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Aberrant Dreams (I): The Wedding Massacre
As soon as my therapist sees me walking through the door, he knows I’ve got a dream story to tell him. We’ve been doing this for a year, now. He’s got enough material to make H.P. Lovecraft sound like Roald Dahl already, but my mind continues to frighten us both.
“You look like crap. Sit down,” he says, nodding at the sofa.
I sink into it, fingers splayed and registering the rough fabric. It’s something for me to hold on to while I dig into my memories of last night.
“Is your recorder on?” I ask at the same time as he puts the device on the coffee table between us, finger already pressing the record button. It makes my heart skip a beat. I don’t know why being recorded makes me so nervous. It’s good that someone else gets to hear the insanities coming out of my head. It’s… therapeutic. Go figure.
“Talk to me,” he says, thus signalling for the dam to break.
And oh, does it break…
“I had a difficult dream last night,” I start and follow up with a heavy sigh before I dive in. “It felt as though I had dreamed the same thing before. Perhaps I dreamed the same thing twice in one night, I thought…
The first time, people died. A lot of people. People I knew. People I was supposed to care about. They died. The villains got them…
