lying on the recliner chair, and force out a smile. “Yes. Please help me.”
He smiles, but there’s no warmth behind it. If anything, Dr Khan seems more unsure about this than I am.
“I need you to close your eyes and relax.”
Crossing my hands on my stomach, I try to get comfy on the leather recliner chair.
“Inhale through your nose. Hold it. Then exhale through your mouth.”
I do as he says.
In.
Out.
We spent what seems like minutes in an inhale-exhale exercise.
“Try to imagine that you’re going down a staircase,” he says with a soothing tone.
“A staircase?”
“Yes. Every step down is like leaving your consciousness to reach your subconscious. Can you imagine a staircase?”
“I think?” My brows furrow as I try to concentrate on the image.
“Relax, Elsa.” Dr Khan’s voice comes from opposite me. “It’ll never work if you’re tense. How about you take deep breaths again?”
I can do that.
Inhale.
Exhale.
In.
Out.
The staircase comes into sight. It’s black and grim, appearing straight out of medieval times. Mould and something grey covers the walls.
“Am I supposed to see a dark staircase?” A tremor interlaces my voice.
“It’s your subconscious,” he says. “Don’t fight it, embrace it.”
I thin my lips into a line to stop them from trembling.
“Now, take a step down.”
With a shaky foot, I take one step, but I don’t follow with the other foot. I’m scared the old staircase will disappear and I’ll end up falling into a dark hole.
“Take another,” Dr Khan urges with a calm voice.
I clutch the wall for balance as I follow his instructions.
One at a time.
One black step after the other. It’s dark as long as the vision goes. I can’t see what’s beyond me no matter how much I squint.
I can do this.
I need to do this.
“Slowing down and shutting down,” Dr Khan’s voice comes low as if from another room. It keeps getting distant with every word he says. “Slowing down and shutting down… slowing down and shutting down... Shutting down completely.”
Dr Khan’s voice disappears.
Or that’s what I think? I believe he’s speaking to me and asking me things, and I could be answering him, but I don’t register that.
I find myself in front of a wooden door that appears straight out of those World War documentaries. I push it with shaky hands.
Strong, white light blinds my eyes.
No. It’s not white. It’s… red.
I squint, trying to see past it. The atmosphere is like a thick sheen of blood red. Like those red rooms used in photography.
Only it isn’t a red room. No.
It’s… my home.
My Birmingham home.
I stand in the middle of a vast lounge area with elegant floral wallpaper.
It’s so large that I seem like an ant in comparison. The chesterfield sofas and the tall paintings hint at a refined taste.
It’s almost like a rich person’s taste.
Lion statues are everywhere; beside the sweeping stairs. On the way to the entrance. Near the tall French windows.
Everywhere.
I shudder at the image.
No matter how much I blink, the red doesn’t disappear. With careful steps, I approach one of the tall windows from which the red light comes inside.
I freeze in front of it. It smells of something… burning? Flesh burning?
When I glimpse through the window, a large garden with unkempt trees and withering flowers comes into view.
It’s also red — if not redder than the inside of the house. Even the sun is projecting red light.
A lake glints in the distance. It’s dark and inky. Even the red light doesn’t reduce from its pitch-black darkness.
A shudder goes through my spine and I avert my gaze elsewhere.
I don’t want to look at that lake.
Across from me, a blonde-haired woman sits on a swing. Her frail pale arms are wrapped around a child who’s sitting on her lap as she rocks back and forth. The child is giving me its back and is completely hidden in the woman’s lap, so I can’t make them out.
The woman, however, is in complete view. She’s wearing a white dress that stops under her knees. Her pale skin and white-blonde hair make her appear like an angel.
A heartbreakingly beautiful angel.
She stares in the distance with a vacant expression. It’s like she isn’t seeing anything at all.
A sob catches in my throat and I block the sound with a hand to my mouth.
Ma.
It’s my ma.
I resemble her so much, it’s haunting.
“M-ma…” My voice catches no matter how much I want to call her name.
But that’s not all of it.
I also want her to call my name back.
My eyes stray to the child sitting on her lap, carefully tucked