, the darkness around me converging to reveal the figure at the foot of my bed, its presence too hellish to face.

Still waiting for my reply, Dr Forrester spoke again. “Perhaps we could talk about the figure. . . the person?”

“Not today.”

I must’ve looked shaken because she gave me a moment to collect myself.

“That’s perfectly fine,” Dr Forrester said. “How about your art? Are you still drawing?”

“Yes.”

“And you find that this helps you?”

I glanced at my bag, lolling open on the couch beside me, and spotted my sketchbook. Some small part of me wanted to share it with her. Flipping through the pages, I found the cherry blossom tree I’d sketched the previous day.

Even though it was just roughly drawn with pencil, it was good. The dimensions, the depth, the movement. It was almost exactly like the one in our back garden when I was a kid. I reminded myself it was OK to feel proud of it.

I slid the sketchbook across the low table between us, careful to avoid knocking over the box of tissues in the middle, or our empty teacups on either side.

“Wow, Nieve,” Dr Forrester smiled. If she was only pretending to like it, she was doing a pretty convincing job. “This is beautiful.”

I looked again at the sketch, now facing Dr Forrester and upside-down. From this angle, it took on new characteristics. Intertwining branches became a web of chains. Thorns and leaves mutated into claws and teeth. Falling petals shifted into droplets of –

“Will you go over it with your ink pens like last time?”

Unable to bear the distortion of the picture, I snatched back the sketchbook, quickly flipping it closed and shoving it back into my bag. “Maybe. I was just going to shade it, but my black pens have run out again. Anyway. . . it only helps sometimes.”

“All right.” Dr Forrester smoothed out her cardigan and reached for the Rorschach cards at her side. “Last one, Nieve. Have a look and tell me what you see.”

She held up the ink blot and I squinted, trying to make sense of the splotches. “I don’t know. . . a pile of horseshit?”

Dr Forrester chuckled in the polite way she did when she was humouring me and thought I couldn’t tell. “Nieve,” she said softy, “what have we discussed about sarcasm?”

I replied automatically and without inflection. “That it’s a defence mechanism and a barrier to constructive communication.”

“That’s right. And we’re making real progress here. I know it’s hard but—”

“—you get out what you put in.” I finished for her.

This time, her smile had genuine warmth to it. She nodded in encouragement. I sighed.

I forced myself to stare at the blot and tried to discern some sort of image from the darkness. The longer I looked at it, the more the shapes seemed to move and shift, giving a kaleidoscope of different impressions.

There were too many thoughts, none of which I wanted to give voice to. I was still trying to forget the figure from my nightmares that paralyzed me with fear and choked the breath from my lungs.

Then I thought of saying anything. A bat. A frog. A butterfly. Something so generic that I didn’t seem quite as messed up as I was. But I liked Dr Forrester. She was helping me. And – as much as I hated to admit it – I needed the help. I didn’t want to lie.

Pushing those thoughts from my mind, a definitive form appeared on the card.

“Two angels,” I said. “Cherubs. They’re ringing a bell.”

Dr Forrester peered at me over the top of her spectacles and jotted something down in her notebook, saying simply, “I see.”

At that moment, the phone chimed its familiar gentle melody on the arm of Dr Forrester’s chair, and she reached for it to quiet the alarm. “Ah,” she said, “there’s our five-minute warning. So. Let’s have a final check-in and make sure you’re feeling safe enough to leave.”

I sighed again.

“Nieve?” she pressed gently. “I need you to tell me if you feel at risk.”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” I nodded, and she continued. “And we discussed that you’re happy sticking with your current medication for now – no adverse side effects.”

Not if she didn’t count the headaches, anxiety and insomnia, but I seemed to have those regardless of what pills I took.

“Nope.” My lips popped on the sound.

“All right. Well, as ever, Nieve, I’ve greatly enjoyed speaking with you today and I look forward to seeing you again next week.”

I attempted a polite smile and gathered up my things, shrugging on my jacket and shouldering my bag. “Thanks, Doctor.”

“Bye, Nieve.”

~

It was almost dark by the time I finally arrived home to my small apartment. I shook the raindrops from my umbrella before entering, then slipped off my boots and jacket as I crossed the threshold and nudged the door closed. My hands were numb, and my fingers fumbled before eventually finding purchase on the lamp switches, illuminating the space with a cosy glow.

Once I was warming up in sweatpants and clean, fluffy socks, I padded into the open-plan kitchen and living space to check on Basil, Rose and Monty, two of whom had dry topsoil.

“I’ve had my downpour today,” I said, topping up the basil and rosemary plants with a glug of water from the tap. “Now it’s time for yours.” I double-checked the mint plant and decided to give it a small splash of hydration, too. “Stay green, my dudes.”

Just as I was wondering whether talking to houseplants made me crazy or quirky, and deciding to check with Dr Forrester next week, hunger rumbled in my stomach. I took the dish of leftover pasta from the fridge and placed it into the microwave for a couple of minutes, sliding my phone out of my pocket.

Notifications were rare. Another side effect of my current condition. But there – in the corner of the screen – was the symbol of a cassette tape. The banners in the centre informed me I had a missed call and a voice message from my mother.

I called the voicemail number and pressed the button for loudspeaker, turning the volume all the way up so I could hear it over the humming of the microwave. I left the phone on the counter while I leaned back against the sink, folding my arms around myself.

Hi sweetie, sorry I missed you. I was just calling to see how you were doing and, well, to see if you might come home for a visit sometime soon. If you need money, we’re happy to help out with travel costs. We’d just love to see you. Just think about it, sweetie, and let me know. Love you. Bye.

If you want to replay the message, press one. To save it, press two. To delete the message, press three. To hear these options again—

I pressed two. For some reason, I wanted to keep it.

It was just. . . nice. Not pressuring or prying. Not judging or demanding. Even if I didn’t ever listen to it again, I wanted to just. . . remember it.

A series of shrill beeps refocused my attention onto my dinner. I stirred the pasta and returned it to the microwave for one more minute, using the time to line up the sitcom I was streaming. I’d already finished the entire show twice, but I craved the comfort of something familiar and uplifting.

There was a slight chill in the air, so I grabbed a blanket to curl up with. I would’ve worn a sweater, but I wanted to be able to flick my eyes towards the still-healing tattoo on my wrist throughout the evening, relishing in the small thrill every time I saw it, becoming gradually more accustomed to its presence on my skin.

The words I’d selected were in a foreign language, but they meant forever free. And although I didn’t feel completely free, I was slowly claiming smaller freedoms for myself. The freedom to engage in therapy, even when it made me cringe. The freedom to walk home through the rain, savouring the thick sploshes of the falling droplets. The freedom to choose what permanently scarred me.

~

I was tossing and turning under my blankets when, all at once, I couldn’t move. An unseen force pressed me into the bed and held me there, unable to scream, or even breathe.

My sleep-stained eyes took in the shadows around me. They swirled into a dark mass, from which the all-too-familiar presence emerged, looming over me. They lingered there, as though gathering power.

I tried to remember the articles I’d read about sleep paralysis back when I’d thought that’s what this was, but I kept coming up short.

My phone.

If I could reach my phone and turn on my torch or my camera, I wouldn’t be alone in the darkness anymore. I would outshine my fears. I would wake up.

My fingers strained, grazing the edge of my phone under my pillow, slowly coaxing it towards me. Moving was almost impossible, but my hand continued to wriggle, gradually working my phone into my grip and swiping desperately at the screen.

The shadows edged their way over my body, leaving ice-cold trails in their wake. I knew what would happen next. I had to stop it. Had to wake up before it was too late.

I gasped for air, tears running down my cheeks, blindly swiping and jabbing at the menu for my torch. As quickly as I’d breathed, I tried to close my mouth again – to stop the shadows from getting inside me.

A beam of light hit the figure at the end of my bed just as the shadows reached my face. Once they made their way inside, they’d stain every cell of my body. Then I wouldn’t just be poisoned – I’d become the poison. I’d infect everything and everyone I loved with my pain and wipe away all the life and colour from the world, leaving only me. Alone.

All the while, the figure just smiled. Smiled with the same lips I used to scream. Watched me with the same eyes I used to stare back. Laughed with the same voice I used to cry out.

I didn’t understand why she hated me so much. Why did things have to be this way?

The tears soaked my cheeks and my hair, making me colder still. But I realised I was bracing for the pain, which still hadn’t hit me.

In a moment of lucidity, I found myself thinking, This isn’t how the dream usually goes.

It was my hands.

They were still clutching my phone, casting the torchlight at the end of the bed, illuminating. . . nothing.

~

The cherry blossom tree looked alive.

Its trunk rippled with mottled brown grain, its buds gleamed green, and the petals blended from soft peach to rosy pink.

In colour, the tree was not crooked or gnarled or grotesque from any angle. It was vivid, vibrant, and verdant.

Alive.

A lot of things could come from the darkness, I realised. Seeds sprouting into shoots. The birth of a baby. Even the creation of the universe.

I swallowed and set down my ink pens, shifting into position for the next sketch I’d decided to draw. Everything was in place – the mirrors, the lights, the charcoal pencils.

My hair was neatly brushed to one side and I looked at the reflection of the smudges under my eyes, seeing them not as a sign that I’d struggled through the night, but as a sign I’d survived it.

I lifted my pencil and began to draw.

 

© Leah Squires, 2021

 

About the Author: Leah Squires is a creative writer who enjoys exploring challenging themes through empowering characters. Primarily a reader and writer of NA (new adult) Fantasy, Leah is currently working on her first novel, and refining ideas for several more novels. Previously, Leah’s work has been published in the I Object collective anthology, which can be found here.