Smiles

Dreams. Nightmares. Things of the real world that only exist in our minds.

That is what the psychiatrist dealt with every day. Hour after hour, grown men and women talking about their personal problems, things in the physical world that were affected their mental ones.

And this one was no different.

He pulled the plug on the phone on the desk, as per procedure while dealing with patients.

He sneaked a look at his watch. 3:00 PM. He usually got off at 4, but he had one more patient to deal with.

He pressed a button on the desk.

"Send number 65 in," he grunted into the microphone.

The 65th patient that he saw that day was a man. Tall, wearing a black T-shirt with jeans, with black, curly hair to match his outfit. Probably drugs, the psychiatrist silently thought to himself.

The man sat down. A few seconds passed, with the clock on the wall puntuating each second with an audible click!

Finally, the man spoke.

"I've been having nightmares."

"Mm-hm," the psychiatrist replied.

A few more clicks.

"But, the problem is, I've been having only one nightmare."

"Have you considered halting your usage of cocaine?" the psychiatrist snapped back. Realizing his mistake, he added, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Harry."

"I'm- what?"

The man pointed. "The namecard's on your desk."

"Oh. Well then, let's start by asking you a few questions. How old are you?"

The questions passed back and forth, the ones going to the man lacking a reply, and the ones going back to the psychiatrist possessing one. Eventually, the psychiatrist came to the last item on his checklist: Dream Description, with a large, empty box below it. He took a deep breath, and braved himself for the event that was going to happen next. This was the part of his job he hated the most- delving into their minds. Connecting the real world with fantasy.

"Would you kindly describe your dream for me?" the psychiatrist asked.

There was another period of silence. The man sat there, thinking, frowning at the solitary light at the top of the small room. The psychiatrist peeked at his watch again. Half an hour had gone by, and that was just the questions.

"It all begins in a room," the man said.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"My dream."

"Oh." The psychiatrist picked up his pen and started writing.

"Could you say where it started again?"

"In a room. It's-"

"Okay, okay, that's good. Slow down."

He jotted down some more notes.

"What happens next?"

"A phone rings. Did I mention there's a door in the room? And a desk?"

The psychiatrist furiously writes.

"After the phone rings, the door opens, and there's this black abyss there. I, or the person that I am while experiencing this dream, always get up and walk towards the open door."

"And then?"

"And then I realize that I can't. That there's someone, something in the room with me, disguised as something harmless, like a desk, or a chair. And that something is powerful, like it's the devil, or a ghost, some supernatural being. And it stops me from walking into the abyss."

"Is that all?"

"There's one more part. When I look at the abyss, like the being in the room, I can just feel, know that something is out there. And I know that because it is getting closer to me. With each dream it's getting closer. Yesterday night I reached out, and my hands touched it..."

"Do you remember what you felt?" the psychiatrist asked, intrigued.

"I... I can't remember. Sorry. Thanks for you time, by the way. It helps if I talk to someone about this."

"It's no problem," the psychiatrist said. He stood up to shake hands with the man, but the man continued to remain seated on his chair.

"It helps," the man said. "Really helps."

The phone starts to ring.

The man just smiles.

Space guns. Let's shoot some space guns. 14:55, February 4, 2013 (UTC)