Mind Unbound

The waiting room smelled like lavender and old carpet. I'd been sitting in the same cracked vinyl chair for twenty minutes, watching a wall clock tick toward my appointment time, and I was already regretting every choice that led me here. My hands wouldn't stay still. I kept rubbing the scar on my left cheek, a habit I couldn't break, like touching it would somehow erase the memory of how I got it.

The receptionist had barely looked at me when I walked in. Just handed me a clipboard and pointed at the chair. The forms asked the usual questions. Name. Date of birth. Emergency contact. I left that last one blank.

Luke Mercer. Twenty years old. No one to call if things went wrong.

I'd never been to a therapist before. Never thought I needed one. But my sister kept pushing. Said I'd been different since I came home. Said the nightmares were getting worse, that she could hear me shouting through the walls at two in the morning. She meant well. She always meant well.

The door at the end of the hallway opened.

"Luke?"

I stood up too fast. The chair squeaked against the floor.

Dr. Logan was taller than I expected. Gaunt, like he forgot to eat most days. His black hair was streaked with grey and stuck up in the back like he'd been running his fingers through it. Wire-rimmed glasses sat crooked on his nose. He wore scrubs, which I thought was strange for a therapist, but maybe that was just his thing.

"Come in," he said. His voice was calm. Measured. Like he'd said those two words a thousand times and would say them a thousand more.

I followed him down the hallway. The carpet was thinner here, worn down to the threads in places. He held the door open for me and I stepped into his office.

It wasn't what I expected. No couch. No soft lighting. Just a recliner in the center of the room, a desk pushed against the far wall, and a bookshelf crammed with medical texts. The blinds were drawn. A single lamp on the desk cast long shadows across the floor.

"Sit wherever you're comfortable," Dr. Logan said.

I sat in the recliner. It creaked under my weight.

He pulled a chair from behind his desk and positioned it across from me, close enough that our knees almost touched. He sat down and studied me for a long moment. I stared back.

"Your sister mentioned you've been having trouble sleeping," he said.

"Yeah."

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that."

He nodded slowly. Pushed his glasses up his nose. "And you served overseas?"

"Two tours. Afghanistan."

"How long have you been home?"

"Eight months."

He leaned back in his chair. His eyes never left my face. Pale blue, almost colorless in the dim light. Unblinking. I got the feeling he was cataloging everything about me. The scar. The way I held my shoulders. The calluses on my hands from the forge.

"I want to try something different with you, Luke," he said. "Hypnosis."

I shifted in the chair. "Hypnosis?"

"It's not what you see on television. No pocket watches. No clucking like a chicken." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It's a state of focused relaxation. It can help with trauma. With nightmares. With the things you can't say out loud."

I didn't like the sound of that. The things I couldn't say out loud were the things I wanted to keep buried.

"I don't know," I said.

"Your sister told me you've tried traditional therapy. That it didn't work."

She shouldn't have told him that. She shouldn't have told him anything.

"I'm not good at talking about it," I said.

"I know." He leaned forward again. "That's why hypnosis might help. You don't have to talk. You just have to listen. To my voice. To relax. Let your mind go where it needs to go."

I looked at the blinds. The bookshelf. The lamp. Anything but his eyes.

"What if it doesn't work?" I asked.

"Then we try something else." He paused. "But I think it will work. You have the look of someone who's been carrying something heavy for a long time. Someone who's ready to put it down."

He wasn't wrong. I was tired. Tired of the nightmares. Tired of waking up in cold sweats. Tired of seeing the faces of men who weren't coming home.

"Okay," I said. "Let's try it."

Dr. Logan stood up and walked to the desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out something small. A vial. Clear liquid. He filled a syringe with practiced ease.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Just a mild sedative. To help you relax. It's perfectly safe."

I should have asked more questions. Should have asked what was in the vial, whether he was licensed to administer medication, whether any of this was normal. But I was tired. And he was calm. And I wanted to sleep without dreaming.

He swabbed my arm with alcohol. The needle slid in clean, barely a pinch.

"Count backward from ten," he said.

I made it to seven.

The room softened at the edges. The lamp light blurred. Dr. Logan's voice came from somewhere far away, low and steady, like a river running underground.

"You're doing well, Luke. Just let go. Let your body sink into the chair. You're safe here. No one can hurt you."

I felt heavy. Warm. Like sinking into water.

"Tell me about the scar on your cheek."

My mouth moved before I could stop it. "I was sixteen. My father. He was drunk. Broke a bottle against the table. I got in the way."

"And your father?"

"Dead. Three years ago. Heart attack."

"Do you miss him?"

"No."

The word hung in the air. I couldn't take it back. Didn't want to.

"Good," Dr. Logan said. "Honesty is important. Now tell me something else. Tell me about your first time."

My mind felt like molasses. Slow. Sticky. "First time?"

"With a woman. Your first sexual experience."

I tried to shake my head but my neck wouldn't cooperate. "I haven't. Never."

"Never?"

"No."

Dr. Logan was quiet for a moment. I heard him shift in his chair. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. Softer. Closer.

"That's interesting, Luke. A man your age. Good looking. Strong. Never been with a woman."

"I was... busy. Army. Then the forge."

"Have you ever been with anyone? A man?"

"No. I'm not... I don't..."

"I understand," he said. "You're straight. That's fine. But I want you to do something for me."

His voice wrapped around my thoughts like smoke. I couldn't tell where my mind ended and his words began.

"I want you to touch yourself."

"What?"

"Your body is tense. You need to release that tension. It's part of the therapy. Trust me."

I felt my hand move. Slow. Heavy. Like it belonged to someone else.

"That's it," Dr. Logan said. "Good boy."

The room was dark. The lamp was off. I didn't remember him turning it off. I didn't remember anything except the sound of his voice and the heat building under my skin.

"Keep going," he said. "Don't stop until I tell you."

I didn't stop.

When it was over, I woke with a gasp. The recliner was upright. The lamp was on. Dr. Logan sat across from me, legs crossed, writing in a notebook.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

I blinked. My head throbbed. My body felt hollowed out.

"I don't... what happened?"

"You did well," he said. "Very well. Same time next week?"

I nodded. I couldn't speak.

He walked me to the door. I stumbled into the hallway, past the receptionist, out into the cold air. The sun was setting. I'd been inside for two hours.

I didn't remember falling asleep. I didn't remember dreaming. But something had happened in that room. Something I couldn't name.

I touched the scar on my cheek. It felt like a stranger's face.