"Tell me more about these dreams of yours"

I was sitting in Dr. Erickson's office. This was the third time that week. I was seeing him based on a court order from when I was thirteen. After the cops found out that I was already seeing a shrink, they “suggested” that I up my appointments based on the fact that I had walked in on the bodies of my dead roommate and her boyfriend. Every time I went in it was the same thing: lay down on that damned couch that smelled faintly of old Cheetos, chat (only out of procedure) about the last few days, and then the question. He always asked about the dreams. Always. I understood that was the reason I was there, but his insistence that I talk about them seemed like more than just a doctor trying to diagnose a patient. It was almost as if he needed the details that I was able to give him. As if he craved them. I could almost see him licking his chops as he mouth watered, preparing him for a feast. There were times I wondered if he used what I told him for masturbation purposes.

"What about them? I go to bed, I dream of murder. It’s always from the victim's viewpoint and I feel every ounce of pain that they go thru."

"Have you thought to go to the police about this? Hire yourself out as a profiler?"

"By the time I wake up, the murder is usually already on the news. And besides, it doesn’t work the way the police would like it to. They just appear randomly. There are no specifics to it."

"And this is what you attribute your insomnia to?"

I knew I was giving him a patented 'you’re a dumb-ass' look. I didn’t care, either. “If you were witness to a murder every time you closed your eyes, would you sleep?"

A flash of interest crossed his eye. I could swear he was getting a boner. "Touché" was all the said, though. “And these dreams started right after your parents were murdered?”

“Right after I watched my parents being murdered.” I corrected. I tried to push the memory from my mind’s eye. It worked, for now. Though I knew that it was only a matter of time till the good doctor made me relive it. He always did.

“Let’s try some hypnotherapy again. Take you back to the moment where it all began. Maybe we can find a clue as to how these dreams began.”

That was the last straw. “There won’t be any ‘clue’!” I shouted, getting thoroughly pissed off. “There hasn’t been any other time you’ve done that damned hypno shit, and there won’t be this time! I refuse to do it! I refuse to go back to that damned closet! I’m not going to watch them die anymore! I’m done!” At some point in this little outburst I had gotten up from the couch. Realizing this, I sat down on it again. Erickson’s pudgy face was red and he was sweating slightly. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or frightened. Frankly, I didn’t care.

After what seemed like hours, he let out a breath and put his notebook away. It was then I realized that he had been silently counting to ten. Stupid guy actually believed that worked. Guess shrinks have to believe the shit that they preach in order to sleep at night.

“Well I think that we made some breakthroughs, today,” he stated, scribbling on another pad. He said that at the end of every appointment, whether anything was “broken through” or not. He stood, ripped off the top sheet, and handed it to me. “I’ve upped your prescription, and added a different kind of sleeping medication. Maybe this will keep the dreams away.”

I took the sheet and shoved it into my pocket. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.” I replied.

“Ill see you again next Tuesday.” He settled himself behind his desk once again.

“Bye.” I picked up my coat and scarf from coat rack and left the room, closing the door behind me.