The New Patient
I slide on down to my lovely little therapy office and plop down, smack dab in the middle of the comfy couch I keep in the middle. I reach over to the clipboard next to me and gently thumb through the sheets of paper that lists all of my queued clients.
Queued Patients
- Sarah Mettinger, drug addiction.
- Jason Wittney, bad break-up
- Elijah Mettinger, trauma from sister's drug addiction
A fourth signature appears, slowly being written just below the third in pencil, in probably the worst handwriting I've ever seen in my existence. Quite impressive, might I add.
- Chen Niu, constant attacks from dream-based entities
I furrow my brow as I read that line and re-read it several times. That's definitely new to me. Normally, someone gets attacked one or twice and gets ego shattered and their psyche replenishes itself over time and grows stronger from it.
Fourth in line, huh? Not anymore.
I hold out my hand and beckon for the phone on the wall; it obliges by lifting itself off and floating over and landing in my hand. I smile as I toss it in the air and catch it, feeling that nice satisfying solid plastic in my palm.
"Mindy?" I call to the front desk.
"What's up, Phil?"
"I'm gonna to do some rescheduling…"
I stop by the front desk, hot cup of cocoa in my hand. A perfectly fitting decoration for the holiday seasons. I take a sip and feel the spicy aroma wafting through my nostrils and the hot chocolately goodness burning the back of my throat. Just as good as when I was alive.
I check my watch, purely out of habit, really, since it always ever gives one time nowadays. That time would be 'constantly rotating counter-clockwise out of control o' clock.' Time here means nothing, just the same as any other dream.
The front clicks, grabbing my attention. They violently bang open and a tall, young, skinny Asian man staggers inwards and falls face-first onto the floor with a hard thud. A lanky humanoid, almost entirely human in visage, save for some rather purple and long fingernails, off which are all currently deeply embedded into the young man's man, leaking a murky purple mist into the air.
I run over, grab the dream entity by the the scruff of it's torn coat and free the young man from his assailant. The entity turns to look at me, its face contorted with rage. It opens its mouth and its features turn into a maelstrom eyes, teeth and ears.
I quickly hurl it outside and see its nails still embedded in the young man's back, elongated and pulsing. They shatter like glass from the force of the doors slamming shut.
"Jesus," I mutter. "The clipboard wasn't joking." I hoist him off the ground and carry him to my office.
"He gonna be okay?" Asks the front desk man.
"With me? Always."