if a rusty scrap metal robot had sat on it, it would have made nothing but a faint "puff" noise. On the table was a salt lamp with orange and pink tones, while a floor lamp in the corner of the room emanated some more light, just as soft and discreet. The walls were pastel-colored, also in pink and orange tones from what you could make out with the lighting of the room: no paintings hung on the walls.
The doctor took a seat on a more straightforward chair.
The psychologist didn't waste any time: "So, Robert, tell me: why did you decide to come here?" His tone was friendly, but that put Robert on the defensive.
He took a few seconds before replying. Then said, just as straight to the point: "I don't sleep anymore. I have been suffering from insomnia for a long time. "
After speaking, Robert observed Trevor trying to see any reaction. He only saw the face of a sympathetic person interested in what he was saying.
"This thing is killing me," continued Red, "I wander around the town and among the others like a zombie."
Again he glanced at the doctor, who had the same expression as before.
Well, who knows what and how many cases of troubled people he had heard. He certainly could not be impressed by yet another neurotic who said he slept too little.
Robert went on, not so much because he trusted the reassuring and benevolent face of Dr. Trevor, as because he wanted to empty the sack immediately, or at least a large part of its content, convinced that the "therapy," that's what is called right? Could already be that, and could heal him, at least in part, right away.
So he added: "I think, related to my insomnia, there is also the other problem I have ... hallucinations. I see ... things ... unreal things. "He paused and looked again at the psychologist. Then he concluded: "Unreal and frightening."
It seemed to him that he had made a great effort, maybe because he felt very embarrassed.
Dr. Trevor asked him, "How long haven't you been sleeping well? How long have you had these visions? "
So it was there, in that quiet and relaxing cosy room of psychologist Thomas Trevor, that for the first time in his life, Robert Red said something about himself, beyond the futility of his conversations with whom he called friend, beyond the grouchiness he sometimes had with others.
Robert told of the hellish landscapes he was facing. He spoke about the people in his visions who turned into demons. Talked about the reverend, the fiery eyes, the devouring mouth, and the religious setting, which were the underlying cause for many of his dreams.
While sitting on that soft chair, he spoke about this, how he felt, reliving himself almost entirely.
Contrary to what he had thought, he did not feel judged at all. Nor did he hear advice or instructions. However, this did not ultimately help to soften his doubts.
Or at least this seemed to the psychologist, who told him: "You are very defensive, Robert. No, don't take it as a criticism. I'm just telling you what I feel. But it is not an unpleasant fact in itself.
You should ask yourself this week until our next meeting, why you keep this attitude. Just try asking yourself this question. "
Even Trevor got there in the end, Robert thought with disappointment: he too had that arrogance that characterized practically all the doctors he had known.
That's what annoyed him. But in his heart, for the moment, he was not thinking of giving up therapy just yet.
He wasn't sure what to say, what to do, whether to ask the doctor if the session was over, whether to get the wallet out to pay him his fee, whether to make a circumstantial smile that at least simulated a little friendship and courtesy.
Trevor did everything: he said that the session was over; he then said that the first time there was no need to pay anything, and finally, he showed off his smile of circumstance and the firm handshake you give to a friend.
"You know, Robert," added the doctor, "what you told me is unique. And it's fascinating." He now had a very professional approach. "Once a patient of mine told me something similar, in her dreams, she had also given a name to the city they were set ... "
The doctor smiled and gave no importance to what was only parting chatter to him.
Robert registered what the psychologist had just told him with a kind of pungent curiosity. He wondered if the doctor could ever tell him who that patient was. Probably not.
AN UNPLEASENT DISCOVERY FOR JOHNATHAN APPLEBOT
6.
Vestavia Hills, 1858
Reverend Abblepot went back home as he did many times before, like those who love their home, who know it perfectly and who, inside it, feel comfortable and sheltered from the world.
Many times he went out to carry out his task as a shepherd among his congregation: he used to give a word of comfort, or for the job far from easy to visit sick or even worse dying people; or went to visit a particular parishioner who hadn’t been to church for a while; or finally, he used to take a walk, and in the meantime exchange small talk with those who saw him as a point of reference in town.
Every time Johnathan Abblepot went back to the vicarage, he had that satisfied feeling like someone who had just done his duty.
He was also going back to a secure family home, orderly and straightforward, looked after by a kind and devoted wife, who didn’t deprive the man of the house of anything. That afternoon, however, something seemed to have changed.
It wasn’t the appearance of the house, which was always the same, with that scent of fresh flowers that Elizabeth liked to have around for him from time to time. Not the atmosphere, which remained quiet, calm, secluded, as the Reverend was used to finding.
Perhaps what had changed was in himself, confined to the depths of his heart, in a recess that was trying to talk to him, even if he still hadn't trained his ear to hear well.
As he took off his jacket, to place it on the usual armchair in the living room, Abblepot thought of Martyn Trischer, Evelyn's, the shopkeeper, nephew.
It had already happened to him before that someone didn’t respond to his greeting, but it had never bothered him.
How he was feeling now, though, Abblepot began to think, was different.
Martyn Trischer had no special relationship with him: he was a parishioner like others, a good boy, with the peregrine ideas of young people, but who had always kept himself busy, even in the vicarage. The young man was not particularly close to the reverend.
Yet the rushed greeting that the boy had given him and that note of concern in his look (had there really been? Abblepot was almost sure of it) had left the reverend a strange feeling, like when you eat something gone off, that releases its real taste only after we swallowed it. That, therefore, annoys us even more, because now we can't do anything about it.
Elizabeth came up to him from the adjoining room: “John! Welcome back," the joy of her voice had the sparkle it had every other day, "how did it go in town?"
Elizabeth was adorable in every gesture she made. Even in the most trivial
