Psychiatrist Dr. Brenda Weist waited amiably as her patient Sheila Bennet finished drawing the image on the sketch pad. Sheila handed it to the smartly dressed middle-aged woman without saying a word.
“It’s…creepy. I can understand why you’d be frightened. Its hairless, scarred head. The ashen oblong face with sunken black eyes. The distorted mouth full of hideous, pointed teeth is scary—a long, hanging, tattered, and filthy gown. I noticed no hands coming from the sleeves or feet from the bottom of the dress. Was that intentional, Sheila?” asked the doctor. Each detail, or lack of, held a specific meaning.
The forty-year-old famed illustrator remained stoic. Dark circles hung below her bloodshot eyes. Her unkempt appearance and lack of personal hygiene were quite obvious. A faint smell of urine lingered in the surrounding air.
“Sheila?” The doctor leaned forward. “Is this what visits you in your dreams each night?” She held up the sketch pad.
The exhausted woman gave a slight nod. “Whispers.” The word barely escaped her cracked lips. Tears stained her panicked face.
The doctor exhaled. She placed the drawing pad on the table. Her patience was running on empty.
“Sheila, I cannot help you if you won’t open up and discuss this…dream that plagues your subconscious each night. And sleep deprivation is not an option. Do you understand what I am saying? Everyone, and I mean everyone, needs to sleep. It allows the body and mind to recharge. It enables brain functioning, memory processing whereby your overall health can be dramatically affected.”
As the doctor spoke, Sheila’s head hung down. Her hands trembled in her lap. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe she would not hear the whispers. Maybe tonight, she would sleep without the nightmare.
“What does the visitor whisper to you? Does the visitor harm you in the dream?” asked Dr. Weist, using a sharp tone. She glanced at her watch. Bennet’s time ended fifteen minutes ago.
“Sheila, I want you to practice the breathing exercises tonight before bed. And I will recommend, again, taking the prescribed medication to help you sleep.” Dr. Weist stood up.
“Next week, Thursday, four o’clock.” Dr. Weist clenched her jaw. Sheila pulled herself up and then slowly walked to the door. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Sheila looked back at the doctor one last time.
In the empty office, an eerie silence fell. Dr. Weist straightened the desk. The grotesque image with its soulless eyes peered at her from the paper pad. A chill shivered down her spine. She instantly shoved the horrifying image under a pile of manila folders. Grabbing her briefcase, the doctor exited the room and closed the door.
The next morning: Jenny Sheldon for Channel 6 news. Renowned psychiatrist Dr. Brenda Weist died in her sleep last night, apparently from cardiac arrest, stated an inside source. She was known for her dedication to promoting awareness of increasing mental illness among women.
previously published in INKY BONES PRESS
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