Nightmares and Tweed
I stumble out of the therapist's building with a small wave to the lady behind the counter. The air is especially chilly tonight and I wish I would have worn thicker clothes. Wrapping my thin jacket tighter around me, I continue my way back home with only the flickering street lamps as guidance.
The sessions are always the same. "How are your nightmares?" Good. "Explain how?" They were just good. "Have they become more common?" Maybe. "Explain?" I don't know. Just, maybe.
If you haven't noticed, I don't really care for the therapist. I didn't even want to go, but my parents made me. I told them about my recurring nightmare that I had every night since I was five. I'm surprised I never thought of the idea of them bringing me to a shrink when I told them; they overreact all the time. They think I have a nightmare disorder, but after looking it up online, I'm pretty sure I'm not anywhere near it.
The sessions have been going on for two years now. Everyday I say that they're not working, and everyday they say, "maybe you need a different doctor?" but they never switched.
Two years with no results. I go everyday except for weekends, compared to the usual weekly way. I think my therapist is using my parents for money.
The nightmares were fairly simple - I mean, as simple as nightmares go. I was left alone in a field of fire. People were screaming everywhere, and the only thing I heard other than screams were explosions. Dead bodies and machinery were scattered around me. I was hurt and surely dying, but no one was there to help. Finally, a man came. He seemed nice enough, someone I could trust. But then his smile turned sickly, and watched as the fire over took me, burning all of my cells, all of my atoms one by one. And just when I'm about to slip away, I wake up.
When I was a little kid, that was surely enough for me to wet the bed. But now, it doesn't really bother me. It's like a normal everyday routine, like eating or breathing. Obviously my parents didn't agree, as I wouldn't be where I am now without them.
All of a sudden, just as the wind picked up, a whooshing sound appeared: the scraping against metal, a heavy wheezing. Discarded newspaper flew up and almost hit me in the face. And there, on the corner, appeared a blue police box.
I've heard of these things before. They were pretty popular in the sixties as my grandmother who grew up in England used to tell me. She would blather on and on about how they should make a comeback, citing how useful they were at catching criminals. She was obviously still living in the past; things are much more complicated these days.
Why is it here? I had never seen it before, not once on my daily trek back to my home. I decided it was probably because I'm very unobservant - definitely unobservant enough to not question what an old British landmark was doing in Boston - as I usually use the time to think about life and such on these trips. I'm about to walk away, but I'm interrupted by the door bursting open.
Out comes a man in a bow tie and a tweed jacket. It looked like he came straight out of the sixties along with the box, and he probably did. He looks around a little, straightens his bow tie, looks at his watch, and takes a couple steps forward until he notices me. His eyes widen and mine do too, because what the hell is a man doing alone in a police call box?
"Hayden?" he asks softly, but loud enough for me to hear across the street.
I look around to see if there is other people mulling about who could possibly have the same name as me, but I quickly realize we are the only people here. I point to myself like an idiot and mouth "me?" to the mysterious man, who nods viciously as a smile slowly creeps upon his face.
"Oh my god, Hayden!" He quickly crosses the street so fast I can't comprehend what's happening until his arms wrap around me in a strong embrace. "I can't believe there's more time!"
"Whoa there buddy!" I exclaim as I push him off of me. He's confused at first, but the joyful expression returns to his face. "I have pepper spray and I'm not afraid to use it!"
"Ah no you don't," the man, who I realize was British, says to me in a joyful tone. He takes a step back to take a better look at me, clapping his hands and rubbing them together as he smiles. He looks like a mad man.
Despite his jubilant face, there are tears collecting in his eyes. My defenses fall as I look at his sad expression.
"Are you okay?" I ask gently. He looks at me in confusion. "You're crying."
"I am?" He asks in surprise and rubs his face. "Oh, I am. Sorry, usually I can hide my feelings if I want to, but I guess these ran away." He laughs lightly.
"May I ask why you're crying?"
"Oh, well it's because- " he stops and stares at me. He suddenly grabs me again and sniffs my hair. He lets go of me before I can react. His face looks frightened.
"Oh no," he mumbles. "Oh no, what have I done!" He says louder and starts to back away.
"Um, sir?" I say, not knowing his name.
"We weren't supposed to meet like this - oh I screwed everything up!" He yells and runs back to the box, but moments later his head pops back out and he yells, "Forget this ever happened!" before finally locking himself in. I swear I could see his silhouette watching me through the windows of the door.
I shake my head at the crazy encounter, and rub the pendant that I always wear around my neck. I usually rub it if I'm stressed out or aggravated. Right now I am just really confused.
I want to go back but I know that if I do, something bad could happen. I turn the corner and get a block away when I hear the same whooshing/wheezing sound as before. I look behind me to see what could be the cause of it, but instead I see nothing. Absolutely nothing. Even the blue box is gone.
sooooo... yeah. I updated early! I wanted to add this in because it's kind of like a prologue but not really and I was like "what the hell?" so here we are.
I'm almost done with the story, so I'll do weekly updates on Tuesdays and Fridays starting Nov 3rd. Mark it on your calendars.
-alli-