Little Lies

by Elena M. Reyes

  How there was a chance, minimal but there, that a deep-enough relaxed state of sleep would leave me without dreams.

  Bullshit. All of it.

  I do dream. Vividly.

  And yet, here I am, nodding while walking toward her. She’s smiling, so happy and carefree, and at the moment I’m hating her for it. “Thank you.”

  “Of course. Right this way, Miss Moore.” We don’t talk after, and once near to the open door where my doctor waits, she pauses and waves me forward. “Go right ahead. I’ll see you on the way out.”

  “Right.” Another fake smile and hers widens, nodding at me as if I’d sent her blessings of health and more money than she could spend in ten lifetimes. The interaction lasts less than ten seconds at most and then she’s gone, speed walking back toward the front while I’m hating every moment of being here. “Come on, Gabriella. Get it together.”

  Not the best pep talk, but I turn and walk into Dr. Silva’s office, while the man himself is behind his desk. He’s leaning back with his dark brown eyes on the door, and the light dusting of silver hair that adorned his temples has spread in the last year. With each visit, it has become a little more prominent until encompassing his entire head.

  “Nice to see you, Miss Moore. Please take a seat.”

  “Glad to be here?”

  My psychiatrist laughs at my question and nods, already writing something down in his ever-present notepad. “And how have you been since your last appointment...” his eyes shift to his laptop screen where he squints “...four months ago? It also says here you owe me lab work and a progress report on those dreams and their frequency, if any have occurred.”

  “I’ve been busy and just signed the contract for my next show.”

  “Congratulations.” The painting to his right is mine, a commissioned piece of his favorite place in the world: a lighthouse in North Carolina. “That’s great news, and we’ll get back to that; I’d love to attend.”

  “Once I have the dates, I’ll let you know.”

  “Perfect.” Then silence. A long and awkward one, until I cough and he raises a bushy brow. “Answer the question, Gabriella. Are you still having that one recurring dream?”

  “I am.”

  “How often?”

  “Enough that I am here questioning my sanity.”

  “How so? Please explain.” Dr. Silva pushes his glasses up a bit, his face so neutral. Not so much as a twitch or smile, fake or not. “Have you been taking your meds as prescribed?”

  “I have.” A lie, and he nods as if he knows I’m lying. “One tablet every night an hour before bedtime, and yet, the dreams are getting worse. I’ve gone from wandering through a strange room and empty halls to being sliced open and bleeding out. This isn’t normal, doctor. I really think I’m suffering from night terrors.”

  “Let’s go back a bit, Gabriella,” he says, hand gliding across the page of his notebook, the ink filling up line after line. “When you started seeing me, these dreams had a twice-a-week frequency with sometimes bouts of self-induced insomnia in between. No?”

  “Yes.”

  “Six months ago, they had become a three to four per week occurrence. No?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now?”

  “Almost every night.”

  “Almost?” His brow raises, and I know what’s coming next. “Have you been staying awake for days? The truth, please.”

  “The last three weeks, I’ve been having trouble falling asleep.”

  “Elaborate, please.”

  Running a tired hand down my face, I let out a harsh breath. “Sometimes, the meds don’t work. Sometimes the Melatonin doesn’t so much as make me yawn.” He goes to open his mouth, but I hold up a hand. “And then there are those nights when I try them together and fall asleep only to wake up with my heart beating out of my chest two hours after crashing.”

  “Why didn’t you call the office? We need to know these things.” His lips purse, and he begins to type something on his laptop, his lips moving but I can’t make out what he’s mouthing. “I’m going to send in a new script for a different medication to your pharmacy on file, and you’ll be discontinuing the other. This one’s just for sleeping and should keep you there throughout the night. You’ll also be leaving here with one for bloodwork.”

  I grumble. “Hate needles.”

  “And I hate the smell of lavender, but my wife insists we use it in every room of our home.” At that, I laugh and he chuckles a bit, yet his amusement dies just as fast as it came. “And your stress levels? How are you managing? Are you working out or walking—”

  “What are the possible side effects?” Cutting him off is rude, but I’d rather he answer my question instead. This one matters. “Because the last one always made me sick the next day.”

  “That’s something that varies from medication to medication. We won’t know until you try it, but please call my office right away if you experience any sudden headaches or bleeding from your nose and mouth.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter under my breath but he heard, his sad nod telling me as much. “What about the possibility of these being night terrors? Don’t you have some form of testing that can be done to rule it out?”

  “I’d rather you start the new medication and see how it goes. If no change, we will move on to the next step.”

  “Next step?”

  “Another medication, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll do an MRI scan to rule out a physical cause. If neither is found to lead us anywhere, then we will begin a series of tests—polysomnography—to determine if you are indeed suffering from night terrors.”

  “How long before we can reach that stage?”

  “I’d like to see you in a month again. That is, unless you’re having a problem with this new prescription.”

  “Thirty days?” My laugh is sardonic, my chest tightening and I rub the area. I’m sure he can sense the ire beginning to mount within. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m sorry if that’s not the answer you were looking for, but there’s a procedure to each treatment that must be followed.” Dr. Silva takes his glasses off and places them atop his desk along with his pen. Both are atop that stupid notebook I want to smack him with and then burn. “Please trust us, Gabriella. Trust me that I will do what’s best for you and your mental and physical health.”

  “Sure.” Because what else can I say? He won’t listen.

  My primary didn’t either.

  They think it’s stress-related. That it’s manifesting in vivid dreams.

  “Great.” He stands and so do I, following him to the door that he holds open for me. “I’ll see you in a month, and I think you’ll have good news for me. And please remember: keep the stress levels down and always take your meds.”

  12

  Gabriella

  “Black. I’m going to need a lot of black,” I whisper to myself, standing in the middle of the acrylic paint section of a specialty art store while debating brands four days later. After my walk around the block with Mr. Pickles today, I’ve felt energized yet restless. I’m also running on nothing but coffee, determination, and the hour-and-a-half power nap I allow myself once a day.

  No sleeping at night. No meds; the new or old ones.

  Not a damn thing. This is the euphoric stage right before I crash, but I’m willing to take the risk. After getting home that day, I looked up the side effects to my new “night time” supplement and it’s much the same as the last, but with the added possibility of oral bleeding and headaches from hell. It’s in rare cases, I understand that, but I’m just not in the mood to add to my already heavy plate of bullshit.

  So instead, I’m evading while sticking to the primary objective for my pieces. Because there’s this uncontrollable beckoning that’s leaning toward a dark and depraved setting where few have truly ventured into: the jungle. Be it the Amazon or Sri Lanka or any other large rainforest, there are legends of tribes and animals who live on these sacred grounds where money mean
s nothing and you hunt to survive. It’s a delicate balance, perfected since the beginning of existence, and I’m giving in to this temptation.

  More so after recalling my conversation with Tero about snakes.

  Because they are majestic. Animals that solely survive on instinct and have no need for greed. They kill to sustain themselves, not for gluttony or power.

  That is something they wield naturally without anything more than existing.

  “Hunter versus prey. Life and death.” In my mind, I see trees and vines in different shades of green and contrast with a single predator highlighted in each piece. Both human and animal. “Now, which shade fits best for the base?”

  There are two that I love and use, but a new one on the market has just a hint of metallic that my eyes are drawn to. It’d be perfect for the night sky, and will stand out, become reflective with the lighting being used.

  “A lot of customers are choosing that tone this week,” comes from a male voice just behind me and I shriek, dropping the bottles in my hand. They don’t break, but instead roll beneath the gondola likely never to be found again unless someone gets on their knees, and with the man wearing a store uniform standing close, that person won’t be me. “My apologies.”

  “You scared three years off my life.” At my grumble, he holds his hands up but makes no move to step back. He’s too close, and I don’t like it. He also doesn’t say anything after, and I’m confused by his just standing there. Just like the coffee house a few days ago. How uncomfortable he made me feel then too. “Can I help you?”

  “You can...”

  Stepping back, I bump into the shelf and then wave my hand in a hurry up action. “How?”

  “You’re very pretty.” Not what I’m expecting, and it also heightens my unease. I’m not dressed to impress right now in an old paint-stained sweatshirt and denim cutoff shorts with a messy bun to top it off. Nor do I feel up to making polite conversation, but that choice is taken from me as he leans against another shelf.

  The man is easily in his mid-twenties and taller than me with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a slim build with the slightest pouch in his midsection. Ordinary. Nothing that would draw me in physically, and while I can overlook that and let him down in a gentle manner, the lecherous way he’s watching me spikes my anxiety.

  “Thank you,” I say to be polite and move the cart beside me closer to create separation. We’re alone in this row, no one near from the sound of it, which is strange. When I walked in, there were plenty of clients strolling the aisles. “And I’m fine. No help needed as I know what I’m here to buy.”

  “Are you sure? Spending my shift with you wouldn’t be a chore at all.” His name tag reads Tim, and the title of shift manager is printed beneath it. “You know, I’ve seen you here before, always in the paint section. Always unaware of the stares you receive just like around town.”

  “Okay.” That’s not creepy at all.

  “I could keep others away if you’d like?” Tim looks at the items in my cart with interest. “A struggling artist?”

  “No.” My one-word response doesn’t register at all. Nor my frown or the way I grip the metal kitty multi tool meant to protect if need be that I carry on my keychain; the ears are pointy and sharp enough to penetrate flesh.

  “How about I cut you a deal, sweetheart. I’ll let you use...” Tim lifts a hand toward my face and I cringe back “...my employee discount and you cook—”

  “You have two seconds to walk away,” a voice booms to my left, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Without turning my head, I know it’s Theodore and I’ve never been more grateful to see another human being. My unrest evaporates, and when his hand touches the crook of my elbow, pulling me in closer, I nearly melt into him. I’m not questioning how he affects me when the creepy employee across from me has ruined what was supposed to be a fun trip.

  “I’m just doing my job, sir—”

  “Last warning.” This time it leaves his chest on a growl, his muscles coiling beside me. His anger is palpable. His strength is visible in the cords of muscle that flex. “Walk away before you’re unable to.” The threat is there. It lingers heavily between the three of us, and Tim is smart enough to heed the warning, tucking tail and rushing away as if someone called him for help. This is the second time; it would’ve been an amusing sight had he not ruined my shopping. “Are you okay?”

  Turning my head and meeting Mr. Astor’s stare, I find his expression as soft as the tone he used with me. No traces of his ire left. “I don’t know what you’re doing here or how you found me, but thank you. That was beyond uncomfortable for me.”

  Are you following me? And more importantly, why don’t I care if you are?

  If anything, I feel a little safer thinking I have my own knight in shining armor.

  “I’m glad I heard your voice when I did. I’d been heading toward the specialty vinyl area.”

  A snort escapes me. I’m also not buying it. “You own a Cricut machine?”

  “No.” He grins at me, those amber eyes crinkling a bit at the corner, and it only serves to make him more handsome. It’s then that I take in his change of clothing, and my body gives a small shiver he mistakes for unease over what’s happened. Jesus, this man is dangerous, and I let my eyes subtly give him a once over. And if I thought Theodore Astor in an all-black suit was handsome, this simple pair of lightly faded black jeans and plain grey T-shirt just might kill me. He’s bulging muscles and raw masculinity with a scent that invades my pores and dominates each and every one of my senses. “...but Tero’s wife does, and it’s her birthday tomorrow.”

  “That’s very sweet of you,” I mumble, still appreciating his perfect male form. However, the moment his answer clicks, I’m left blushing in embarrassment. For assuming.

  “I can be, depending on the person or moment.” The last word hasn’t passed through his lips when his brows furrow and lips thin into a line. Even that is sexy. “Did he touch you?”

  “What?” I’m flustered, and this seems to aggravate him for some reason.

  “Did Tim touch you?” he asks again, and this time, it’s on a low hiss.

  “No.” Taking in a deep breath, I let it out slowly. My face pinches tight, though, and for a second the memory of his hand coming toward my face flashes through my mind. “You stopped him before he could.”

  Theodore nods, but he doesn’t say anything else and turns his attention to my cart. “Did you find everything you needed? Or are you still—”

  “Black.” Christ, I blurted that out like an idiot, which he only raises a brow to. “I mean, I need black paint and was in the middle of picking a shade, when he interrupted.”

  “Shade?”

  “Yes, shade.” Giving him my back, I turn toward the shelf I’d been picking apart my options on. “They each have a slight variation and would work to serve a different purpose depending on the subject of each painting and main colors used. Like this one. It has a slight hint of purple to it.”

  “I see.” Nothing more, but I hear the hint of amusement there. There’s also his body heat that penetrates my clothing and sears my flesh, a caress that makes me flush from the tip of my hair to my hard little nipples pressing against the cotton of my sweatshirt.

  “See this one?” There’s a low yes from him, his hand now on my lower back as he looks from over my shoulder. God, he affects me like no one else ever has. I’ve seen this man a handful of times in my life, and yet, this attraction seems to grow. It also makes me question how relaxed I am around him, what just happened with Tim no longer a concern. Why? “This is the one I’d been debating on prior to being interrupted. I like the metallic hint, but need to find the right place to use it.”

  “And have you found it?” Theodore moves slightly closer now, but with him I welcome the move—I’m smiling. His hand on my back traces my spine and then fingers the edge of my hood, giving it one small tug. “Have you found what you’ve been searching for all this time?” />
  “Yes.” I don’t move, but I do allow him to take the bottles from my hand and place them inside the semi-full cart. I already have the canvases back in my studio, my brushes come from a specialty online store, but the acrylic paint and gold leaf packets I was dangerously low on—this shop is a godsend, excluding today’s obnoxious employee. “I’m ready to check out.”

  He exhales roughly, breath fanning across the crown of my head. “Good.”

  “Good?” It leaves me on a shaky whisper right before his warmth disappears.

  “Look at me,” Theodore commands, and my body complies before I’m given the opportunity to deny him. Instead, I turn and fully face the handsome man and meet those eyes that always seem to draw me in and hold me captive. “Why do you look so exhausted? Are you sleeping okay, Gabriella?”

  “Just had a few rough nights. No biggie.”

  Theodore brings his hand to my face and runs the pad of his thumbs under each eye. “You need a few days off. No work, and please try to get some sleep.”

  “Believe it or not, this is relaxing for me.”

  “So is lounging on your couch while munching on chocolates and binge-watching Netflix documentaries.”

  I take a step back and mock glare, crossing my arms over my chest while meeting his hard stare. “Someone’s been snitching, or have you been asking?”

  “I will neither confirm nor deny this, but I will counter the question with one of my own.”

  “That’s not how any of this works.”

  “Yet it will happen nonetheless.” He takes my silence as a win and tilts his head toward the end of the aisle where the center of the store is located en route to the registers. We make it to the line to pay when he looks over again, chuckling at my annoyance for being left in wait. “Have you had dinner yet?”

  “No, but here’s one of my own...”