M Sellars: All acts of pleasure

I paused for a moment to gather myself, staring off into space as the steam from my breath quickly dissipated before me. The temperature was hovering right around freezing, several degrees below normal for Saint Louis in late November, but then the weather here was always an enigma. However, ruminating on the offbeat weather patterns was something I didn’t have time to do. I had something much more important, and unfortunately, far more horrifying to contend with. I was already beginning to think the latter was an understatement.

Thus far, the retelling of my recurring nightmare had been just as bad as living it each night. I had hoped that voicing it to a sympathetic ear might be liberating, which is why I was here, now, putting myself through this. However, instead of manifesting as a freeing experience, it was just serving to make my head hurt and my stomach churn.

Next to me, Helen Storm shifted against the balcony rail and lit another cigarette. “So, is that when you wake up, Rowan?”

What the outside observer might see as a casual conversation was in actuality an impromptu therapy session. Helen was a psychiatrist, and odd as it may seem, this was pretty much how all of our sessions happened. Outside, rain or shine. Whether it was frigid and windy, as it was now, or hot and muggy in the dead of summer, it didn’t matter. We would always be outdoors, with her chain smoking and me nursing a cigar.

Whenever we were in the building where her office was located, as we were today, this particular spot was exactly where we could be found. Standing out here on the large, partially covered corner balcony that had been set up as a smoking lounge for several of the upper floors.

Unusual, yes, but there was a familiarity between us that allowed for the less than formal setting; in fact, it all but demanded it.

Helen had come into my life during a period when I truly thought I was going insane. In fact, at the time, I was fairly sure that I had already been delivered to madness’ doorstep. Of course, discovering that you can communicate with the dead can tend to do that to a person, and at that point I had already been living with that very affliction for quite some time.

To be truthful, I hadn’t been falling all over myself to talk to a psychiatrist when it was suggested. My immediate assumption was that I would be labeled insane, instantly medicated, and carted off to the land of straightjackets and padded rooms. However, considering that the deceased individuals with whom I had been having conversations were all murder victims, and I’d been spending an inordinate amount of time helping the police track down their killers, I needed to vent to someone. I had been seeing things that seasoned cops had trouble dealing with, and I had been experiencing them on a far grander scale than photographs or even the physical crime scene. I saw through the eyes, and felt through the bodies, of the victims.

No, these were things that truly didn’t need to remain shuttered away in my subconscious.

In the end, a good friend of mine who was a Saint Louis city homicide detective, and also happened to be Helen’s brother, had argued that I needed to at least give her a chance. Of course, my wife had been directly involved in the “intervention” as well. Between the two of them, the pressure on me to seek outside help dealing with my “gift” had been relentless.

Fortunately, they had won the skirmish because Helen’s counsel had seen me through some very pitch darkness, both then and countless times since. In fact, her understanding ear and uncanny ability to guide one through his or her own psyche had developed into an invaluable resource.

On top of that, she had also become a very good friend.

“Rowan?” she repeated, somewhat louder than before.

The tone of her voice, rather than the volume, managed to prod me back from the edge of introspection, and I gave her an apologetic glance. “Sorry…it’s all just a little intense.”

“I understand,” she replied. “Take your time.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“All right then…is this the point in the nightmare when you wake up?”

“No,” I answered, staring at the ash on the end of the cigar hooked beneath my index finger. I consciously tucked the double Maduro roll of tobacco into the corner of my mouth and slowly drew, only to discover that it had gone out.

“Please continue,” Helen urged. “If you are ready to do so, that is.”

I let out a heavy sigh. Truth be told, I wasn’t really fine, and I was far from ready. Moreover, I definitely wasn’t excited about revisiting this terror, but I was already right in the middle of the tale, so it was a little late to turn back. Besides, this was the whole reason I had come to her to begin with, so holding it all inside was the last thing I needed to do.

“So…anyway…I try to force the feeling away,” I continued, hesitantly at first. After a deep breath I made myself dive straight into the rest of the story. “So, I try, but I’m too weak, apparently, even to do that. I feel myself heave, but it’s not like I double over. I’m lying on my back, and I kind of just jerk in place because I can’t really move. I’m restrained somehow. Anyway, nothing comes up, except bile. I guess that’s what it is because I feel a burning in my throat, and then I start to gag.

“At this point I start to notice that all of my muscles are pretty much screaming. It’s like I’m stretched beyond my limits, and now they’re all starting to cramp. I know that if I can just get up and move it will stop. But, like I said, I’m restrained and I can’t. It’s at that moment of realization that I always hear them. And then, the panic just starts all over again.”

“Them?”

“The footsteps. At first they sound like they’re in the distance…almost like they’re below me…but somehow I know they aren’t going to stay there. I know they’re going to come closer. I don’t know why I know, but I just do. And, here’s something odd-they aren’t new to me. It’s as if I’ve heard these very footsteps countless times before. So, you would almost think that I’d be used to them, but I’m not. Either way, as soon as they start, my heart jumps and begins pounding even faster.”

Helen cocked her head to the side in a thoughtful pose then interjected, “Perhaps it is your familiarity with them that triggers your panic.”

“Makes sense. You’re probably right.”

“However, I suspect you have already thought of that.”

“Yeah. I guess I did.”

“All right. Go on.”

“Anyway, the footsteps start, and I force myself to listen. Before long they do start coming closer, just like I knew they would. What’s weird is that they sound excited and cruel at the same time. I don’t know if that makes sense…I mean, I know they’re just footsteps and all, but there seems to be this whole mix of depravity and even arousal in the sound…”

“It is not unusual to apply emotions to ambient noises, Rowan,” Helen offered. “It is a normal function of the subconscious. Sound will easily evoke an emotional response. If it did not we would have no need for music and sound effects in movies. Of course, the particular pairing you mention is most assuredly…shall we say, different.”

“Yeah, exactly. It definitely seemed odd to me except that what I’ve been dealing with recently… Well, the circumstances make them fit together in a way.”

“I see. So, is there more?”

“A little,” I said with a nod. “This is when I realize…no…actually it’s more like I remember that there are others here with me…I guess I’m just suddenly reminded of it when I hear them because they hear the footsteps too. But, when they hear them, they start whimpering and crying.”