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Begin again.
The words were distant, an echo that startled me for some reason and brought me back to where I was.
I was in an office with a stretch of window that met and faced white walls. Sunlight fell through the frosted glass in all-too-perfect angles.
Outside was a blur – a mess of light. Green splotches hinting at grass. The streaks of blue above were most likely the sky.
I felt chilled despite the warmth of the sunlight caressing my skin. Despite the dampness of sweat. I took in the scent of fresh linen. Soothed as my nails briefly dug into the arms of a couch.
Then I remembered those words.
“I’m sorry?”
Before me sat my psychologist, Dr. Linnea. Her legs were crossed, lips formed into a patient smile. In her lap was a notepad, unmarked. As if nothing I said was worthy of record.
“You should start over.” She said, “Your dream, that is.”
I brushed my fingers against my temple, wiping away the slickness. “My dream?”
She nodded, “You stopped after mentioning a girl.”
A girl?
I soon recalled my words. None of it felt like a dream. It was too lucid. Too real.
Part of me still felt cold and a shiver fully manifested at the thought of that girl. My stomach tightened and I suddenly had the urge to pull my knees to my chest.
“It ends there,” I lied.
Dr. Linnea furrowed her brows. She wasn’t buying it. “It’s good to process your dream. And even better to start from the beginning so we can work our way from there.”
I said nothing and was met with a sigh.
“Oftentimes, we view dreams as just that. Stories our minds simply tell us to pass the time. But in many cultures, dreams have been linked to premonitions.”
I frowned. “The future?”
She was beginning to sound like a madwoman. Where did she get her degree from again? I never saw a plaque of it anywhere—I could hardly recall who referred me to her in the first place.
And ironically, that was where my problem lay. I had trouble recalling. My memory was terrible. Parts of me remained unfounded to the point that my husband grew worried and our children were afraid.
Many nights I burst awake, screaming. Filling my lungs with the air I swore would abandon me. All due to this silly dream.
My psychologist nodded, “Your mind could be telling you something. A warning of what’s to come, perhaps?”
She was serious albeit her smile.
I took a breath, my eyes meeting hers. It was my first time noticing how similar our eye colour was. A muted brown. Yet beneath the warmth in her irises was a sharpness I could never find in mine.
Was it greed? Maybe eagerness. She wanted to hear my dream again.
An experience I was reluctant to revisit.
At my silence, Dr. Linnea reclaimed her notebook and gestured once more.
“Take your time. Don’t skip any details.”
She clicked her pen, barely giving the impression of intending to press it against paper.
“Begin again.”
I did not wake, but something brought my consciousness to the now—told me that if I didn’t act, I would drown in the depths beneath me.
It was foolish but I thrashed until I was above water, and thrust into a world so chilled that my breath condensed into thin and wispy air.
The world had dimmed, and all I could make out were the even darker silhouettes of what could be trees shooting up from an expanse of water.
Somewhere, far off, the water stirred.
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“Hello?” I called, though a part of me knew I would receive no reply. What could live in a world so cold and dark?
I didn’t wait to find out.
Guided by the direction of the clouds leaving my lips, I waded through. The marsh felt endless. The further I pushed, the more darkness and bare trees arose.
I didn’t stop. Despite the rigidness in my limbs, I pushed on.
More darkness. More bare trees, but also a sound.
Gurgling.
A stirring emitted from the pool before me. I pulled back, resisting how the depths began to cave into itself, shifting like a whirlpool.
The water groaned as it suddenly released something. Someone.
It was a girl. She floated face down. Her dark hair sprawled around her.
I didn’t know why my first instinct was to help her—to support what felt like a lifeless body—but as I turned her over, and pulled back the wet clumps of hair from her face, I noticed how these dark strands were in reality a deep red.
I saw—
A shift in the light.
Or at least, I believed there was. It was a flicker of dullness, gone in the blink of an eye. A light bulb in its final moments.
“You stopped again,” Dr. Linnea announced. And was that hint of annoyance in her tone?
Yes. It was palpable, even more pronounced in the tinge of her eyebrow. Upon our eyes meeting, she cleared her throat and eased back into her seat.
Yet, I couldn’t help but shift, now noticing how the deep brown of her hair also had a tinge of red. Dark but subtle. Maroon beneath the once-again bright lights.
Maroon just like mine. Just like—
“I’m sorry,” I said with weary skepticism.
She seemed to force her grin this time, “Don’t be sorry, Rebecca. Go on. Describe her.”
Upon her gesture, bile seized my throat. I shifted, forcing myself to recall the rest. That was it. Except—
“She almost—”
“Almost, what?”
“She almost… looked like me.”
The silence that followed was jarring.
Dr. Linnea settled back into her sofa, even more interested now. She tilted her head to the side.
Outside was still a blur. The only difference was that time had dimmed the day into an evening splatter of light. Orange and purple skies with shadowy green beneath them that danced, foliage yielding to an unheard wind.
But the lights left the window bright enough to catch a hint of our reflections. I too was a blur– a a pale mess. My skin and the deep not-entirely-brown hair that fell around it.
My legs were folded and so were Dr. Linnea’s. My splatter of colour seemingly poured into her.
For some reason, the window’s reflection made her features sharp—pronounced. I could make out the patterns of her jeans, and the brand of heels she wore. She was pale too, but beautifully so. A flush could be found in all the right places—her lips and eyelids. Cheekbones too.
Suddenly, our eyes met in the glass.
Startled, I turned back to her. “She couldn’t have been.”
Dr. Linnea narrowed her eyes. “How can you be so sure?”
The truth being that I wasn’t. My silence only confirmed it.
She sighed, “I think we need to revisit this dream. There’s something missing from your memory.”
“I’m positive I shared all that I can recall.”
“But how ‘positive’ can you be?” She shot back. “Remember, why you’re here.”
I didn’t want to.
“Dr. Linnea.”
“Yes?”
I was rubbing my head again. My skin was sweaty as ever, and a pain so sharp had erupted at her words. It ebbed and flowed, all focused on the space between my forehead and nose.
I rose, grabbing the black purse beside me, which I swore was gray when I arrived.
“Is it possible for us to continue tomorrow?”
I needed rest, and some Ibuprofen wouldn’t hurt. This was our fifth time revisiting this dream today and still none of my explanations felt enough.
It became clear now she was searching for an answer. One that I couldn’t provide.
My therapist shook her head. “Tomorrow is never promised. Besides, why put off something for tomorrow when it could be completed today?”
Frustrated, “Dr. Linnea—“
I was silenced at the raise of her finger. Or rather, I froze.
“Begin again.”
Suddenly, I sank into the sofa.
Into depths of water. Darkness.
I emerged. Cold. Wet. Not awakened, but in a present consciousness.
The darkness around me was familiar. Shadows with a semblance of trees. An expanse of near-still water.
I knew I was here again but this time, I was sure it was no dream.
My arms were preoccupied with something other than keeping me afloat. I supported a body. The lifeless girl that the depths spat up. She was stirring now, coughing up water and pulling away wet strands of hair.
She watched me with a distant haze, and I returned the look. Both of us watched each other in mutual silence.
This child stole everything from me. My muted brown eyes. My deep-brown-yet-reddish hair.
My jaw set to keep my teeth from clattering, to keep the chill from overtaking me. “Are you alright?” I asked.
Nothing. Instead, she watched me for a bit longer, lips pursing as though to speak. But all that came was a raspy breath.
Suddenly, she seized my throat. Her weight shifted, making me lose my balance. I was once again underwater, beneath a world of chilling darkness. Above me may have been a sky, black and further muddled by the girl’s even darker shadow.
My arms thrashed, my heart racked against my ever-caving chest. Throat filled with expired air I couldn’t expel. The girl’s newfound strength was unmatched.
I was drowning. Dying. Every part of me wanted to scream.
And when I finally did, I inhaled a flood of water.
My throat ached. Constricted.
Then—
I wretched on the floor of the office. Water pooled from my lips in unfathomable quantities.
I was on my knees, quivering from the chill that permeated my skin. I was drenched—not with sweat, but with the muddied freshwater. My blouse and skirt clung to my skin for dear life. My bones felt tired, sore from both the cold and a weight I could only compare to the feeling of being held underwater.
I clasped at my chest for any sense of assurance—even the slightest hint of life. The feeling of it rising and falling in rhythm to my heart was enough.
But barely.
Dr. Linnea’s office was dark now. No light emanated from above or beyond. The blur of outside was placated by the frosted grays of the window. A stain of dark monochrome. Night had fallen and everything was silent. Deafeningly so.
It made the sound of heels against tiles even more pronounced. The clicks reverberated through the floor into my palms.
“Our mind works in interesting ways.” I winced at the voice that came. I knew it was Dr. Linnea, yet at the same time it didn’t sound like her. It sounded like—
Her voice was off. Though not jarringly so. It reminded me of my recordings. The little habits I picked up to keep myself from forgetting. I kept profiles of people I held dear. My husband, my mother, my in-laws. All of them are stored as entries in a recorder no larger than my thumb. I revisited those memos daily,
So I knew my voice. And I knew why hearing Dr. Linnea made me recoil.
“Dreams often tell us of the things to come to us. Premonitions. Or the ‘future’, as you called it.” She was right before me now. A set of heels pointed in my direction.
I raised my head only to find my face grabbed by the woman, positioned just close enough so that I could take her in. But instead, it felt as though I was peering into a mirror.
Dr. Linnea smiled, drinking in whatever horror I expressed on my—our—face.
She laughed. “And, unfortunately, Rebecca. Your future now belongs to me.”
Begin. Again.
