Pt. 1: What Dreams May Come
Sitting across the table from me is Sigmund Freud. He looks exactly like the famous portraits, and is even in black and white. The only deviation from the photograph is his eyes, which are solid black. "Good evening, Bella," he says to me. His mouth moves like a paper cutout and two things become immediately apparent to me: that I am dreaming, and that this is not really Sigmund Freud.
The table is round and covered in a red table cloth. On the table between us are three cards, face down. I see my hand reach out and turn over the leftmost card. The image is of an open book with ink spilling from its pages and a halo of purple light behind it. "The tome," says the Freud-looking thing, "to start you on your journey."
I nod, then swallow and turn over the middle card. I can feel my heart racing. The second card shows a silver goblet overflowing with dark wine, but the card is upside down. "The boon," intones the Thing in a voice that sounds mingled with the crackling static of a radio, "in its inverted form, a sign of gifts given to others."
"What is this?" My voice is gravely and dry in my throat. The Thing gestures at the third card. I am compelled to flip it with a trembling hand. The final card shows a white marble rectangle perched on black obsidian stairs. "The altar," he says, "for your sacrifice to come."
I blink and I am looking down on myself, in the third person. I see myself lying on my back, on the marble slab from the third card. My arms and legs are chained in a spread-eagle position. I am completely nude, with a vacant look on my face, like I'm in some kind of a trance.
"Bella," I hear a disembodied voice call my name.
