10. Chapter Ten
CHAPTER TEN
MAVEN
Ignaw on my thumbnail, the jagged edge catching between my teeth as I stare at the spreadsheet glowing on my monitor.
The numbers blur together, transforming into meaningless patterns that my brain refuses to process.
I should be reconciling these accounts—it’s literally what I’m paid to do—but concentrating on anything right now is impossible.
For five days straight, he’s continued to appear in my dreams.
The faceless man has become a fixture in my sleeping hours, waiting for me in landscapes pulled straight from travel magazines I’ve flipped through at one time or another. Last night it was a deserted beach in Bali with water so clear I counted grains of sand beneath the surface.
But the location never matters. Only his presence.
At least he stays confined to my dreams now—that makes me feel marginally more sane, as if there’s a meaningful difference between vivid hallucinations while sleeping versus while awake. But I can’t shake the memory of him sitting on my apartment floor, watching my weak resolve crumple.
The taste of copper fills my mouth as something pinches under a too short nail. I press my thumb against my lips, the metallic tang a sharp reminder that I’m still tethered to reality, however tenuous that tether might be.
Chris walks past my cubicle, coffee mug in hand, and offers a fleeting smile. I attempt to return it, but my facial muscles don’t cooperate. The result must look more like the opposite because he quickens his pace, disappearing around the corner without a backward glance.
Smart man.
I turn back to my screen, forcing myself to focus on the columns of numbers that swim before my eyes. My stomach knots as a traitorous thought slithers through my mind: I miss him.
Which is fucking ridiculous because I don’t even know who he is. Not really…I’ve spent enough time with him to enjoy his company and feel of his voice as it caresses my ears, but I know nothing about him. Whatever the answer, longing for his presence feels like surrender to madness.
Maybe I should have listened when Dr. Voss suggested expanded treatment last year.
Perhaps with the right diagnosis, and medication, I wouldn’t be sitting here craving an illusion.
I wouldn’t be fighting the urge to close my eyes right here at my desk, hoping to catch a glimpse of him between one heartbeat and the next.
Or maybe I just need a friend. A real one and not some apparition my broken brain conjured up to keep me company. Isn’t that what normal people do? Form connections that sustain them through the darker moments?
But every time I’ve tried, I end up feeling worse than if I’d stayed alone.
I just want to work my meaningless job, go back to my meaningless apartment, and escape this meaningless reality through books or sleep. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently it is, because I can’t focus on anything but him. The mystery of his existence gnaws at me, digging beneath my skin so deep I’m convinced I have a splinter. Each dream peels back another layer of fascination, drawing me further into whatever rabbit hole I’ve stumbled into.
My phone buzzes on the desk, jolting me from my spiral. The screen displays a calendar reminder: CALL WITH DR. VOSS, 6PM.
A wave of anticipation slithers through me, surprising in its intensity.
For the first time since I started therapy, I’m actually looking forward to our session.
Not because I plan to unburden myself—god, no—but because I need answers.
And Helena Voss, with her objective detachment and extensive knowledge of mental disorders, might provide them.
If I’m careful with my questions and don’t reveal too much, that is.
Because the moment she suspects I’m hallucinating men with no faces who leave dead flowers on my nightstand, my limited freedom vanishes.
I’ll find myself in a locked ward with medication schedules and group therapy sessions, forced to have people watching me shower to make sure I don’t try something stupid.
No thanks.
I check the time: 4:45 PM. Fifteen minutes until I can leave without raising eyebrows. I force my attention back to the spreadsheet, mechanically entering data that will matter to no one after I submit it.
At precisely five, I shut down my computer and gather my things. The office hums with the usual end-of-day activities as I practically sprint out, muttering no goodbyes and disappearing into the stream of bodies headed for the elevators.
Usually, I stop at one of the small food vendors underground, picking up something cheap and filling for dinner, but tonight my stomach feels too tight for food.
The thought of sitting across from Dr. Voss—even virtually—while trying to extract information without revealing too much makes my insides twist into complex knots.
I’d rather not vomit during our session, so my stomach will just have to deal with the emptiness.
After some time, I finally rush through my apartment door, shedding the winter layers before hopping onto my bed to set my phone upright on the small table. There’s still time before my appointment, but I need to be prepared.
How do I ask about hallucinations without admitting I’m having them? Will she be suspicious if I inquire about the kinds of dreams I’m having? No, vivid dreams are a side effect of my meds…maybe I’ve just developed a random side effect after years of not experiencing it?
Ugh, this is dumb. She won’t fall for that.
I pace the length of my apartment, five steps in one direction, spin on my heel, five steps back.
Before I realize how long it’s been, my phone buzzes with a two minute warning.
I drop onto the bed and pull up the video call application we use on occasion.
My reflection stares back at me from the blank screen—prominent dark circles, hair limp against my forehead, and pale skin.
I look like a fucking a crazy person. Or a vampire.
Fantastic.
At precisely six, the application chimes with an incoming call. I suck in a deep breath, plaster on what I hope passes for a neutral expression, and accept it.
Helena appears on my screen, her office the same barf-neutral it’s always been.
Even the abstract painting behind her is unremarkable.
She sits perfectly straight in an ergonomic chair, her blond hair pulled back in a sleek bun.
Wire-rimmed glasses perch on a nose that looks like it’s never had something as frivolous as a pimple.
“Maven,” she greets with a single nod. “How are you this evening?” The standard opening that begins this dance every week.
“Fine,” I respond with my usual lie. “Nothing new.”
An eyebrow lifts, the only indication she doesn’t believe me. “How was your week?”
“The usual. Work, sleep, repeat.” I shrug, aiming for casual disinterest.
“Any difficulties sleeping? Changes in appetite?” Helena has a legal pad beside her, pen poised to record my response. She’s always writing things down, cataloging my dysfunction.
“No more than usual.” Half-truth. The dreams have intensified, yes, but I’ve always had trouble sleeping. And my appetite is what it always is—something I attend to when my body demands it, not out of any particular enjoyment.
“And work? How are you settling into your position?” She scribbles something on her pad. I resist the urge to lean forward, to try to decipher her notes through the screen.
“It’s fine. Boring. Just numbers and spreadsheets.”
“Have you connected with any colleagues?”
I think of the awkward and terrible interactions from the last couple weeks before answering. “Not really. You know I prefer keeping to myself.”
She hums before making another note. “Social isolation can exacerbate depressive symptoms, Maven. We’ve discussed this.”
It takes great effort to not roll my eyes. “I’m not isolated. I live in a city of two million people, which means I’m surrounded by humans constantly.”
“Being physically near others is not the same as meaningful connection. I would feel much better if these appointments included descriptions of outings with friends.”
My jaw clenches. We’ve had this conversation a thousand times.
She pushes for connection, I explain that connection hurts more than isolation, she suggests that’s the depression talking, I remind her that depression has been my companion longer than any human.
Round and round we go. People like her never understand what it is to have your mind and body retaliate against you at every step.
To them, energy, happiness, motivation, and all the other things are just a given and not something they’ve ever had taken from them.
They wouldn’t last a day in a body like mine.
“Let’s move on,” she says, recognizing the futility of this particular battle. “Have you been taking your medication as prescribed?”
“Yes.” Another half-truth. I take them most days, when I remember, or when the hollow feeling in my chest becomes so vast I fear I might disappear into it entirely.
“Any thoughts of self-harm?”
“No.” Actual truth, for once. Since the faceless man appeared, those particular urges have receded. I’m too curious about what’s happening to consider checking out early.
Dr. Voss continues her standard checklist of questions, and I provide the expected answers. It’s a script we both know by heart, a ritual that satisfies her professional obligation without requiring me to meaningfully engage.
But today, I need something from her. Guidance, or even some framework to understand what’s happening to me.
So, when she finishes her interrogation and asks if there’s anything I’d like to discuss, I take a calculated risk.
“I’ve been having strange dreams lately.” I keep my tone casual and low.
The doctor’s pen pauses mid-stroke before her eyes snap up to the screen. “Strange how?”
“Vivid ones. Places I’ve never been but have thought about visiting. They feel real while I’m in them.” I’m careful to maintain eye contact, to not fidget in the way that always makes her suspicious.
“Vivid dreams aren’t uncommon,” she remarks, but her voice carries a note of interest that wasn’t there before. “Especially in individuals with active imaginations or those experiencing stress.”
“These are different.” I weigh my next words a hundred times in the span of a second. “They feel…significant. Like they’re trying to tell me something.”
“What do you think they’re trying to tell you?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you. Isn’t dream interpretation part of your thing?”
“Dream analysis can be a therapeutic tool, but I don’t place much stock in the idea that dreams are messages from the subconscious in the Freudian sense.” She leans forward a bit, eyes narrowing. “What’s really on your mind, Maven? This isn’t like you, asking about dreams.”
Heat creeps up my neck. I’ve pushed too far, too fast. Shown excessive interest in something I’d normally dismiss as pointless psychobabble.
“Just curious,” I say, backpedaling. “They’re so real, I wondered if there might be a medical explanation.”
“There are several possible explanations for vivid dreaming. Stress, medication side effects, changes in sleep patterns.” She pauses, studying me through the screen. “Are you experiencing anything else unusual? Visual disturbances while awake? Hearing things that others don’t?”
My stomach drops, the question far too close to reality for my liking. “No, nothing like that. Just the dreams.”
She hums and, shit, she doesn’t sound convinced. “Have you ever experienced temporary dissociation? This may be feeling as though you’re watching yourself from outside your body, or that the world around you isn’t quite real?”
I consider lying, but something in her tone suggests she already knows the answer. “Sometimes, but doesn’t everyone?”
“Not to a clinically significant degree, no.” Her pen clicks against the table as she sets it down, focusing her full attention on me.
“Maven, these questions aren’t random. You’ve brought up vivid dreams and seem unusually interested in their meaning.
I’m wondering if you’re experiencing something beyond typical dreaming. ”
My heart races as blood rushes in my ears. Fuck, this was a mistake. I’ve aroused her therapist instincts when I should have known better.
“It’s nothing,” I answer, forcing a lightness I don’t feel. “Just dreams that I was curious about.”
“Curiosity isn’t typically part of your presentation. You tend toward apathy about most things, including your own mental health.”
“Maybe I’m evolving.” I attempt a smile that I can’t force to reach my eyes. “Isn’t that what therapy is supposed to do? Help me become a better, more engaged human?”
Dr. Voss doesn’t return the smile. Rude. “Evolution is gradual, Maven. Sudden shifts in behavior or perception are something we need to monitor closely.”
Warning bells sound in my head. She’s watching me now, looking for signs of deterioration. One wrong move, one slip, and she’ll have me committed faster than I can say ‘it was just a damn question.’
“I’m fine. Really. The dreams are interesting, that’s all. Like watching a movie while I sleep, and I was just wondering about them.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment, then sighs. “Alright. But I want you to keep track of these dreams. Write them down when you wake up—what happens, how they make you feel. We’ll discuss them next week.”
I nod, relieved she’s not pushing harder. “I can do that.”
“And Maven?” Her voice takes on that particular blend of concern and subtle warning that she’s perfected. “If anything changes—if these dreams begin affecting your waking life, or if you experience anything unusual while awake—I want you to call me immediately. Not next Friday. Immediately.”
“I will.” Liar, liar.
We wrap up the session with a few more questions about my nonexistent weekend plans and a reminder to practice self-care, whatever that means. By the time I end the call, my shirt sticks to my back with nervous sweat.
I’m such an idiot. That was too close.
And utterly useless. I didn’t learn anything I didn’t already know, and I managed to raise her suspicions in the process. Perfect—I love being a stupid idiot.
A wave of exhaustion crashes over me. I haven’t slept well since the night on the floor with him—my mysterious visitor.
The dreams come every night, but they don’t provide the rest my body needs.
Each morning I wake more tired than when I went to sleep, as if part of me remains in those dream landscapes, wandering endlessly.
Groaning, I flop like a fish until I’m under my sheet fully clothed.
I don’t know what to do…none of this feels sustainable. Pretending I’m fine while a man from another world visits and leaves gifts every morning while hiding it from the doctor, or telling said doctor and living the rest of my life in a sterile prison? Neither option appeals.
Instead of stressing about my predicament, I allow myself to escape to where he waits for me; toward the only peace I’ve known in years.