Page 19 of Dark Therapy

Psychosomatic responses were common in people dealing with unresolved trauma, I reminded myself. I’d counseled patients who swore they’d felt real pain from memories, convinced their scars were more than emotional. It was all part of the intricate dance between the brain and the body. Perhaps my nightmare had been so vivid, so terrifyingly real, that my body responded this way, my skin conjuring up faint bruises as some twisted echo of what I’d felt in my mind.

But as much as I wanted to believe that, an uneasy voice lingered in the back of my mind, whispering doubt. I’d never experienced anything quite like this before—nothing that leftphysical traces. And the intensity of the sensations…thefeelof his hands, his voice, the damp chill in the air—it had all been so…real.

I shook my head, forcing myself to let it go. This was just a fluke. The mind could blur lines, especially with someone like Damien on my mind. After all, I’d been through hell and come out the other side once. There was no reason to think this was anything more than my mind’s cruel trickery. Right?

I finished rinsing the soap off and stood under the warm spray for a few extra seconds, grounding myself in the simplicity of the moment. The water was steady, predictable—a stark contrast to the confusion clouding my mind. I dried off and slipped into some comfortable clothes, focusing on the softness of the fabric against my skin, as if this simple, mundane routine could tether me back to reality.

In the kitchen, I set up the coffee maker, the familiar hum filling the silence around me. As the aroma wafted through the air, I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and tried to shake off the lingering unease. I’d faced the darkest parts of myself before and survived. So why did this feel different? Whydid I feel as though an unseen weight was pressing down on me, pulling me back into shadows I’d long tried to escape?

I took a slow sip, letting the warmth ease my nerves. Maybe it really was just exhaustion, my subconscious picking up threads of worry and weaving them into something insidious. But even as I tried to convince myself, I couldn’t shake the image of those faint bruises and the vivid sensations from the nightmare.

With a sigh, I picked up my phone and dialed Lily’s number. It only rang twice before she answered.

“Amelia! Good morning!” she greeted cheerfully.

“Morning, Lily,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Listen, I’m not feeling well, so I won’t be able to come in today. Could you please call the patients and reschedule their sessions?”

“Oh, of course! I hope you feel better,” she replied, her concern evident. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, that’s all. Just…thank you, Lily.” I ended the call, feeling a pang of guilt for letting the day slip away, for abandoning my patients just because of a nightmare. But I knew I couldn’t face anyone else right now. Not until I understood what was happening to me.

I sat with my coffee, the steam swirling up in faint wisps as if mirroring the fragments of last night’s dream—or whatever it was—still tangled in my mind. I took another sip, but it did little to steady me. My skin felt hypersensitive, like the softest breeze could leave a mark. Every shadow around me seemedsharper, and my reflection in the darkened kitchen window looked back at me with haunted eyes.

I tried to distract myself, scrolling through a few emails and half heartedly reading the news, but it all felt distant. My mind kept circling back, unearthing fragments of that disturbing memory: the cold dampness of the floor, the weight of the silence, Damien’s voice whispering things I couldn’t fully remember. I placed the mug down with a shaky hand, pressing my fingers to my temples as if I could somehow massage the memories back into their rightful place in my mind.

Had I somehow let my boundaries slip in my sessions with Damien? I’d always known he was… dangerous, capable of stirring things within me that were best left undisturbed. But I’d thought I could maintain control. That was my strength, wasn’t it?Control. I’d spent years building it, brick by brick, after everything that happened.

I inhaled deeply, determined to get a grip on my mind. The idea that a patient could unravel me like this was unsettling. But as I thought about Damien’s last visit—the intensity in his gaze, his unspoken words that seemed to linger long after he’d left—it made me wonder if I’d underestimated just how far he could reach.

The rational side of me pushed back. This was psychological transference,that’s all. I was exhausted, my brain creating vivid scenarios as a stress response. I forced myself to my feet, pushing away from the counter, willing my legs to steady.

But deep down, I couldn’t escape the feeling that something was slipping beyond my control. I could only hope, for my own sake, that it was all just a figment of my imagination.

As dusk gave way to night, I laced up my sneakers and pulled on a hoodie, deciding that maybe a run would help clear my head. The park nearby was usually empty on weeknights, and something about the quiet paths and towering trees always brought a measure of calm.

When I arrived, the lampposts cast a soft amber glow, illuminating winding trails that disappeared into the dense greenery. Branches overhead arched like a protective canopy, casting shadows that shifted with every faint breeze. The air was crisp, scented faintly of damp earth and pine, and the silence was almost surreal—too peaceful, as if the park itself held its breath.

I jogged along the familiar path, letting my feet fall into a steady rhythm, each step grounding me, each breath a reminder of the present. But as I moved deeper into the shadows, an unease settled over me. I brushed it off as residual nerves from the day, from the fragmented nightmare that wouldn’t quite fade from my mind.

Then, just as I rounded a bend in the path, Ifeltit—a prickle at the back of my neck, that undeniable feeling of beingwatched. My pace slowed, heart pounding, and I stole a glance over my shoulder.

Nothing. Just empty paths and still trees.

I exhaled slowly, chiding myself for being paranoid, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. With every few strides, I found myself glancing back, almost expecting to see a figure lurking in the shadows. The park’s tranquility now felt stifling, the silence oppressive, as if something—orsomeone—was just out of sight, keeping pace with me.

I quickened my step, forcing my gaze forward. But the feeling persisted, creeping up my spine with every step. And though I tried to keep my head clear, I could almost imagine his presence—dark, watchful, just beyond the trees,waiting.

I broke into a sprint, my pulse racing with each stride as if I could outrun the dread gnawing at me. Every shadow felt alive, every whisper of wind a warning. I risked one last glance behind me, convinced I’d finally see someone there.

But the moment I turned back around, my body collided with something solid, unforgiving. The impact knocked the breathfrom my lungs, and I stumbled backward, falling hard to the ground. My heart stopped as I looked up, and the world seemed to shrink, narrowing to the figure standing above me.

Damien.

My nightmare played on repeat in my mind, the memory of falling to his feet, the darkness, his voice taunting me. And now, here he was, his face shadowed but unmistakably him, looking down at me with that same piercing gaze. I froze, rooted to the ground as fear took hold, but before I could react, he extended a hand, effortlessly pulling me to my feet.

“Amelia,” he murmured, his voice calm yet edged with something I couldn’t place. “Are you alright?”

The world felt surreal, and I tried to compose myself, to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Were… were youfollowingme?”