The Sudden Outpatient

The night was drenched in absolute obsidian.

Complete paralyzing darkness.

I was unable to make out whether I had my eyes open or not. Was my eyes shut in fear, barricading any intervening speck of light or was I staring obscure charcoal darkness in the eye? The urgency coursed through my body, the sinister fear crawling up my spine like an unhurried snail, making me blindly thrash in front to the corridor of darkness while crawling on all four. My ears perk up at a sound, someone banging the front door to splinters and instantly I know that it is my cue to escape from the hands of my executioner. The running is a blur, stumbling through one door after another until I reach an opening and into a murky street littered with lurking evil.

In the midst of the slate and graphite haze, my eyes adjust to the normalcy of ominous alleys, trashcans on one side and a lumbering man dousing something from a sack into blazing flames. My eyes find his menacing ones before the stench of burnt flesh waft up my nostrils and realization dawns on me- pushing the acidic bile down my throat I run the other way, the shadow of my executioner looming on the wall in front of me, still way too close. I cross the street in a state of insane panic, narrowly missing getting hit by a silver Sedan in the incoming traffic. As my feet grazes the footpath, a loud thump reverberates accompanied with a piercing scream cutting through the air, the sound of bones being crushed under the wheels as audible as it can be. I turn on my heel, my eyes meeting for a split second with the driver, his hazel ones gouging into my soul before the trance breaks. The car whooshes past me, splattering my clothes in blood and I keep running, trying to leave behind the undecipherable broken corpse of the woman, the executioner (now nearer to my heel) and my past.

I didn’t know how far I would have to race to outrun my destiny and the putrescine smell of the carcass, but apparently not long because the alley in front of my had abruptly ended. The grim edge was littered with dead beetles and spiders, I was backed into a dead end with nowhere to escape when my executioner and his glint of scythe had caught up to me. I screamed- a hoarse blood throttling sound that I couldn’t recognize as my own. The last sound a person makes when they are faced with the Grim Reaper.

I closed my eyes, expecting a sharp pain to relieve me of my delirious state but when I opened my eyes, all I saw was the white ceiling fan cranking above me. Overjoyed that all of it was nothing more than a squeamish nightmare, I reach out for the glass of water except I feel the paralyzing darkness and presence of a spectre engulf me again. My body is immobile as though the fingertips are glued to the bedsheets, my lips sewed shut and my unblinking eyes trying to look away from the hovering apparition suffocating me. My entire body tense and mind frozen, unable to scream yet unable to bear the silence any longer. I can hear myself struggling, an eerie sound leaving my sealed lips, the tears streaming down helplessly as I pray and reassure myself that this is sleep paralysis, simultaneously. All my senses alert, the phantom in my room dissolves with my limbs relaxing after some terrifying minutes that felt like a lifetime.

****

Head throbbing and eyelids drooping, I chew onto my toothbrush, pondering about the bizarre dream and the sleep paralysis episode that followed afterwards. I had dismissed the phantom in my room from last night as an embodiment of my fears, the works of the demons I hold within my head. As a practicing psychologist, I am well aware of how the dangers of this world are majorly constituted of the dangers we bear inside us- the demons we see are just figments of our hallucinations that arise from the thoughts circulating in our minds, therefore instead of trying to explain the creature that morphed in my dreams, I was put on dissecting the reason behind my nightmare. While munching onto the avocado toast and strong coffee I prepared, I took out my laptop to look at what the internet had to say about dead insects, being chased and dead corpses showing up in dreams. Instead of psychological explanations, I was faced with massive articles on bad omens and widespread superstitions indicating danger, incoming problems and death. The reading had put my appetite at rest, a bad feeling churning at the pit of my stomach so I shut my eyes and tried to erase and unsee everything from the last 12 hours. Determining that I could not be upset if I wanted to genuinely help my patients in the appointments that day, I turned on some soothing jazz music and waltzed into my wardrobe to start my day.

****

A few hours later, I found myself massaging my temples maybe from the lack of sleep or due to the burden my patients were unloading on me, trying to rid themselves of the rock being weighed on their shoulders. When one listens to the lives of others, observes their emotions and dissects their perceptions, one usually learns that human beings are quite like Atlas, the Titan in Greek Mythology who bears the World on his shoulders, breaking yet breathing under the weight of it. In the modern era, we are unwilling to share bits of ourselves to our loved ones in fear of rejection and exposing our vulnerabilities, that is where I come into the picture- people would rather pay a stranger to listen to their ramblings than communicate with their loved ones and grow together. But honestly, no matter how cruel it sounds, I am glad that people are undergoing a rapid metamorphosis and emerging from the ashes as beings who are caged within themselves because that means I get to drive a car or treat myself to Chanel bags; I feed on and earn from peoples’ weakness, somewhat like a vulture.

I glance at my watch and breathe a sigh of relief when I realize that it’s time for my last appointment of the day, just as Rhea walks in. She is dressed in a thin white shirt, jeans and a juniper cardigan, even in this hot April weather. To most people, she lies through her teeth and murmurs that she has anemic tendencies thus feels cold but from our first session, the beads of sweat on her upper lip and the heavy bracelets she sported (although every other bit of her remained unornamented) told a different age long history of self-harm. Rhea Carmen has been a weekly regular of mine for the past two years- I have helped her talk when the rage and desperation of a cheating sexually and physically abusive husband came to light, when her 7 year-long marriage was falling apart, gave her clarity and strength to divorce her husband and proceed to court pressing charges for domestic violence and holding her hand through several spontaneous rebounds. She slumps down on the chair, removing her sunglasses and exposing a blue-black bruise under her eye,

“All men are pig, Layla. Look what this brute did to me. All because I refused to see him any longer. Can you believe it? I can’t! I thought Dev loved me!”

“Oh no Rhea darling, are you okay? Did you go to the police?”

“No, please I am tired. I just want you to listen to me.”

“Okay, tell me what happened.”

“We went out to dinner last night. Dev started talking about moving in and taking the relationship to the next level. We have only been seeing each other for 3 weeks so I said no. He got angry and the dinner got cut short. So so…” Tears started streaming down her face and I leaned over to squeeze her hand to urge her on. She gently dabbed her eyes with the edge of the tissue and continued, “So he dropped me off and wanted to come inside. I said I had an early shift the next morning and he started pressing me. Kind of frustrated, I may have screamed at him and he pushed me really hard so I slapped him and he punched me a few times. I slammed the door on his face and have been ignoring his calls and messages since then.”

“Hmm, I see.”

“That is all?”

“Okay Rhea, how many guys have you been with since Dev?”

“What has that got to do with it?” she asks in a voice tainted with defensiveness. I could feel her closing her boundaries, pulling back and reconsidering telling me. “You know what Layla, it’s not even that big of a deal. Maybe he deserves a second chance. Maybe I overreacted. I did scream at him, didn’t I? I was at fault as well.”

I tilt my head and try a different approach because dealing with victims of abuse means dealing with sensitive human beings who are used to having the blame put upon them after every episode of rage thus growing a habit of rearranging events in a way that justifies the abuser’s actions, “All I am saying is that, maybe you need to distance yourself from these monstrous strangers in order to heal. You seem to be seeking love in everyone since your heartbreak and while some are people to rely on, others may be predators looking for vulnerabilities to scavenge on while using manipulation. You know that you are strong, you must believe that you are worthy as well. Worthy of love, care, patience and respect.” A short pause to let my words sink in, “And maybe you need to stop seeking validation in the wrong people in order to get to the people who love and respect you. “

“Yes, I do deserve love, don’t I? Yeah, I see what you mean. I should not be treated like this.”

“Yes, dear.”

“So, what do you suggest I do?” As she looked at me with those blue large eyes brimmed with tears, a bit of my heart melts.

“I can only give advice, it is onto you to decide and implement them to your comfort. You are in charge of your life. Maybe take up some new hobbies, try cooking for yourself, heal yourself in silence. Be comfortable in your solitude and the company of yourself. The love you seek in others is something that you have inside you in an immense amount. I believe in you, so should you.”

Our time was nearing to an end and I was getting fidgety to wrap up the session and my day. Luckily, Rhea slowly nods and gets up, collecting herself.

“You are right. I think I will try that out. Thank you for your support, I have no idea what I would do without you Layla.” She reaches out for a hug and I return it, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze.

****

By the time I am wrapping up, Misa rushes in to announce the arrival of a patient who hasn’t made an appointment. Misa has been my receptionist for as long as I started having sessions in my own chamber and she is adept at managing my schedule besides being an absolute sweetheart when it comes to communication. Therefore, it seemed a bit out of character for her to even mention outpatients without appointments instead of scheduling them to the next available slot and more so odd, to look distressed when handling a client.

So, my first question was, “Is he giving you trouble? Should I call security?”

Somewhat alarmed she replies, “No, no. He just looks… what’s the word? Erm, a bit jittery and hysterical. He even offered to pay twice the normal charge for a session. What do I tell him? He keeps insisting.”

I sigh, being irritated to have to work another hour with a splitting headache but unable to resist the greed of getting paid double, “Give him a bit of trouble and then send him in.”

As Misa ushers the client in, I sit on my arm chair and cross my legs, settling in with my notebook and an unsharpened pencil. The man enters and what I see is a hollow shell of a human being, with vacant eyes and worry lines creasing his forehead. He sits down, signs of nervousness displayed on his legs bouncing and fingers clasping each other until the knuckles have turned paper white. I look up, his partially hidden eyes bearing a shocking resemblance (although I cannot put my finger on where I have seen him) and traces of menis (a state of wild frenzy with a tinge of insanity as mentioned by the Greeks while referring to the anger of Achilles).

“My name is Nathaniel and I am sorry to barge in…” he stops short as his eyes meet mine, “Have we met before somewhere?”

“I do not recall so, Mr?”

“Please call me Nathan. It’s just you look really familiar I could swear I have seen you somewhere.”

“Well Nathan, it is a small world. You look distressed, lean back and take your time before telling me what you want to get off your chest.”

He takes a pillow and rests it on top of his thighs, “It is actually a hypothetical question my friend posed at me that got me thinking,” he gestures at my notepad, “Could we not have this session recorded?”

A bit unsettled at his request I decide to clarify, “I will not be recording your account or issues in this. It’s just for me to help identify your burden and help suggest ways to make it lighter. Just for my thoughts, nothing here is being recorded. We value client privacy and give it the utmost priority. So go on, tell me about this friend.”

Nodding somewhat reluctantly he starts, “Okay. A friend, more like a colleague. We were talking about taking responsibility and the weights that balance morals, drawing the line between being accountable and being foolish. He asked that if, just like if, getting away with something that goes against the morals should always be considered a sin.”

I have been a psychologist and dealt with people for years, so I know a lie when I hear one. People often disguise the thoughts they are too embarrassed or guilty to admit out loud as the thoughts of their friends so that they can discuss it without having accountability or receiving any judgement. His words made me wonder who he was in love with, because people often start out like this when in love with someone they are not supposed to be with according to society. A married person? Someone of the same gender? Their boss? Perhaps a teacher?

“Define ‘goes against your morals’. There are things like falling in love, there are also things like assault or murder or theft.”

He pondered this and went on without correcting the ‘your’, “What if something like the latter? Like a mistake where I-he has caused grave harm to someone but will not get caught if they themselves do not report to the authorities or come clean? Is that a sin?”

“Is it still a mistake if they don’t try to fix it afterwards?”

“Of course! I mean everyone deserves a second chance, right?”

“Depends. Mostly yes.”

He nods vigorously, a sign that he was beginning to let his guard down, “So hypothetically speaking, a hit and run is not always murder right? It’s not black and white- there has to be some grey in-between. That’s what my friend said.”

My stomach dropped. It is never hypothetical when they say it is. But I probed on, feeling a slight fear creeping in, “How is it grey?”

“There is no meaning coming clean about an accident. After all, it was not intentional.”

The Déjà vu came in segments.

Incapacitating darkness. Sinister alleys.

“The city is a bustling place. People should be careful.”

The reeking odor of human flesh. A busy road with speeding cars.

“The pedestrians are to blame as well. The person behind the wheel should not be the only person responsible. Right?” His leg was back to bouncing, sweat streaking his thick eyebrows.

A silver Sedan. Piercing hazel eyes. A mangled bloody corpse.

“Why should a breathing person ruin their whole life for someone who is already dead?”

The man behind the wheel that crushed the woman with his car. The blood on his tire. The man sitting in front of me.

“Layla? Are you listening to me?”

The same man. The man from my dream.