Distorted

He is acutely aware that every time I step into his office now, I have something fucked up to tell him, and he’s right. I don’t say a word. Don’t know what to say. Just sit down in that one cushioned chair and pick at a loose thread on my sweatshirt.

His green eyes sweep over me and his lips fall into a frown. He doesn’t appear to know what to say, how to start this conversation. That makes two of us. He pulls out a notepad from somewhere and sets a pen in between his teeth, his brown hair falling in his face.

“So, Kendall, why are you here today?”

I bite the inside of my cheek at the question and concentrate on the little paperweight on his desk. I haven’t looked at the name plate since I sat down, so I don’t even know his name. It doesn’t really matter. I don’t need to know.

I open my mouth to speak, but close it, fast. I can hear my mom’s voice in my head, telling me this is a waste of time, that my mind is just overactive, and that I have a strong imagination.

I wish that’s all it was.

I look at him, the doctor with no name, and I close my eyes. It’s easier for me to talk if I’m not looking at someone.

“I have dreams,” I reply, finally.

I haven’t opened my eyes yet but I hear the chair he’s in groan because he’s leaning back in it. “Can you describe these dreams?” he asks.

I almost feel like laughing. “Sure I can.” I open my eyes, staring into his. "I can see them as clearly as I see you. They are all dead and I'm covered in their blood, thick and smelling of rust. They are ghostly, but their lips are stretched wide, almost like they're smiling at me."