Nyara pov
The darkness clawed at me, a suffocating blanket that pressed down on my chest, stealing my breath, filling my mind with fragmented images and a bone-deep sense of dread. The screams echoed in my ears, piercing the silence, growing louder and more desperate until I couldn't tell if they were real or merely figments of my tortured subconscious. Fire raged, consuming everything in its path, the heat scorching my skin even in the sanctuary of my bed. And always, always, there was the feeling of loss, a gaping void in my heart that throbbed with a pain so profound it threatened to shatter me completely.
I jolted awake, gasping for air, my body slick with sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Tears streamed down my face, hot and uncontrolled, as I curled into a fetal position, clutching my stomach, trying to quell the nausea that churned within me. The dream, or rather, the nightmare, had returned with a vengeance, its grip on my mind tightening with each passing night.
It was always the same, a relentless loop of destruction and despair. The fire, the screams, the loss. The specific details were hazy, shifting like shadows in the periphery of my vision, but the overwhelming emotions were searingly real. They clung to me long after I woke, poisoning my thoughts, clouding my judgment, and leaving me feeling drained and utterly lost.
I stumbled out of bed, my legs shaky, my head throbbing. The familiar surroundings of my apartment offered little comfort. The carefully curated decor, the calming colors, the expensive artwork – none of it could penetrate the darkness that had taken root within me.
I splashed cold water on my face, hoping to shock myself back into reality, but the chilling touch did little to ease the turmoil raging inside. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, and what I saw startled me. My eyes were bloodshot, my face pale and gaunt, my expression a mixture of fear and exhaustion. I looked like a ghost, a mere shadow of the person I once was.
It was time. I could no longer pretend that I was fine, that I could handle this on my own. The nightmares were consuming me, threatening to unravel my carefully constructed life. I needed help, professional help.
I had been seeing Dr. Eleanor Vance for several months now, a renowned therapist specializing in somnologist. I had initially sought her guidance to deal with my anxiety and the persistent feeling of being an outsider. But as the nightmares grew more frequent and more intense, it became clear that something deeper was at play.
I called Dr. Vance's office, my voice trembling slightly as I explained my situation. Her receptionist, a kind and empathetic woman named Sarah, squeezed me in for an emergency appointment later that morning. Relief washed over me, a small sliver of hope in the darkness.
I spent the morning in a state of anxious anticipation, pacing my apartment, rereading old books, trying to distract myself from the dread that gnawed at my insides. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind against the window, sent a shiver down my spine.
Finally, the time arrived. I drove to Dr. Vance's office, a small, unassuming building nestled in a quiet residential neighborhood. The air was crisp and cool, the leaves.