Therapy

"Height, hell, time, haste, terror, tension. Life, death, want, waste, mass depression."

And thus, he told his dream to everyone;

"I was angry. Angrier than I've ever been. The kids were getting on my nerves and the cats were constantly under my feet. So I was yelling. And throwing things. I flipped the mattress over and there were cats under the bed, digging at my tool box. I just lost my shit and opened it super hard. It hit one of the cats and it yowled this terrible sound. That's when the demon came. I could feel its hand inside of me, squeezing my organs. It whispered in my ear that I needed to stop being such an asshole. I knew I was dreaming at that point, so I tried to wake up but I couldn't. I could feel my liver and kidneys turning into pulp and I tried to scream. I opened my mouth wide and hoped that my sleeping body was doing the same in the real world, tried to squeak out any kind of scream so someone would come and shake me awake but the demon wouldn't let any sound come out. It laughed at me. It told me it would come back over and over again as many times as it took, as it had done for years and years and I knew that it was telling the truth, I could remember the dreams of the demon and the torment going all the way back to childhood."

"And why do you think that is?" Dr Harris barely looked up from his notepad during the group sessions. This time was no exception.

"Why do I think that is?? Because the demon has been attacking me in my dreams since I was a kid? Making sleep randomly feel like Hell?" He became visibly agitated as an orderly came and put a hand on his shoulder. 

Several of the patients in the circle inched away from his outburst, whilst others nodded along to the things that he said. Each one had their own story to tell, some not that dissimilar to his.

"We've talked about this before, Dustin. There is no demon, no supernatural force tormenting you. It's your sleeping mind creating a metaphor for the anger that destroyed your marriage. Until you start to take responsibility for your actions, the dreams will continue."

"'Taking responsibility' doesn't change shit!" He shouted. "I can be the goddamned Saint of taking responsibility and it still comes into my dreams!" The orderly pushed him back down into his chair, clamping tightly and preventing him from rising again.

"Stan, it's okay, Dustin is just a little tired. He'll remain quiet and behave. Won't you, Dustin?"

"Yes, Dr Harris, I'm sorry for my outburst." He looked down at the floor sullen.

"It's quite alright." The doctor closed his notepad and looked around. "Now, everyone, this is an important learning moment. We all have our demons. Figuratively. Everyone has something that tempts them or that they try to escape from. The key is to never let these demons control you. Ah, but that's group for the day, so we'll have to discuss this more next time."

******

"Hey, Dustin, you awake, man?"

Sitting in bed, back to the wall, Dustin was indeed awake. The nightmares and dealing with the stress of group almost always guaranteed a restless evening for him.

"You ever notice how therapist broken down is 'the rapist'? That's how my mind always feels after group. Like being non-consensual mind fucked."

A forced chuckle escaped his lips. Vaughn always knew what to say to drain the tension out of the room. "Never looked at it like that, but you ain't wrong. Least the doc could have done is wear a condom when he went that deep."

"People think we're crazy 'cause we have a few issues, but that quack is nuts. Anyone that emotionless has to have some really fucked up 'figurative demons' of his own." Vaughn laughed at himself before rolling over.

"Probably dresses like a gimp and pays for a dominatrix to fuck him like a pig."

Vaughn abruptly stopped laughing. "Shit, you think so? Huh. Maybe that's what we all need."

This time, Dustin's chuckle was genuine. Vaughn, like himself, was in Grand Meadow for anger problems. His manager at Burger Hut had been convinced that he was going to blow up their restaurant and his parents forced him to check in for observation, not unlike Dustin's ex-wife as a condition for him ever seeing his kids again.

"Sure, if you can't beat them, pork them. Good night, man." Laughing into his pillow, Vaughn gave a thumbs up.

Dustin stretched out across his bed, watching a slender shaft of moonlight appear and disappear on the floor at the whim of the clouds. It held a certain nighttime rhythm. The on and off nature of the light, the whistle of the breeze against the window, Vaughn's snoring. Everything combined to form a hypnotic pattern that Dustin could lose himself in, even if only for a small while.

Eyes glazed over in a thousand yard stare, he started to feel the familiar chest-tightening sensation. It never happens this often, he thought as his pulse quickened and the panic set in. The caress of claws pressing into his flesh was swiftly followed by the tickle of words against his ear.

"Such a terrible, vulgar, immasculated little man. This is why they left you. This is why they will always leave you." The demon purred as the skin on Dustin's back shredded as easily as paper, exposing vital organs and viscera. He could feel his blood spurting with each twist of its wrists, the pain mind-numbing when his organs popped like grapes in its hands. He tried everything he could to wake himself up, every trick he had spent years combing books and articles to find.

Fingers like cold fire gripped his arms and held him firm as the demon continued to violate his entrails. "Shhh, shhh, shhh, you're too weak to break free." He could feel every inch of his intestines as they were tugged from around his spine, his jaw aching from the silent scream he couldn't release.

The pillow hit him in the face from across the room. "Dude, I'm too tired, keep it down." Exhaling sharply, Dustin rolled onto the floor, running his hands across the smooth skin of his lower back as he stared at his bed. The terror was getting progressively worse and the medications Dr Harris had prescribed weren't helping at all. He knew without a doubt that he would truly go insane if it didn't stop.

It wasn't until the pain had passed, until he lay there gasping in great lungfuls of air, that he realized he had never fallen asleep.

******

Vaughn died three days later. It was unrelated to anything happening with Dustin, and by all accounts was his own fault. A fight with another patient became physical. He tripped after shoving the patient, falling into an overturned chair, the leg of which penetrated his ocular cavity all the way until it touched the inside of his skull. There was nothing anyone could do and he was pronounced dead on the scene.

That it had nothing to do with his nightmares was of no comfort to Dustin, however, who was filled more and more every day with a creeping sense of dread. Nor did it make anyone more chatty in group, as everyone became quieter and more reluctant to speak out. When someone finally did speak, it was to talk about seeing Vaughn's ghost, bloody eye gouge and all, and they were quickly silenced by the hospital staff.

"We're all sad about Vaughn's untimely passing, but he wouldn't want any of us to dwell on it. He'd want us all to move on and focus on getting better." Dr Harris lectured the assemblage.

"What if... The demon pushed him to torment me?" Dustin thought aloud, for the first time potentially blaming himself.

The doctor sighed. "Dustin. When I told you that you needed to take responsibility, it was for your actions, not the actions of someone else. Vaughn's own personal demons are to blame. Yours can only hurt someone else if you let them drive your actions."

"But what if you're wrong?? What if there was some way that I could have... I don't know. Done something. I could have saved him!"

"Stan, Dustin is clearly overwrought today. Could you take him back to his room, please? We'll continue this conversation privately."

"Yo, c'mon, man." The orderly reached a bear-sized hand down and helped Dustin to his feet, more jerking him out of the chair than actively aiding in the endeavor.

"Doc, I think you're right, I think I do have to take responsibility. For all of it."

"That's good, Dustin, but we'll talk more later." Dr Harris' eyes were devoid of any empathy as he watched Stan pull Dustin from the room.

******

 "My time is a very finite resource, you see. It's precious to me and the patients that can be saved."

Dr Harris stood to one side of an old fashioned examination table. Dustin would have nodded or given a verbal response, but the rubber bit in his mouth and the straps across his body prevented him from doing either.

"I haven't given up on you, you know. Just because group therapy and private sessions aren't getting to the root of your delusions, there are more drastic options we can try."

Tears formed in the corners of Dustin's eyes as he vaguely remembered being injected with something to help him sleep before experiencing nightmares stronger and more vivid than he'd ever had in his life. The demon eviscerated him and used his body parts to make esoteric images, explaining in minute detail what each piece of him was meant to represent. None of it made sense to him, nor should a delusion, of course. He just wanted it to stop and was thankful that Dr Harris had a plan.

"Stan, make sure the connections are tight, please." He motioned for the orderly to double check that all of the electrodes were firmly in place.

"I'm on it, doc."

"Now, for many years, electroconvulsive therapy was utilized by medical professionals to 'shock' the brain into working correctly. It's nonsense and barbaric, you understand, the process they used. This, by contrast, is a work of art. You see, for the current to properly stimulate the brain, the connections must go deeper."

The needles in his temples made his head throb, as Dustin followed along with the explanation. Tiny droplets of blood escaped from the holes, only to be absorbed by sponges at the ends of a wired harness.

"Yes, it's theta waves that are the root of your nightmares. Once this device realigns how your brain transmits these, you will see a great improvement. In fact, they may stop altogether. Wouldn't you like that?"

Dustin blinked rapidly and mumbled around the bit that he would, the throbbing in his head building into a solid drum beat.

"Good! Stan, shall we begin?"

"Any time, doc!"

Dr Harris nodded and the orderly made several adjustments on a control console, directing how much of a current to send to start. Once the settings looked correct, the doctor nodded again, and the orderly engaged the machine.

A soft whine emanated from the equipment as the first jolts hit Dustin. Immediately, the world went white and unfocused, his body strained against the straps. He could hear Dr Harris as if from a long distance yelling for Stan to stop, that it was too much power too fast. The words were jumbled and eventually drowned out by the voice of the demon.

"Done? So soon? But we had so many more years of fun to look forward to." He could almost hear the pout in its seductive tones. "That's okay. Broken toys aren't worth playing with anyway."

Eyes rolling into the back of his skull, the electricity seizing his muscles in a vice-like grip, sparks danced before Dustin's blackening vision. Moments prior to losing what little remained of himself, he heard maniacal cackling driven by pure bliss, as the demon attached itself to Stan, intent on repeating the same process unto eternity.

The Strange Case of Ronnie Frown

"Dead streets are red, red I'm afraid. There's no confetti, no parade."


He sits down in the high-backed leather chair opposite you, and isn't what you were expecting. You'd heard that he was spry for his age, despite pushing 70. Maybe it's the way he carries himself, with his scotch and his cigar and a level of confidence rarely found in men 30 years his junior, or maybe it's the underwear-clad, 20-something brunette draped over him. Regardless, he is far from the doddering old fool you thought you'd be meeting when his silent butler ushered you in. The glean in his eye competes with the shine of a massive emerald on his finger, though from malice or mirth, you can't begin to tell.

"I always said that there was something wrong, something very strange with Ronnie Long." He begins in that steady Midwestern tone, accented with a tinge of a Southern lilt long time country music fans pick up. "He never laughed, never smiled, talked alone..."

 (Art @ Krisztian Gacsi)

******

All the green things died when Ronnie moved to that place. Under any other circumstances, it would have set off alarm bells in the community, but it had already been an exceptionally hot and dry summer by July, and no one's yard looked healthy. Other than a caretaker checking on the property monthly, upkeep had been sporadic. Still, in hindsight, had anyone paid attention, the shriveling and browning of the plants was a slow but noticeable process.

Local news programs had steadily focused upon ongoing racially-charged rioting and most of the adults in the neighborhood were too glued to their television screens to see the recent arrival lugging several suitcases from a rusted out '50s model station wagon. Like all changes in the day to day tedium, the kids were the first to see him. John (never Johnny, not since he had become a teen) was in the vanguard of these children, playing football in his yard that day. Turning to see his new neighbor, he missed the ball as it sailed past him, onto the sidewalk. Ronnie set his bags down on the grass and picked the ball up, turning it in his hands like an alien artifact discovered on some long-abandoned world, uncomprehending of its purpose.

"Could you please throw the ball back, sir." Timmy, John's unfailingly polite younger brother, asked.

Ronnie raised his head from the football to stare at the boys. Rather than acquiesce to the request, he walked towards John with his arm outstretched. As he drew closer, John took in every detail of him, from his far below average height, to the disheveled nature of his clothing. Nothing compared to his ruined visage, however. Scars ran from the corner of his mouth the length of his jawline, setting a perpetual grimace across his features.

"Geez, mister, did you fight in the war?" John inquired as he took the offered football.

"Don't you dare ask why I'm cursed to wear this face," Ronnie snarled in reply, snatching his hand back. Despite being shorter than John by a couple of inches, he loomed large and imposing, before he quickly turned his back on the boys and returned to his suitcases. Stunned at the vehemence in his voice, neither boy felt much like playing anymore. Instead, they went back inside, to pull their parents away from the TV.

*****

"I've lost my way!" John heard the screams through his open window a week later. Stumbling from his bed, he looked out to see lights blazing in every vsible window of the neighbor's house. "All things wash away!" They continued. He could see motion in the uppermost of them, shadows obscured by thick cloth hangings that could only be called curtains by the very generous.

It had been a rough week for the entire neighborhood. His parents, and most of the adults on the block, had been excited when they were informed that the empty house had been filled. The excitement soon soured into disappointment when Ronnie made infrequent appearances to answer the knocks of curious people coming to introduce themselves. The quiet unobtrusiveness of a shut-in was preferable to the screaming, which was causing dogs to howl, and as John looked, lights were turning on all over the street. Angry people in pajamas and bathrobes were marching out of their front doors when the screaming stopped, and all of the lights in Ronnie's house simultaneously flickered off. Confused, a murmuring crowd stood in the middle of the street, conversing among themselves for a few minutes before breaking away and returning home.

The next morning, John listened to his mother gossip on the phone about the neighbor, referring to him as "Mister Long," though the kids had taken to calling him the unimaginative "Ronnie Frown" based upon his appearance and demeanor. He took every opportunity to glare at them when they played in their yards or rode their bikes, as if he hated them for their youth and enjoyment of life, and many of them had taken to staying indoors more and more. Out of all the kids in the neighborhood, John was the only one that had spoken to him and he retold the tale of that meeting multiple times. His natural athleticism and friendly nature had made him popular, but with The Story, he always had other kids that wanted him to come over to their house now.

******

The end of July approached rapidly, and the neighborhood, which should have been teeming with children at the apex of their summer shenanigans, was like a ghost town. A general malaise had swept over the area, with even the adults limiting their time outside of their houses. Working parents drove directly to their places of employment and came straight home. Yard work, when it was done, was dealt with as quickly as possible. No one could place exactly what was causing the unease, but without fail, all were quick to place blame elsewhere. First, it was married couples blaming one another for imagined slights, then it was parents pointing the fingers at their children for always being indoors.

Ultimately, following phone calls and bar meetings, the neighborhood laid responsibility at the feet of Ronnie Frown, as even the grown ups called him. Through conversations John wasn't privy to, the men and women of the block made mention of the late-night screaming, which had reached a fever pitch. One neighbor pointed out, finally, the decaying nature of his yard and tree. Another relayed the fears of her sons, who said that they had been chased from his property with a club. Still another brought up his talking to thin air. Their frayed nerves forced them to huddle closer and talk in hushed tones about what could be done.

John knew none of this at the time, of course. He was far too busy doing typical teen boy things, mostly thinking about girls, despite everything else. Unlike the other neighborhood children, Ronnie didn't really frighten him. If he were asked, the only emotion he felt was anger at the disruption to the normally placid life of summer break. He didn't go out of the way to shout names at Ronnie though, like several on the block did during the rare occasion he was out of his house, nor did he throw rocks or sticks at said house, as he had witnessed his brother do more than once. He just wanted to go about his life and do the things that made him happy without concern for what the neighborhood hermit did.

The unmistakable sound of shattering glass grabbed John's attention, and he could hear kids cheering. Going outside, a small group of five, led by Timmy, was hitting Ronnie's car with various items, including the baseball bat with which his brother broke one of the old wagon's windows. Glancing around the street, John could see adults standing on their porches or looking out of their windows, not making any attempt to stop Timmy and his friends.

John was not the only one alerted by the sound, as Ronnie threw open his front door and charged out, yelling, "you goddamned kids, leave me alone!"

"Ronnie Frown, Ronnie Frown!" was their only response as Timmy, and one other, continued to beat the car.

With a sneer, Ronnie picked up several large rocks and began hurling them in the direction of the kids. Several cracked against the street, flinging flakes of shale in several directions at once. The adults began to join in the chanting without conscious thought, as if they were all pulled by herd mentality.

With a metallic thump and then a cry of pain, a projectiles bounced off of the hood of the car, and hit Timmy just above the collarbone. A jagged piece of the stone embedded itself in his flesh, as another piece sliced a massive gash through his shirt and shoulder. John, and several of the grown ups ran out into the street at that. One of them grabbed his brother, as the rest, including him, starting throwing things at Ronnie and his house. The wave of rage was palpable, so much so that everyone ignored that it was Timmy and his friends that started things in the first place.

The shouts and insults, the missiles being flung and the din of the crowd, all combined to a roar that made the first gunshot almost imperceptible. It wasn't until the second one, and the resulting woman's blood-freezing wailing that anyone realized Ronnie had fired. Everyone panicked and tried to run away as he pulled that gun from his pocket. The shots weren't aimed and, in fact, it barely seemed as if Ronnie was looking at anyone in particular as he backed slowly towards his door. But a bullet doesn't care if it has a target or not, and before his six shots were spent, three people were down on the road. The rest frantically attempted to get inside, to call for police assistance. Their fear and their rage combined with the smell of blood and gunpowder to make the air oppressive in John's lungs.

Like the day that Ronnie showed up on the street, John was the first to see him leave. With just his suitcases, he rushed to the station wagon, cranking it over with a metallic shriek like a demon from hell, as flames became visible in the darkened house. Those souls powered more by anger than fear still outside threw bottles at the car as it drove through yards and sped away. John, unharmed, felt emotionally drained as Ronnie's taillights vanished in the distance. He worried about his brother, and the people on the ground, but he no longer felt the same degree of rage, and looking around as the fire engulfed Ronnie's house, he could see the confusion and shock registering other people's faces, moreso when kids and grownups walked back outside, waiting for the emergency response teams that were surely on their way.

******

"No one ever saw Ronnie Frown again after that. The police lumped everything in with the race riots that happened that year, and everyone eventually moved on with their lives. Not me, but you knew that already." He waits for you to nod before continuing. "I've spent decades searching for any sign of him. I've hired private investigators and bounty hunters, hell even psychics and mediums. Every lead has added pieces to the puzzle. Until now, I've never been able to see the whole." He pauses again, the forgotten brunette pulls away and leaves the room as he leans in closer, locking eyes with you. "You've heard my story. You have a good idea what I want and I'm willing to bet an even better idea of how much I'm ready to pay. So, are you in?"