S.I.P.

“Accept it, Sarah. It’s made up. A fairytale. A dream. An unconscious fictional tale of the mind. There’s no more to it.” That’s what my psychologist told me. It couldn’t be right. This memory was no dream. I had seen it with my own eyes; the blood running in dark red trails along the cold grey concrete floor, the woman’s lifeless body lying on its side strapped tight to an old wooden chair. I have had nightmares before, but this…this wasn’t one of them. Yet Dr. Sternly had the audacity to sit in his big blue leather lounge chair with degrees galore on the wall behind him and shrug the entire thing off as a ‘fairytale’. I wasn’t paying 35 dollars an hour for crap like that.