Page 9 of The Nightmare King

I had to give him something to get him off my back. “One setting stays the same, the rest shift. The person I see is always the same.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know who he is.”

“Interesting.” He tapped the pen to his beard. “And what are the landscapes of these dreams?”

“Sometimes a maze, usually I dream of the maze once or twice a month. The others change. The other night it was outer space, before that, a pirate town.” I shrugged. “Like you said, the neurons in my brain misfiring, probably.”

He hummed to himself. “Do you think of these dreams during the day? You know, statistically, most people forget ninety-seven percent of their dreams upon waking. Thus furthering the theory that these nighttime scenes we play a part in are just our brain's function of sifting through stimuli. Like a disposal system for our mind.”

Disposal system. My chest tightened. What if my brain disposed of my phantom, and I never saw him again?

“You look distressed.” Dr. Truman made a note on his pad. “How do you feel when I explain that information to you? How does your body feel physically right now?” Dr. Truman’s dumb ballpoint pen scratched against his yellow notepad. Listening to someone write about you was worse than overhearing people gossiping about you. At least then, you knew what they were saying. I’d prefer a gaggle of high school girls chattering about my outfit over a balding doctor scribbling some hypothesis on why I’m fucked up.

I glanced at the clock, hating his open-ended line of questioning. Therapist-speak sucked. “My jaw hurts,” I mumbled.

“So, the nightmares are worsening?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Grinding your teeth at night could lead to jaw pain. A lot of folks grind their teeth during nightmares. Does your jaw hurt worse in the morning? Do you wake up with aches and pains, in general?”

No, I wake up with aches and pains because what’s happening to me in dreams is real. Is what I wanted to say, but what I really said was, “I don’t know.”

He leveled me with a doubtful look. Dr. Truman knew I was a bullshitter. I was probably his least favorite client.

Afraid, scared, unsure?—

“I’m fine,” I added half-heartedly.

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Lucy, what are you not saying?”

Twenty-seven minutes left.

“Lucy,” he pressed.

“I—“ should tell him to shut the fuck up before I gut him like a pig in his sleep.

I startled. The voice that fluttered through my mind wasn’t my own— it was— it was his. Mare.

Sitting up straight, I felt my cheeks flush.

“Are you okay, Lucy?” Dr. Truman poured me a glass of water, the ice clinking into the plastic cup. “Is it too warm in here?”

It’s going to be mighty warm when I set his house on fire. Mare’s voice purred into my mind. Hello, Lilac.

I stood, dropping the pillow and my purse to the ground, before hurriedly picking everything back up with shaking hands. “I’m sorry, Dr. Truman, I—I—“ I couldn’t even think of an excuse.

Breathe, tell him you have to pay your parking meter. Mare guided me, and I sucked in a breath, doing as he instructed. Dr. Truman bought it enough to let me leave.

“This isn’t happening,” I murmured to my steering wheel. “You aren’t real.”

Shall I smack you again? I did quite enjoy that.

His voice was so clear. I pinched my arm until it hurt— I was awake. Very awake. And I was hearing him. Or were my delusions creeping into real life now? Fear pressed into me like cold rain atop my head. My thoughts, my mind, they weren’t my own anymore. What a terrifying realization… and even more so that I didn’t care, because it was him. It was him during the daytime. It was Mare in my real life, somehow.

You’re frightened. His voice purred through my mind as clearly as someone speaking from the passenger seat. Good.

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