Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 73091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I nodded. Yeah. Right. Just what I needed. Leaf through Cosmo while the man I loved was inside spilling his guts to a stranger.
My nerves were on edge. Really on edge.
And I wasn’t even the one getting hypnotized.
An older woman, pretty with some gray at her temples, stepped out from behind an oak door. She walked toward us. “Mr. Wolfe?”
Roy stood.
“I’m Alison Woolcott.” She held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Thanks for staying open late for me.”
“Not at all. We don’t all keep to normal schedules, and I’m here for whoever needs me.” She turned to me, her hand still out. “Alison Woolcott.”
“Charlie Waters,” I said. “I’m just here for moral support.”
“That’s kind of you. I’ll try not to keep him too long. But this is my last appointment today, so if we start getting somewhere, do you want to keep going?”
“Yeah,” Roy said. “Let’s get it over with.”
Dr. Woolcott smiled. “I understand your trepidation. But I should warn you. Things are rarely resolved in one session.”
Roy nodded and then looked to me. “You don’t have to stay.”
“Of course I do. If you need me, I’ll be right out here.”
“Ready?” Dr. Woolcott gestured to her office door.
Roy nodded tentatively. I smiled, trying to give him strength. Inside, though, my stomach was in knots.
Really knotted knots.
It’ll be okay, I said silently.
Whether I was talking to Roy or to myself, I wasn’t sure.
42
Roy
The office was decorated sparsely, which surprised me.
“You need to focus,” the doc was saying. “I don’t want anything in this room to detract from what we’re doing.”
Had I asked about the sparse décor? I didn’t think I had.
Must be part of her standard spiel.
“Most patients are more comfortable in the recliner.” She motioned to a dark-brown leather chair. “But I also have the couch. Or just a regular chair if you prefer.”
“I guess I’ll try the recliner.” I walked to it and sat down.
She took a seat opposite me in her leather desk chair. “We’ll deal with paperwork later. I’ll email it to you, and you can send it back the same way. I don’t want to waste time with red tape when we can be getting down to business.”
“Is that how you always work?”
She shook her head. “Usually I email the paperwork in advance, but this appointment was only made today.”
“Right.” I looked around, twisting my head to look behind me. Her credentials were on the wall behind me, clearly part of her focusing plan. The patient couldn’t stare at the doctor’s myriad degrees on the wall. Dr. Woolcott had an M.D. from the University of Vermont. Not Harvard, but not bad. She also had several certifications in hypnotic therapy. Good. Good.
“I assure you I’m highly qualified.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay. Every new patient does it. My partner and I have had countless other professionals accuse us of practicing voodoo, but hypnosis is real, and it’s very effective.”
I said nothing.
“Have you been having any symptoms?”
“Like what? I’m in perfect health.”
“Stress, Mr. Wolfe. Nervousness? Rapid heartbeat?”
“No. Not really.”
She scribbled some notes on her pad.
“What can I help you with today?”
“I need to find something.”
“Something you lost?”
“In a way. There’s something in the back of my mind. Something I don’t quite recall, but I know it’s there.”
“And you feel it’s important that you recall this event?”
“Yeah. My family’s wellbeing may depend on it.”
“Do you want to explain that further?”
“I think you probably know. My father died under…odd circumstances. Everyone in the family has been implicated in some way. None of us had anything to do with it.”
“And you think this buried event might help your family prove that?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. I really don’t. But I feel very strongly that I need to bring it to the surface, and I need to do it now. It’s tormented me for far too long.”
“How so?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“You’re talking to a psychiatrist, Mr. Wolfe. I’ve heard it all. Try your best to put it into words.”
“Pardon my language, but the only thing that describes it accurately is a mindfuck.”
“Again, I’ve heard it all. Speak your mind, and don’t worry about profanity. It won’t upset me.”
I nodded.
“Can you describe this mindfuck?”
“That’s just it. I can’t. But it’s there. Always. I suppress it most of the time, but it never goes away. It’s always there, hiding in the back of my mind, and I can’t root it out. I can never find the key.”
“So you want me to help you find the key.”
“If there is one.” I gulped. “I’m afraid there might not be a key.”
There is no key.
I’d never named that painting. It was officially “Untitled by Roy Wolfe.” The red backgrounds, and then the red and blue, the descent into the depths of hell. The black and dark blue, hell itself. The flecks of gold here and there, when something tried to poke its way out, but it never did.