Therapy

In the space in between clients, I sit cross-legged on the floor, recharging the crystals that sit unobtrusively at the each corner of my consulting room. Less of a risk than they used to be; now that New Age is 'in'. Just a calming and dampening spread, setting a safe environment for my clients. The relief they broadcast as they leave brings me peace, too. For a while, I breathe deeply to banish images of fire and screaming. My parents' faces flicker before me, their pale features contorted as the flames reach the platform where they stand tied together around the obsidian post. It should have been me.

The ticking of the antique clock on the mantelpiece grows steadily louder. Robert Lestrange is waiting in the anteroom, ignoring the stack of 'Country Life' and 'Hello' magazines; he leafs through 'Prediction' whilst glancing at my certificates displayed on the wall. He stares with hawk-like contempt at the cup of tea my secretary brought in for him. I offer him coffee, which he accepts, eyes hooded as he inclines his head in acknowledgement. I invite him in and begin to introduce the counseling framework, defining the relationship that we will have.

"How long have you been doing this?" He interrupts, all urbane interest, smiling slightly as if to put me at ease.

"I qualified as a social worker twenty-five years ago I've been counseling people for the last fifteen."

"Do you like people to feel vulnerable in front of you?"

"No. We try to create a place of safety, to explore whatever issues they may have. I like to help people, which is why I'd like to make a start. Our time is limited, Mr. Lestrange. May I call you Robert?"

"Have you always been here?" This much questioning is usually nerves, putting off difficult emotional issues. He doesn't seem nervous, but many of the professional men I have counseled are in denial.

"No, I worked in a couple of places. Anger management is my specialty. Anything else you'd like to ask before we get going?"

He pauses, considering the question, 'No, Mrs. Speldhurst, that is all I need to know for now.'

'Please call me Yvonne. I find the less formal approach sets a better tone for the session.'

He slowly strokes the silver barrel of the Cross pen before sheathing it again in the top pocket of his smart Saville Row suit and sits back in his chair, steepling his fingers. The light behind him tips his dark hair with silver, his features slightly shaded Radiating from his body like a heat signature, his aura is turbulent, crimson, scarlet and burgundy shades mixing like solar flares as he recalls anger against his first wife. A flash of black, like a sunspot, flickers and is gone. What was that? A frisson of fear strokes my back and I reach for professional neutrality, wrong-footed for a moment. No, I must have imagined it. He moves onto his most recent conquest. He leans forward, his gaze devouring mine as he details each meeting. Pheromones and after-shave blend pungently in my nostrils as the recollection arouses him, only to be snuffed out as his memory moves on to the end of the affair. He is silent for a while as if recalling the next part of the script, which layer of the story he is willing to tell me. I breathe steadily as waves of his emotion wash over me and disperse into the room, leaving the air heavy with desire and disappointment. We talk. The corona surrounding him cools, violet shading into blue and passive green as I look straight into his eyes, speaking calmly and quietly, soothing and peaceful. His aura pulses slower, breathing deeper and the tightness around his mouth eases. The session is over.

For hours afterwards my stomach clenches and rolls unpleasantly. An unidentifiable impression hovers, that something was off colour, the shades of emotion not quite true. I put the strength of his reactions to anger at being rejected by his secretary. Still, there is something… I don't know what. I'll sleep on it, that usually sorts out the problem

One of the advantages of being self-employed is having the freedom to slip out between clients without having to answer to anyone. After the intensity of a session, it is good to be part of a group, all passing by, needing much but asking nothing. Today however, I catch the eyes of an anxious young mother, pushing a screaming infant. Eddies of distress from the pair stain the auras of the people passing by. Drawn to help in spite of the danger, I am unable to resist and smile consolingly, rolling soothing blues and greens towards her. The tension around her eyes lifts and she smiles back as the sound of screaming eases and the baby gurgles happily.

"Well thank God for that!" she says.

The swirls of colour that emanated from the crowd became less virulent. Furtively checking that I am not watched, I see no one. There is a faintly familiar aroma I can't quite identify. Satisfied, I move into the teashop for a pot of Earl Grey and a teacake. It lacks the ceremonial trappings of the tea ceremony from home, but it is a charming place to be. Locked in a time warp, the 1940's music with strains of the forces favourites and the theme from the Archers (I can never remember what the tune is called) set the tone. Black and white clad waiters and waitresses contribute to the sense that it is a place from a simpler time. Guests come and go; smiles are frequent and heartfelt, tables fill and then empty. I go there to relax.

I toss and turn in my dream. Stuck in a loop. I hear my parents calling. I see my sister torn from my arms to service the warrior prince. They cried out for me, too, until the torches of the guards hid their faces. Suddenly, my stomach doubles into knots. That's it! He is one of them. Screaming, I leap out of bed, drenched in sweat. Looking around desperately. My bedroom is just as I left it. I locked and double-checked as usual last night. Just a nightmare. It's OK. Robert Lestrange is just a client. No need to worry. They can't have tracked me to here. I have been so careful. It's been so long. I decide to go downstairs and make a cup of tea.

The boiling kettle soothes my nerves and I begin to relax as I make the ritual brew. 'Tea, Earl Grey, Hot,' as Jean Luc Picard says on the Starship Enterprise. How powerful the human imagination is! I sit on the sofa, ease seeping back into my soul. Slowly, I feel drowsy. The memory of tea ceremonies with my family settles around me like a warm blanket. We sit in the sunset, bathed in golden light, verdant auras blending and intertwining, caressing in and out of the group contained within the open sided granite colonnades of the palace where we are held. Even under occupation we were able to perform the ceremony, but only on a clear sunset evening when the red light rendered the G'tarra unable to see and reliant on other barriers to keep us prisoner. In the centre of the group, a simple pot containing the leaves simmered enclosed by fine tulip-shaped gold drinking flasks, the lips of each flask reached up to each of us as if in supplication, temporarily released from their hiding place. I looked at my twin sister. Her face was like porcelain, translucent eyes dark and reflective. She is forever young in my memory, lacking the lines that now collect around my contact lens disguised eyes. Her body, slim as the sto'plar trees shielding the flyer hangar on the free hillside opposite us. If she hadn't been taken… if we'd tried to leave earlier… would it have just brought our destruction earlier? Yet I lived, fattened, blurred and hidden. Giving freely the gift he ripped from her. Sighing, as the vision fades, I put the cup down, curl up on the sofa and fall asleep.

The morning sun floods round the unlined sitting room curtains; turning the crimson, azure and sunflower print into a stained glass window. The colours of this place are breathtaking. Outside, the birds are singing joyfully and I hear the sound of the whistling milkman recede into the distance. Dressed and ready for the day it's time to let the daylight in. I fling open the curtains to see Robert's dark silvered hair and golden eyes staring back at me, I gasp as his disguise pours away to reveal the warrior prince, my sister's killer.

'G'fan Djalo.' My voice is horse. He smiles calmly, drinking in my distress, rolling it around his mouth, savouring it like a fine wine.

His long fine fingers become skeletal, pointed and grasping. Around his body, sunspots merge until his aura is black. Lightening crackles powerfully around his head. Standing straight and proud, he carries the sword, whose reputation we besmirched. His leonine eyes burn into mine unseeing, heat forcing me to look away. Standing there he is compelling, draining energy from me just by his presence. My mind is caught in the vice of his will, trapped like a fly in the amber of his gaze. He bows and draws his sword. He bursts through the window, shattering glass tinkles onto the carpet falling on my copy of Les Miserables, as he strides towards me, tongue caressing his lips. My consciousness tries to flee. His breath is warm and wet. I am pinned, spreading open like a bloodstain before him.

'Xanthia Yeo, I honour the chase.' He raises the blade of his sword to me and kisses it, face still in absolute discipline, but the air crackles with the ecstasy of his triumph. 'Now you are mine!' His aura encloses me, extinguishing my future as all my worlds go black.

Sarah-Jane Critchley was one of ten runners up in the Mslexia Poetry competition 2004, (Issue 22,July, August, Sept 2004) judged by Selima Hill and has other poems published in anthologies. She has also written children's stories, but has retained a fascination for the weird, way out and twisted. She grew up on Sci-fi and loves the freedom that the medium gives. She is older than she wishes she was, but not as wise as she'd like. She lives in Tunbridge Wells with one husband, two children, two guinea pigs and two fish.

Email: Sarah-Jane Critchley

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