Eve of Dreams

The brain works in mysterious ways, just as God does. When someone has a traumatic experience, their brain does many things to suppress or distort the bad incident so it does not seem as bad.

The year is 1933, in London, England. Psychology is in its infant stages as a science and most people are very skeptical about it. George is one of them. His wife, Patricia, has been having very troublesome nightmares for some time, but George refuses to let her seek out help for he does not believe in the powers of science.

Patricia is illogical and is driven more-so by her heart than her brain. She is open-minded and believes in a higher power but won’t let that get in the way of her own hopes and dreams. She highly believes in science and the ability to discover and uncover things previously unknown to man.

George on the other hand is very close-minded. His life is ruled by faith and he believes that if you have a bad experience it is God’s way of saying you are a sinner. He was never the type to believe in fairytales as a child, and his way of thinking hasn’t changed in the slightest.

Horror comes to Patricia on a cloudy English night; a chilly gust of wind floats by eerily. There was no visible view of the moon; this setting was a harrowing sight.

Horror comes to Patricia in the form of what some would find to be non-threatening: a dream.

She was on the floor in a crystalline room, curled up, as if she wished to disappear. She felt disorientated. She had no idea what to think of her previous experience. It felt as if she was getting pummeled by someone. . . she felt the pressure of physical damage. . . but she felt no pain.

She then woke up -- soaked with sweat. Her husband was lying next to her in the bed, watching closely over her with concern in his eyes.

“The same terrible dream again, Trish?”

With vexation in her voice, Patricia replied, “Yes, but this time, there were two of them. Oh George, I think I need to see a doctor. These dreams cannot be right. They are not having a healthy impact on my life. I am afraid to even open my eyes in the dark for I fear the sight of those people!”

George advised her not to buy into those silly fantasies of “science” because, as he claimed, those newfound technologies could not be any healthier than a silly dream can be dangerous. He then went back to sleep, leaving Patricia to sit up and contemplate what she should do. She rubbed her temple as she lay back down. She lay in bed, thinking about that dream. Why would my mind conceive such a horrid vision? Am I in danger? Did I just witness my own death?

The next afternoon Patricia inquired about George’s opinions on this particular field of science. But before she did, she contemplated how she would bring the questions about. She let the subject hang in the air all morning before wrestling it down to George.

“Why are you so very quick to judge what things science can do for people? Haven’t you heard of Orville and Wilbur Wright? What about the Curies? Science works! What do you have against it?”

“Well, Trish. . . I do not trust something that is made by man and will supposedly take me off the ground. I just don’t believe in it, it’s that simple.”

“Please, George! I need to see a doctor! I need to discuss this issue with someone.” She was glaring at him, waiting for a response. He was sitting there stiffly in his chair, puffing away on his pipe, staring at the floor, and showing no emotion. She left the room in a hurry as George continued to stare.

It was dark before they spoke again.

“George! George! Wake up!”

He woke abruptly to Patricia’s shouts. “What? I must sleep, dear. Can’t it wait ‘til morning?”

“No! I must talk to you now! Get up please,” she said as she was jolting the blanket from his body. “I had that dream again! It was even more terrifying than the last time. This time. . . you were involved. . . you and a strange woman. You did not play a good role either.”

George sat up and asked with an apathetic tone, “What role did I play?”

Patricia responded, “You were the one. . .the one. . . who was causing all of my pain. The woman did nothing other than sit and watch. . . and laugh! She was laughing at me throughout all my pain and misery!”

Patricia was crying, and George was holding her closely now. “You know I would never hurt you. I love you. If you wish, I will take you to see a doctor. I still don’t think he will be of any use to you or I, but I do want the best for you. I hope we don’t go to the wrong person; someone who finds you to be insane, because I love you and I don’t want to lose you.”

He quieted Patricia and resumed to sleep. Patricia woke up once more a few hours later but thought it too rude to awaken George again.

George had been trying for weeks to find help for his beloved wife and his attempts were not in vain.

“Are you quite ready yet, Trish? We have to be there in thirty minutes and we have a long way to go. You know, it is rude to be late on a first appearance,” indicated George as he was straightening his suit. He was wearing his Sunday best.

“I’ll be ready in two minutes, darling. We will make it, don’t worry so.” Patricia had dressed for the occasion also.

When they arrived, they were greeted by a man. “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. West, you have arrived. My name as you might already know is Alistair Bridgemont, and I will be the doctor in charge of Mrs. West’s mental health. Please Mrs. West, come this way.”

Patricia followed Dr. Bridgemont into his office and sat down on the sofa. Dr. Bridgemont sat down next to her.

“Are you sure George will be fine out there,” asked Patricia with a sour look on her face. “You know, he does not even believe that I have a problem. He doesn’t take your profession seriously, and for a while refused to let me get help.”

Dr. Bridgemont replied, “George will be fine. He is here to help you, right?”

“Right doctor. . . at least I believe so,” she whispered with her hands clasped on her lap. “He has made it clear to me that he does not approve of me being here, and I think the only reason he let me come here was to quiet me. He gets tired of my constant nightmares, I just know it.”

“Tell me about these nightmares, Patricia.”

“You see, I have been having these terrible dreams about a grim looking man and woman, and within these dreams, I feel as if I am getting abused. It is the oddest thing I have ever experienced. I was in the corner of the room. This room seemed very familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why. For some reason, the room was very, very bright -- blinding me. It looked as if the walls were made of red hot glass. I felt pressure against my abdomen and face, as if someone was hitting me, but there was absolutely no pain. It is very hard to describe. I was curled up so tightly . . . I wanted to disappear. I saw two faces, and although they were cloudy, I saw a few similarities between them and people I know. Their eyes were staring so fiercely at me I feared they would stare right into my soul! I was terribly frightened by these happenings. These dreams feel so realistic that they cause George and I to lose sleep every night.”

“Well Patricia, you have a good reason to be concerned about your mental state. It is becoming increasingly well known to have abnormal brain reactions, but your case is a little different from what I have experienced.”

Dr. Bridgemont explained to Patricia the importance of good mental health, and told her of the ways he could help her. He explained thoroughly, time and again, the negative effects of the known disorders, and prepared her for a long journey that was of utmost importance for her to regain her life back.

“Dr. Bridgemont, are you sure all of this will work? I don’t want to live my life with these troublesome nightmares anymore.”

“If everything that I know about the mentality of people is legitimate, this shall work. I have faith in myself -- do you have faith in me?”

“Of course I do. . . but. . . George doesn’t. That might be a problem.”

“That will only become a problem if you or I let it become so. Am I right?”

“Yes. I suppose you are right.”

Patricia stood up and walked towards the door; arms crossed in doing so. The doctor rose soon after. He stood behind her and firmly placed his soft, cold hand on her shoulder.

“So, can I expect a visit from you next week?”

“Yes. You shall see me next week,” she replied as she stepped away from the doctor.

“Good day, Dr. Bridgemont. I truly hope you can be of some service to me.”

“I hope so too,” whispered the doctor as he turned toward her. “If you need to come back and see me sooner, that will be fine. I have no wife, no children; my work is my life. Anytime you need me, I will be here.”

“Thank you, doctor. I’ll consider that.”

That night Patricia was lying in bed and she felt severely uncomfortable. She had aches and pains and her whole body was throbbing. George was lying next to her, facing away from her, and that’s when Patricia faintly heard it. . . “You are a burden to me Trish. You made me do this to you. I used to love you. . . until. . . until you had to do this to me. I wasn’t ready for that, and you knew it.” She felt an extreme pressure directed right at her stomach, but there was no pain.

With a sharp tone and harsh face, Patricia turned her neck towards George and whispered, “How dare you say something like that, George! Why would you say such hateful things about me? What did I do to you?”

With a tired look on his face, George rolled over and asked, “What? I didn’t say anything, Trish.”

“But I heard someone whisper something to me. . . and you and I are the only ones in the room,” said Patricia with a quieter though still serious tone and face.

“Well, I am quite sure it wasn’t me,” claimed George with cockiness in his voice.

Patricia laid her head back down and tried to sleep. She was too tired to even think about it.

Patricia was thoroughly content with getting help for her problems. The next morning she went to visit Dr. Bridgemont and asked if there was any sort of remedy to calm her nerves. When she asked him, her words went unheard. Dr. Bridgemont looked at her with a stupefied look on his face.

His voice was monotonous and drenched in confusion and sorrow. “Mrs. West. I have some good news to balance out the bad news. Your husband has been apprehended, along with his mistress, just today actually. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I will continue talking withal.”

Patricia’s world disappeared into darkness and with puzzled dialogue, she asked, “What are you speaking about? I can hear you quite alright!”

Before she could utter another word, the doctor’s voice continued on.

“As you may well know, your husband had been treating you quite contumely in the weeks preceding your rescue, but you are safe now. Who knows what kind of mental trauma this has caused you? Patricia. . . I am so sorry this had to happen to you. You seemed to have been a lovely woman.” The doctor gently picked up her hand and caressed it for a moment.

“See, your husband had gotten rather tired of you and decided he wanted to do something about it. From what I was told, while you were sleeping one night, he had taken you in his arms and cast you down the stairs in the upper level of your. . . his house. He expected that little tumble to kill you, but it did not. You are a strong spirited woman.”

The doctor stopped for a minute and patted the back of her hand. “Hopefully, you cannot hear me because this information is disturbing. Anyhow, the truth must be told.”

A nurse entered the room and beckoned the doctor’s immediate attention. “Excuse me, Dr. Bridgemont, I need you to follow me right away.”

When the doctor returned minutes later, he walked over to her curiously and started observing her stomach. He then put his hands on her stomach and moved them around skillfully. He dropped his head and sat next to Patricia again. He grabbed her hand. “Oh, Patricia -- you poor, poor soul. I regret the need to tell you this, but as I have said before, the truth must be told. I’m afraid your baby has not survived. Your husband did indeed murder it. I suppose he didn’t want the responsibility of a child. He had planned on leaving you to be with his mistress, but when he discovered you were in the family way, that must have brought up a complication.”

Patricia’s mind could not perform any task now. Throughout this whole disturbing uncovering, the only thing she could do was lie there and take in everything that was said.

“I know all of this because luckily, your husband’s mistress had felt bad for the acts she committed against you. She went to the constable and told him everything. She and your husband were both apprehended after the search of his house turned up a battered and bruised body. I of course mean you, my dear. They found you in a heavily lit mirrored room, curled up in a corner. You are a lucky woman to have survived.”

He stood up from her bedside and let her hand fall to the bed. He did not know that Patricia L. West was not a lucky woman. She was in a comatose state for a few days after learning the truth, but soon died from irreversible brain damage.

Patricia dreamed up her first meeting with the doctor. He never introduced himself to her. He wasn’t even a doctor in the mental health department. Patricia heard his name while she was being treated in the hospital. Her spirit survived, but the necessary parts of her body sadly didn’t. Everything that happened to her was retained in her brain, but became distorted for her own protection. Her life was. . . the Eve of Dreams.