This is a direct sequel to my story Submissive Skin. The events in this one won't make sense without reading that one first. Both pieces were inspired by a series of vivid dreams I had and the apparently random perspective shifts are meant to emulate the awkward transitions between one dream and the next.
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It's 4 am and I can't sleep. Memories, fantasies, obsessions, and a burning itch conspire to keep me awake. At least, I think I'm awake. Honestly, it's too hard to tell, nowadays. Perhaps I'm dreaming thinking I'm awake. It wouldn't be the first time. I doubt it will be the last.
What does it mean to be awake, anyway? Doctors, psychologists, and philosophers all have different possible explanations. I'm neither. I just drive a taxi, try to live my life the best way possible, yet my life is one gigantic mess, and the wheels of Fate keep rolling in the same direction. I've been in a crash before. Another one is in store for me, I can feel it.
I suppose I should tell you I'm crazy. I've been told I'm crazy. I've been told that being crazy is the least of my problems. It's strange to think it, even stranger to type it, and even stranger to say it out loud. I said it once because I was forced to. My psychiatrist wants me to say it again.
Yes, I have a shrink. And I do feel my brain cells shrinking whenever we're together. There's a white chair in the center of an obscured room and a man's face peers at me from the darkness.
He calls himself Dr. Black. The irony makes me laugh considering he's albino. He sports a half-moon smile in a full-moon face and piercing almond eyes that see this world and the next. He sits behind a desk almost as big as the room though it's almost as if he's fused to the furniture itself. That's all I can see though for most of his features lay hidden behind a blanket of smoke. He can't go without three packs of cigarettes a day, or so he says. He says a lot of things and most of them aren't interesting at all. I genuinely dislike him and the only reason I didn't use the word "hate" is because I'm trying to keep my emotions in check. Still, the moment he opens his cracked, dry lips to speak once again, I know I will fail. I hope you like explosions.
"Hello again, Steven," he begins. "How are you feeling today? Have you been dreaming with the man on fire?"
Yes... and no. Some images still linger in my brain, fragments of fragments wrapped in even more fragments to make me question the veracity of it all. I know I was turned into a living cinder yet I also know it didn't happen. I'm not supposed to talk about things that didn't happen. She doesn't want me to. She...
"Not in a chatty mood today?"
That's right. I don't want to talk to you, Dr. I never do. I can't recall why I came to your office the first time, truth be told. The fact that I continue to show up three times a week is yet another strange realization in a series of strange realizations. Will they ever end or is the cycle destined to repeat itself forever?
"I'm waiting for the hour to go by..." I confess, turning my eyes to where I believe a window should be. There's only a slit on the wall, not big enough for a panoramic view yet the building's ghostly outlines linger there. The city outside is even darker than my state of mind. I scratch my left arm. The itch remains.
"Let's talk about that itch..."
"No, let's not," I dismiss him. I ask for a cigarette myself but the rules are different for the both of us.
"I think we should. It's obviously bothering you."
"Nothing bothers me more than you."
"That's flattering," he mocks me. "You're a good liar, Steven."
"I think you have the upper-hand there."
"When have I ever lied to you?"
"When have you not? You want me to admit something I can't admit. I won't do that. I'm not crazy. I know I'm not."
"What you think you know and what you know about something can be two very different things, Steven. No one wants you to say something you don't want to say yourself."
I laugh, I grin, I kick the chair away. There must be a door out of here yet it's blocked from sight. A puff of smoke hits my eyes. I scratch my arm again. This time, it's the right one.
"I will have to insist. Why do you keep doing that?" He asks.
"It's not mine. I want it gone!" I scream. From the corner of my eye, I glimpse lanky, humanoid figures standing all around us, observing the interactions taking place. I blink and when I do so again, they're gone.
"Your arm is not yours?"
"My skin is not mine. She gave it to me. She uses it to..."
"... control you, yes, of course," Dr. Black glances at his papers. "I have to say the idea of something called 'submissive skin' is fascinating. A delusion, naturally, but still fascinating."
"I'm not crazy!"
"I didn't say you were. That word came from you, Steven. There must be a reason for you to like that word a lot, don't you agree?"
"How long has it been?" I ask.
"Five minutes. We're only getting started today."
"Make the clock go faster. I need to get out of here."
"I can't do that any more than I can corroborate your conspiracy theories. These sessions are for your own good, Steven."
"I've heard that before but I don't believe you. You're working for her, aren't you? Be honest with me once in your life: are you working for Olya? Better yet, are you Olya by any chance?"
"I see you're projecting once again... fascinating," he scribbles something on a little red notebook. Every time I'm in this room with him, I keep trying to take a glance at his notes but everything goes blank when I do. This isn't normal. It's not just my skin that isn't mine. My thoughts are in complete disarray, a fireworks show gone wrong. The itch intensifies.
"I'm not..."
"I know what you're about to say but please don't. Denial only makes your recovery take longer. Is that what you want? To spend even more time with me, here?"
"I already said I want this to be over!" I shout, uncontained fury about ready to do something stupid or worse. I bang my head against his desk but I feel no pain. I'm growing numb save for the desire to scratch my arms off until they're but a pile of blood and goo.
"So you have and yet your actions don't match your words. You're not helping yourself so how am I supposed to help you? Olya isn't real, Steven. She never was. When the human mind goes through a traumatic experience just like yours has, flights of fancy become frequent and, sometimes, degenerate into paranoia. You know this is true."
"If she's not real, then how come she talked to me yesterday, huh?"
His interest is piqued. The surrounding figures appear once more, alien shadows as impossible as everything else. I hate them, too. I hate myself for being trapped with them.
"Did she? Please tell me more. When did you see her? What happened yesterday?"
"I..."
... was driving around aimlessly, waiting for my next customer, eyes focused on everything but the road ahead. Restless horns and roving vehicles passed me by, a blur of people lost in their dull routines. I stopped near an intersection - can't remember which one - the itch stronger than ever, smoke coming out of my fingers. I didn't notice the back door opening, the woman getting inside. I just heard her voice, and the buzz coming out of the tablet she uses to control me.
"Hello, slave."
"Slave?" Dr. Black repeats the word back at me. If he's trying to make me even angrier, he's succeeding.
"It's what I am to her, I told you that already."
