Scenes From A Memory by confusedalarms . (best books to read for women .txt) 📕

Part I: Awake

I The Awakening

II A Good Cup Of Coffee Clears The Head

III Baynes’ Hypnotherapy co.

The Awakening

I’ve been here before.

It’s a thought that keeps recurring to me as I walk in this strange state. Another one is god dammit, I should’ve brought a coat.

It’s cold as hell, which isn’t weird, considering it’s the middle of the night in January. How I know this I have no idea, because I have no watch here. Nor a newspaper. At least…I check my wrist. No watch. Not this time either. Maybe it’s just the way the moonless dark of night seems to give the things around me an eerie, shimmering quality, like I’m looking at them through a condensed window. Then I turn a corner and my thought process is rudely broken off by what I see, even though some part of me, some long dormant past ghost, has been here before.

The house is preceded by a stately, yet short pathway, flanked by trees whose names I know not. The gate that precedes that is your usual bland, black metal gate, with metal arrows on top of it and, on top of that, little metal balls to soften the look of them. In short, a lot of metal. Like it’s gonna hurt my balls any less if I try to climb over it.

Luckily though I don’t have to. The gate is ajar. I push it open wide enough for me to fit through, my hands coming off wet with dew. It's a cold night indeed. I sneak through, for some reason being careful not to make too much noise, and begin to walk up the pathway. A haunting feeling begins to take hold of me. I can feel eyes on me, lingering in the shadows behind the trees and in the trees to the left and right of the pathway. Soon though, the feeling fades as the house comes into view.

(Echo’s Hill)

I don’t say that myself. It’s like someone is standing right next to me, whispering the words into my ear, but when I look to my left there are only trees. Strange.

(My place of death)

Which is weird, because I’m pretty sure I’m not dead at all. I approach the dark, dilapidated, clearly abandoned house, which to me looks like a haunted house from one of those horror films my son likes so much, or maybe a smaller version of the hotel from The Shining,

which I liked, too. The haunting feeling is back now, rushing to the forefront of my mind and pushing away the strange voice, which was faintly speaking names

(Edward, Julian)

which mean nothing to me. I feel compelled to go into the house. Something tells me there is something very important in there, the whole reason I’m walking jacketless in the dark of night in January. The door, no surprise there, is ajar. Every door seems to be ajar tonight.

(Up the stairs.)

By now I’m used to the voice that speaks in my head. After all, hasn’t it been a part of me for so long, just without me knowing? Getting up the stairs isn’t as easy as it seems though. The steps looked like they were ready to crack at the first hint of pressure, getting my leg stuck in the process. And then what? Wait for the police? Ha.

There’s something up there, though. Something important. Something that’s been pulling me ever since I entered this blackest of nights. So I dare the rickety stairs, and of course I have no problem getting up them, though they creak horribly. I reach the first floor and immediately recognize it. I push open the door directly in front of me (which, of course, is ajar), and then I’m facing a mirror. A condensed one, though there is obviously no source of heat in the vicinity. I walk up to the mirror, the chill really taking hold of me now, and sending a shiver through my bones. When I reach the mirror, I hunker and try to erase the condensation from it, but I can’t.

Because the condensation is on the other side of the mirror.

I study this phenomenon in fascination, and then, vaguely, I see a figure coming towards me in the mirror. I look around, but of course no-one’s there. Not here, in this place of murder and other fatal tragedies. The figure is on the other side, and it’s closer now, hunkering in front of the mirror just like I am. I still can’t see anything, only long locks of hair, suggesting that the figure is a girl. Then, a hand begins to write a word on the mirror, and the word is airotciV. At first I have no idea what it means, but then I remember: It’s a mirror, dumbass.

So I read the word backwards, which takes some time due to my dyslexia, and it says Victoria. ‘Is that your name?’ I shout at the mirror, as if people could somehow shout through mirrors into parallel worlds, or afterlives. But no, of course she doesn’t hear me. Instead she begins to wipe the condensation off the mirror, revealing white ballet-dancer’s shoes, a maillot, a skirt…

I snapped awake, drenched in sweat. Immediately I checked the bedside clock, which proclaimed that the time was 2:57am. The middle of the night. Of course. My wife, ever the light sleeper, murmured: ‘The same dream again? The one with the girl in the mirror?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe you should visit a therapist or a psych. It’s getting a bit out of hand with these dreams. Plus you keep waking me up every night. It’s killing me.’
‘I’ll think about it. Now let’s sleep.’

I had no more dreams that night.

A Good Cup Of Coffee Clears The Head

Time, much like my old science teacher, has set a linear course and will not diverge from it, whatever your complaints. And on this morning that statement held true. My brain was begging time for just a few more hours of recovery, to slow down just a bit, but time was saying, in the voice of that long-gone teacher: no, you should have done your homework, Nicholas, then you would understand the lesson.

And though I knew the voice spoke the truth, it was too late now, class had begun and it was too late. So the alarm rang, just as it always did, at 6 a.m. I had always been an early bird, and, luckily, so had my wife. No arguments there. We got up pretty much simultaneously, and begun to execute that famous, sleep-drunken dance, the morning routine. I went downstairs to make coffee (A good cup of coffee clears the head

, my dad always says, and it’s good advice. I’ve been following it since I was fourteen) while my wife showered, and when the coffee was made I went upstairs to shower, and my wife made breakfast. That way we could eat Saturday breakfast together, something we both valued highly. Our son couldn’t really be expected to appear until around 11 a.m., but we forgave him that. He was a teenager, after all, and they need their sleep.

With some caffeine circulating in our blood the day began to pick up pace. We discussed everyday matters which I will not bore you with, and eventually, after several cups of coffee, the talk turned to my dreams. I had been having them for around a month now, and they had gotten progressively longer and more vivid. At first I had got no further than the silly metal gate before snapping awake, with not quite as much force as last night, and I had paid no attention to the dream then. But as I realized I was having it every night, I began to remember more and more. Eventually I got to the point where I could remember it well enough to write it down in narrative, as you have already read. I quickly changed the subject to our son though, there is always something to say about him. Why I felt compelled to change the subject though, I have no idea. Maybe it was the embarrassment of waking her up every night. More everyday matters were discussed, and when breakfast was over my wife went to town to do groceries, which she always like to do on Saturday, and always alone. She says the simple tasks (get milk, get eggs, get peanut butter, get toilet paper

) are a welcome escape from the grave matters with which she must concern herself during the workweek. And I let her go. I hate doing groceries anyway. So I settled down in my easy chair with yet another cup of coffee and the intricately folded Saturday newspaper. I disassembled the paper and begun to read. I wasn’t really reading, though. All I remember is that there was something on the front page about Gore, and that day is a month ago now. The fact is, I might as well have been holding an empty sheet of paper with Al Gore

written on it, that was how little I was taking in. Because my mind, as it had so often done, was straying to the dream again, and about what my wife had said upon my awakening. ‘Maybe you should visit a therapist or a psych. It’s getting a bit out of hand with these dreams.’

And really, she’d been right. With perhaps a little too much caffeine running through my bloodstream and clearing my head, that seemed clear as day.

Baynes Hypnotherapy Co.