Tap tap tap

Pant huff - Sharp

“Black, white, black, white,”

Count the tiles below, that is what she did, all she could do as her legs felt not like her own, but those of another - Running, in a nightmare where there is no end in sight nor feeling of progression.

“Weiß, schwarz, weiß, schwarz,” 

There it was again, that invasive voice entering my latest nightmares. Each time, one count ahead as if preparing for her capture.

“Bla- Weiß schwarz -ck Whi- Weiß schwarz -te”

Then, the B♭ note rang. Once, then twice… Then four times until she could no longer keep up counting.

Blackened vision.

Miss Panza shot up from her bed, immediately clenching her brittle fingers around her phone - She was late.

—--

Her dark hair brushes against the temples of her slim head. Her steps were strong and dedicated, her tanned fingers wrapped around her small notebook full of attentive scribbles and marks, poking out those inner thoughts and theories.

Those inky strings framing her head now danced around like splinters springing away as she ascended that black marbled staircase she had grown used to; they never felt any warmer. She filled her lungs with a deep breath.

“Come on in, Miss Panza, the tea shall be with you in no time,”

It is still warm… Yet distant - authoritative - but gentle.

Right, Miss Panza, that was her. She listened to the voice and stepped in, her courage seeping through her skin and down her shoes as she clung to her notebook. 

Undressed in her bravery by a neatly dressed black dress shirt, clad back with pale white strands, some darkened by dark ink, hanging down.

A bun holding up the tainted ink; Lose, but neat.

Messy, but with intent.

She watched the elegant silhouette turn around with the dark brown tea balancing itself with the movement, ripples reflecting like golden rays over the pale skin.

This time, the teapot was entirely see-through, only a brass metal handle giving the otherwise pure and flowing shape a strong exterior.

Her legs moved without much of her own thought or volition, each step on the clock’s ticking as if attempting to muffle out her light steps.

Why?

She sat down on the embracing leather chair that contrasted with her pale clothing. She looked like a speck of dust on a dark surface that had been thoroughly cleaned recently.

Tick tock tick tock

She intertwined her fingers tighter and tighter until her knuckles turned pale. She stared at the marble table with the same pattern as the staircase until the pale golden rays brightened the dark view.

The glass was put to rest - Miss Panza wasn’t letting it, however, as she immediately grabbed her piping hot teacup of chamomile tea with star anise floating at the top.

A warm embrace to her cold, anaemic hands. 

“Miss Panza, how are you feeling right now?”

Right, he had adapted to her complaints about never being able to answer how she is doing as… Well, it could differ every second.

“I feel discomfort,” She said honestly as she tapped the rims of her nails onto the glass, which gave a soothing, high-pitched, crystalline noise.

“By me, Miss Panza?”

She nodded; she’s always had issues with therapists. She knew it was simply their job, but it had never gotten easier for her.

“Perhaps we should work on that, don’t you think? Would it soothe you if I quit referring to you by your last name?”

Right, her name… She nodded hesitantly. Perhaps that could work. Her eyes slid up toward the man who had sat down without a sound - Since when was he sitting? How could he do so quietly? Maybe she is simply too focused on her own mind.

So was he, focused on her mind, the eyes of her doctor - Dr Yme - His eyes lying on her face’s surface, yet not invading it.

“Iris…” That was her name.

Dr Yme nodded,  a slow blink deepening his calm demeanour even further. Of course, he already knew that, as he had her dossier. It felt more like a proper meeting if she said it rather than a therapist grabbing a paper to check - more personal - more natural.

“So, Iris. This is the third time we are meeting for tea. Last time you mentioned that the nightmares had gotten worse? Does your time feel like it repeats itself?”

Iris nodded, “It does. Ever since I went under hypnosis with your watch, I have been repeating that moment. That moment I could feel has actually happened, given how vividly it is. It hasn’t, though. I do not recognise the voice or memory. Also, the piano… It wouldn’t make sense for there to be one.”

Dr Yme’s eyes squinted at her a few times as if to hold back the double lid of an owl - That he was - A snow owl, right?

“Do you play piano, Dr Yme? You descend from a snow owl, correct?”

The little wings that sprouted from above his ears flicked as if a cow’s ears were flipping away those loud flies. 

“Indeed, I do. I am a descendant of snow owl instincts. I assume you are a descendant of a canine species?”

Right, her long, fluffy tail had started to wrap around the leg of the expensive chair. She felt acknowledged - She grew some deeper colour from under her tanned skin as the corners of her lips curled up.

“Yes!”

It was odd how, when you looked at full animals, an owl would cower - or at least stay away - from a canine, but here they were sitting peacefully with tea.

B♭ tick tock B♭ tick tock B♭

Iris grabbed her chest. Why could she hear the notes and ticking of the clock over her own heart and thoughts?

(...)

“Iris?” snap snap snap.

The three snaps of a hand made her blink a few times before clearing her throat. She looked down, and the two cups of tea were empty. They then traced up toward the clock; it had already been two hours.

The clicking of dress shoes sounded around her, making her stand up. Well, it seemed the session today was over, but she couldn’t clearly recall what had happened. Anytime she heard that note and the ticking of a clock, it was as if parts of her memories were gone, but she could feel them vividly.

Standing up, she felt her jacket brushing over her shoulders. Iris looked over her shoulder and at the tall, sickly, pale skin. Dr Yme was a handsome man - especially compared to the therapists she’s had - but there was always something off about him…It was as if the top half of his face never moved, as if lacking muscle around his browbones - let alone the singular eye devoid of colour and blocked with a red cross. Was he blind?

“Dr Yme, are you blind in your right eye?”

A simple shake of the head is what she earned - clearly, his time for her and her therapy was over - It was as if humanity would leave the moment therapy was over. 

Perhaps she was becoming too attached, which was odd after having only been here for less than one hand could count.

“Is the next session already planned?”

Might as well ask, right? Though she already knew the answer.

“Yes, Miss Panza, but refrain from asking me questions next time.”

Oh.

There she was on the busy street, standing in front of that tower of glass full of doctors and scientists who came from different layers of society. Some may say those who never tasted the lower layers could never become a great help to the average person living in this city - yet here they were.

Was Dr Yme from wealth? The way he carried himself and dressed, he sure seemed like it… But he didn’t have that shameless poise to him - perhaps the silence and observation were.

Iris turned on her heels, then looked up at the sixth floor, where she noticed the same slim silhouette standing with a mug of coffee in his hand. He seemed like someone who drank his coffee black, so serious and responsible - not that coffee types had a personality tied to them.

Her slender hand raised up in an awkward and unsure nod, but what she got returned was Dr Yme turning on his own heel instead and walking back toward his desk, his silhouette slowly disappearing under the separation line of the floor he was on behind the glass.

Iris released the breath of air she had been holding the moment she thought about what kind of coffee her therapist would like. 

So foolish.

Yme thought as he put his mug down, then raised the lid of a small container holding the shape of a pin cushion.

Raising a sugar cube between his index and middle finger, he put it onto his tongue, right in front of the metal ball embedded in the muscle. Bringing it inside, he pushed his lips on top of each other, the barely tinted lips blending in with his pale skin under the pressure.

He took in the sweetness, draining the cube of any moisture, his cheeks sinking in by the suction. Then, he picked up the mug of coffee and brought it up to his lips to take a sip, releasing the sugar cube from its vacuum-sealed prison.