10/20/10 – Wednesday Topic: Knit
“The dream is always the same,” I found myself starting up a conversation with my therapist that I wasn’t ever ready to revisit. However, the dreams had been coming more frequently as of late and I just needed to get them out. I opened my mouth to speak but found that my brain had decided to prevent me from sharing my horror.
“Go on,” he egged from his overstuffed armchair.
“I’m trying,” I choked. I opened my mouth to speak again and couldn’t contain the fit of coughs that burst through.
I wanted to tell him everything. But, I guess that in signing your soul over to the devil, the fine print includes a confidentiality clause. I don’t think I could have spoken about it. But I tried. For about a half hour I kept trying to start, my process switched between coughing and stammering. I finally gave up after I coughed and a bit of blood spattered into my palm. I get it, I thought. I could almost see Cormac in my head, grinning his Cheshire cat grin.
I wanted to tell him about the dream. It was always so vivid. A woman in a housedress with a rusty pair of knitting needles. My entrails as yarn. The excruciating pain that always followed. Waking up and vomiting. Even my mind had trouble painting the picture without jarring imagery.
We continued talking about the horrors in my life (that I was apparently approved to talk about by good ol’ Satan) until my time was up. I cut the balding man a check, scribbled my next appointment in my date book, and headed down the stairs of the fourth floor walkup.
“So, how did it go?” The serene Irish accent next to me shouldn’t have startled me, but I was still shaking from the verbal block.
“Go to hell Cormac,” I whispered.
“Where else am I going to go Maria?”