Page 9 of Dreamscape Therapies

Then I remember. The couch. Therapy. It was just a dream.

I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars, trying to ground myself in something that isn’t unraveling yarn, fishing lines, and creepy strangers knitting reality apart.

“Mr. Klein.”

Jay’s voice sounds far away, like he’s underwater. Or maybe I’m the one that’s drowning. I drag in a breath through my nose and release it out of my mouth. My lungs burn.

“Mr. Klein.”

Yarn. It’s always fucking yarn. Why? What did I do to piss off the craft gods? Did I insult someone’s grandmother’s afghan? Kick a ball of yarn in a past life?

“Vincent.”

My head snaps up.

Jay is standing over me, all five-foot-nothing of him. His glasses are crooked, his hair is slightly mussed, and there’s a tiny coffee stain near the collar of his sweater vest that I swear wasn’t there before. By all accounts, he should look ridiculous, but the way he’s looking at me, like he’s personally prepared to fistfight whatever demon is currently haunting my subconscious, does something to me.

“Look at me.” His expression is calm, but his eyes aren’t. He’s worried, and for some reason that I don’t want to look too closely at, that settles something inside of me. “Good,” he says, crouching in front of me. “Now, tell me what you can remember.”

“You were there.” I swallow, my throat clicking audibly. “You watched the whole thing. Why do I have to tell you?”

“Because, in order to work through whatever trauma this is, I need to hear it from your perspective,” he says, gaze never wavering.

I stare at him for a few seconds before finally giving in. He’s a stubborn little shit. I’ll give him that much.

I tell him everything about the lake, the fishing line, the yarn, the man in the boat. The way the man was somehow stitching reality together while everything around me unraveled.

The more I talk, the easier it becomes to breathe. My heartbeat gradually settles, and the room stops spinning chaotically.

All the while, he listens without interrupting, scribbling notes on that ridiculous yellow legal pad of his.

When I finally run out of things to say, he sets the pen down.

“Vincent.” He hesitates. “Can I call you Vincent?”

“You just did,” I deadpan.

A tiny smile tugs at his mouth. “Right.” He clears his throat. “What I’m seeing in your dreams and what you’re actually experiencing are two very different things.”

I scrub a hand over my face as my head pounds in time with my pulse. “Great. So I’m crazy and fucked in the head.”

“You’re not crazy,” Jay urges, leaning forward to rest his forearms against his knees. “When we talked on the phone, you mentioned feeling watched in your dreams. You said it again just now.”

“Yeah.” I dig my fingers into my temples. “Someone’s always there. Just out of sight. Every time I try to look directly at them, they disappear. It’s like they’re hiding in my peripheral vision.”

“And how long did you say this has been happening?”

“About six months, maybe longer. The nights all blur together when you don’t sleep.”

Jay’s eyebrows pull together. “And you’re only seeking help for it now?”

“My friend, Eric, got worried and threatened to stage an intervention if I didn’t call you. He’s the one who gave me your card.” I shrug.

“Eric Stanton?” Jay asks, eyebrows shooting up.

“Yeah,” I say, giving him a tired look. “He did my tattoos. He’s a regular at my bar. I guess he’s kind of become a friend.” I shrug again. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Small world,” he murmurs, smiling.