Time Of Death

• Ashlee Tait, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2022

“Mr Moore?”

Her voice was high, prim and proper, swirling around the room to his ears. Sitting on her white high horse, thin glasses on the tip of her nose, whiskey eyes narrowed and prying, she leaned forward. Her arms folded over the cedar wood desk, resting atop loose papers that he had brought in for her. A questionnaire she had him do, a few rough drawings he shakingly whipped up. Nothing she paid extra attention to. He felt small compared to her, despite being a burly man, seated on a child size plastic chair, with a leg that wobbled whenever he should move. Judged by those observing and unkind eyes. He didn’t wish to respond, knowing there was no use, making her sigh.

“How do you feel?”

It felt like a trick question. He uncomfortably shifted, grasping his thick, warm hand with the other, sweating profusely from his palms. His mouth opened, however his lips left ajar without a sound escaping through them, even though words were intended. His answer wouldn’t matter, she wouldn’t listen. At the end of his session she would look him up and down in that funny, judging way she often did, and wish him a good day. She wouldn’t acknowledge his answer, or help him feel better, only scribble down a string of words on her well kept, clean book. She had given him one, in case he should feel like writing outside of their time, a small journal that was now brown and worn, its pages ripped, round coffee stains on nearly every page, each word and sentence jagged, disorderly. He was to bring it to her, and he always did, but she would hardly touch it. As if she couldn’t stand the thought of touching it, fearing she may taint herself or catch a disease..

“Do you still have nightmares?”

There she went again, moving on as though he had answered. He always had nightmares, each night plagued by the memories and images of a life reeking of fear, pain and belittlement. Visions of a dark room, splattered with some kind of sticky red substance, a series of slurred words hitting him like an axe to a tree. Plates shattering against the gloomy wall, the shards flying into his skin, pricking him and creating light streams of blood that ran down his face, consistent with the unreality of dreams. Fear, visible as though it were the aroma of a cartoon pie, wrapping around his unsteady legs and snaking upwards, a sickening urge to vomit in his stomach, and saliva pooling in his jaw. The pretty face of his ex partner being the last thing he would see before blacking out, or waking up. Those were the dreams haunting his nights.
It had been months now, and his ex still wouldn’t tell him why she was forcing him to be her patient, why he was having these dreams, or why he couldn’t see cars, houses or people outside.

“Oh… our time is up…”