If you've visited this story before, the earlier chapters have been edited since they were first published - so forgive any inconsistencies, as they're being constantly re-edited. I would also like to provide a small disclaimer; none of the disorders referenced to in this work are referenced in order to be ridiculed or to pretend I know what it is like to have them (I do, however, suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder in the same manner as the OCD patient frequently referenced. That much I do have experience on, and he is based on my own experiences to prevent alienating those who may suffer from it differently).

Thank you for reading.

The alarm blared; another dreamless night's sleep. A petite hand emerged from beneath a mass of dark curls splayed about the edge of the pillow, fumbling blindly about the dimly-lit area before practically punching the alarm clock. The equally-petite woman grimaced a little at the unpleasant sound – both the clock itself and its tumble toward the floor.

One could argue that to own a clock is, in itself, a form of masochism.

She yawned and stretched, sitting up and waiting for her eyes to adjust before mustering up the motivation to fumble for the lamp next. Upon turning it on, she hissed in a breath at how bright everything suddenly became. Her bare feet shuffled haphazardly toward the bathroom, gait resembling Frankenstein's monster as if she had forgotten in her slumber how to walk – tripping on a few articles of strewn clothes.

Despite the rough start, she managed to shower, fix coffee, get dressed, and leave her apartment relatively unscathed. Of course, it wasn't until she was starting her car that she realized she'd left her files on the kitchen counter. "Shit," she muttered under her breath, yanking the car keys out of the ignition; she didn't need her car getting stolen while she was gone, Mondays at work were bad enough as it was. Her poor attempt at a ponytail was evidence of that, a dismayed yelp leaving semi-chapped lips as she quickly tried again to tame the offensive locks – her keys clenched between her teeth in a vice-like grip that would surely make her dentist cringe if he knew. Mishap corrected, it took every bit of self-control she had to not speed all the way to her office building. She assured herself that not only was this potentially saving lives and money for another speeding ticket, but it was inevitably saving her the extra twenty minutes it would take if she had sped and spilled piping-hot coffee all over herself.

Kate frowned as she grabbed her bag and coffee, looking up at the sky. "Was rain in the forecast? Of course, that might be givin' Channel Five's weather man too much credit," she muttered to herself.

"Mornin', Miss Roberts," Norm, the security guard, greeted in his usual gruff manner; gruff, but well-meaning. His thoughts were as elusive as his actual first name.

" – Huh? Yeah. I mean, good morning," she said somewhat cheerfully. Even if the distracted tone had been lacking in her response, Kate's body language – walking as fast as her heels would allow while shifting her bag from one arm to another, still attempting in vain to reconcile with her dark, thick ponytail – probably tipped everybody in the lobby off to the fact that she was most definitely hauling some serious ass – but professional ass. Dutiful employees within the South Ashfield Health Resources Complex usually weren't in any kind of hurry – on time was fifteen minutes early here, and they generally allowed time in their commute for that.

Generally, so did Katherine Roberts.

This was most certainly one of those exceptional days that began even more sluggish than they ended. Kate contemplated taking her shoes off while in the elevator to enhance her semi-frantic speed, but before she could, it arrived onto her floor – the twenty-fourth floor, to be exact. How she spent twenty-three of those bouncing on her heels like an anxious child as opposed to more productive pursuits, such as actually taking her shoes off or even smoothing her blouse… Well, one glance at her apartment floor would leave little need for explanation.

And she was off again.

She dug for her key-card, struggled with the door for a few moments, sped past the receptionist whose name she vaguely recalled began with an M, and had just sat down in her chair with an incredibly heavy exhale when her phone rang. "Dr. Roberts," she answered a little breathlessly, taking out the seemingly endless stack of files she'd taken home with her last night to ponder over. Actually, pore over and occasionally stare at blankly while wondering if anyone would care if she shredded them was more accurate. Not that she didn't truly treasure her job, of course, but even so… It had been one of those brick-wall sort of nights. She'd barely accomplished anything.

"You went by me so fast, I forgot to mention –"

"You can just come in my office, you know," she replied simply, having trouble keeping her cord phone on the crook of her neck while sorting through the various loose items in her bag.

"Y-Yes ma'am," the young receptionist said quickly, hanging up. Within five seconds, there was knocking on her door.

"Yeah, come in," she said much more warmly now that her keys had been tucked away and pager located, rolling her eyes briefly at how hesitant the temporary receptionists always were when coming in to work in Denise's stead. She absently wondered where Denise was exactly, then recalled with an embarrassed flush along her neck that her father was in the hospital. She attempted to push away the social guilt of forgetting something so integral to her trusted receptionist's life as her temp rattled off the schedule she'd put together in Kate's absence – no doubt taking great care to confirm, and then confirm again, for the sake of her payroll.

"What I was going to tell you was that Mr. Sheffield, Mrs. Caldwell, Ms. Johnson, and Mr. and Mrs. Beckett all canceled today. The Becketts rescheduled to next Tuesday, no word yet on reschedules from Caldwell and Johnson, and Sheffield says he doesn't know when he'll be back due to some health problems his sister's having. And, uh... Along with Mr. Stevenson moving his session up to nine thirty, which it seems you will be on time for, you have a new patient filling in your eleven o'clock slot," she informed Kate with a slight reluctance, as if her entire schedule had been a trick question as opposed to simple information.

She offered a smile of mild assurance from behind her desk, having to tilt her head somewhat to properly assess the statuesque temp; although she herself was only barely breaching the end of her twenties, no doubt putting her at a mere several years older than this temporary assistant, it only added to the authority her position entitled her to here. Kate knew it couldn't be from her personality. Her mentor throughout her dissertation – the product of such thorough research, and her professor's steady guidance, hung proudly on the wall to her left – had made note that her demeanor aided her early success. Although highly mature, and intelligent to boot, there was a temperament about her that suggested a free spirit; it was somewhat deceptive, as she always seemed scatterbrained or good-humored, even unprofessional in private – but a shrewd mind remained just beneath the mannerisms. It was never preventative of her getting her job done efficiently, and the culmination of those traits had ensured her internship produced much more than impressive notations on a resume.

Kate's brows furrowed as her attention remained sharply focused on the task at hand, always intrigued by the prospect of a heavier workload – truly masochistic, indeed. "New patient, huh? Did you get their paperwork in yet?"

The young woman shook her head, brown eyes wide as if she'd made a life-threatening mistake, her sandy blonde bun – much more tame than Roberts' own ponytail, she noticed with brief envy – swishing back and forth at lightning speed. "No ma'am, they haven't filled any out yet."

"They?"

"His mother's the one who called and made the appointment. From the sounds of it, he's a grown man, but I assume she'll be here today. ... Sounded kind of... protective?" she explained in a lowered tone, almost as if she was afraid the mother were in the same room. With mild nostalgia, Kate took note that Denise would have called him a mother's boy without hesitation – not to mention her coffee was a vast improvement on the cup held tightly between her freckled hands.

"You're probably right. Thank you, er…"

"Melissa."

"Right. I – I knew that. My... coffee just hasn't kicked in yet."

Melissa smiled. "No offense, Dr. Roberts, but stick to psychology. You're so terrible at lying, it probably makes you look more sincere."

Kate chuckled, but they both frowned when they heard a rather nasal male voice call out from the other room. "Hello? Anyone here?"

"That's my cue. Let him in, Melissa."

She nodded and power-walked out of the room, going to aid the needy Nine-Thirty, Mr. Stevenson – he insisted she call him Bob. Kate had diagnosed him with a narcissistic personality disorder, along with slight OCD. And he was unbelievably annoying, off the record. He walked in with his usual confident stride, smiling slightly. "Good morning, Doctor Katherine Roberts."

She resisted the urge to sigh. He insisted on calling her by her full name. She wasn't sure if that was part of his obsessive-compulsive personality, or if he just wanted to piss her off. "Morning, Bob. I'd like to start today off with a question. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," he replied cheerfully, already a far cry from the whiny man that had first arrived, sitting down on her couch with a content sigh. She mainly had that couch there for her own benefit – sometimes she would stay overnight and sleep in the office if she had a lot of paperwork and prescriptions to fill out – although many a patient preferred the couch to the multiple chairs in the room. Most, however, preferred to lay on their back and stare at the ceiling, not sit in utter contentment with a ram-rod posture.

Her office was moderately-sized, with a neutral color scheme. The furniture was black, complete with a desk in the center of the room (at which she was currently sitting), four filing cabinets (two miniature ones beside her desk, one full-length on each wall near her), two arm chairs further towards the door, a couch against the wall to the right of the door, and a wheelie chair she was sitting in at the moment. Depending on who the patient was and where they sat, sometimes she would abandon her desk and wheel her chair further into the room, pen and pad in her lap.

With Bob, however, she almost felt safer behind the desk.

"Bob, do you mind me asking why you call me by my full title?" she asked carefully. Bob was a tricky one. Any little thing could set him off. Speaking of which, she quickly shifted her pencils back to the way he liked them: three to each side of the desk, erasers pointing towards the door.

"Because by saying your full name, I've made an odd number – twenty-one. If you count the spaces and the period after the abbreviation of your title, that is. Twenty-one is divisible by odd numbers three and seven. And two plus one equals three. And you know how I feel about the number three," he explained as if he had done so a thousand times, a slight shiver quite obviously running through him.

Kate nodded, trying not to grimace. "Yeah, I do. Sounds like you've given this a lotta thought. Now onto the usual, Bob: how's your medication treatin' ya?"

"Fine."

After her typical Q-and-A with him, she concluded with the "So, how have things been since I last saw you?"

This question, when asked to Bob, pretty much meant her talking was over. The rest of her time was spent nodding at the right places, listening for any key words or inflection that would alert her to any prominent symptoms she wanted him avoiding, etcetera.

Bob Stevenson was most definitely a talker. In fact, she wrote "Talker" in big block letters on her notepad, underlining it and drawing a stick figure of Kate and the fifty other things she'd rather be doing while he talked about things like – and this is a direct quote – "Last week, once I was waiting in his office, I spent an hour counting the amount of cotton wads in my physician's jar. And eventually he let me take them out and sort them onto the counter to get a better figure. I went for the number of sticks they press down on your tongue with – and, Doctor Katherine Roberts, can you believe it? All odd numbers! I say all because I couldn't just leave it at two objects, so I looked for a third and…"

Needless to say, she was ready for any new patient to walk through her door after having to sit through a riveting account of every waking moment of his day. Kate was surprised when Melissa let them in; it had only been three minutes since Bob had left. They must've arrived while he was busy chewing my ear off... Wouldn't be the first time he'd ran over his session's time slot.

Melissa smiled at her with a soft clear of the throat to ensure her attention was garnered. The temp was no doubt trying to make it less obvious as she scoped out the man of the hour, a rookie's mistake; he was accompanied by who Kate could only assume was his mother. They had both held out hope the male was young, although apparently the mother had left little room for imagination on the phone from her tone.

That has gotta be embarrassing, Kate mused. It was obvious he was uncomfortable. Extremely uncomfortable. He had his mother's green eyes, but she had gray hair, so Kate wasn't sure if that was where he had gotten his dark brown hair or not. Whether there was a father in the picture or not, the matriarch was easily the authority figure in his life – his body language revealed as much.

She smiled at them, fixing her pencils back the way she normally had them. She watched the man carefully as she did so – no OCD that she could see, although it manifested in numerous forms. This apparently unnerved him a little. Her staring, that is. It was becoming apparent that very little failed to unnerve him – anxiety, perhaps? It would explain his demeanor, although it was always difficult to tell from a first meeting as they rarely divulged much of anything relevant to her; psychiatrists still bore their stigmas.

He shifted uncomfortably in the arm chair he'd slowly lowered into. His mother's gaze flitted about the room before settling on the woman behind the desk, no doubt trying to gauge her credibility – Kate was all too familiar with the process. "Good morning," she offered cheerfully, standing up to shake the mother's hand; it was much warmer than her gaze, although Roberts knew well enough she was simply doing a mother's job – albeit several years past usual necessity.

"I'm Doctor Katherine Roberts," she continued while moving to shake the man's. "But you can call me Kate. Or Doctor Roberts, or Doc – anything you might prefer, really, as long as it isn't offensive."

She could feel the tension oozing in the room. The woman smiled at her in reply, almost as empathetic as her own earlier. It practically screamed "You tried". "Hello, Doctor. Roberts. I'm Amy Townshend, and I'm here on behalf of my son, Henry."

Her gaze flitted from the mother to the son before nodding. "Alright. What seems to be the problem?" she asked, taking the cap off her pen as she spoke – her sole focus otherwise being the pair before her.

The tension rose even further as Amy looked at her hands briefly. The worry was written on her face. "My son... There was an incident a few months ago. In his old apartment."

"What kind of incident?" Kate asked. She hated to demand details so suddenly, but she knew from experience that if she didn't, they wouldn't get anywhere in this session. The woman glanced at her hands again, then at Henry. Her son was currently scouring every detail around her office from his viewpoint in the chair to her far left. More accurately, he was searching for anything to keep his attention so he could forget about where he was at the moment.

Or perhaps tune out details of where he had been.

"I'm not all too sure, really. He won't tell me much. But I do know it's upset him greatly. He's troubled all the time, even more quiet than before. And I haven't seen him with a girl – or much of anyone for that matter – in almost a year! It isn't healthy," she concluded with a sagely nod.

Kate tried not to smile as a blush almost immediately surged up to Henry's face. "Well, Mrs. Townshend, I understand your concern… But I'm not a relationship therapist. I'm a psychiatrist. Do you mind me asking what the real issue is here?"

Amy Townshend hesitated before answering. "... Henry needs medical help. I think the... Incident... left him damaged. … Emotionally. I've done my best to fix it, but I'm beginning to think it's beyond me."

Kate nodded, focus finally shifting toward her son – whom she had continued to glance at throughout the exchange between the two women, to ensure he knew he was more than just subject matter. "Henry, how old are you?"

"He's twenty-eight."

"... Ah. Henry, are you suffering from anything unusual physically?"

"Well, sometimes, he..." Mrs. Townshend trailed off as Kate held up a hand, a brief shake of the head soon following.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Townshend, but I was asking your son. Actually... Would you mind waiting outside while I talk to Henry? Y'know, one-on-one?"

Henry's mom frowned at that, but nodded nonetheless. At the end of the day, she had approached her offices for a reason, and would have to enlist her faith in "the good doctor".

"Whatever it takes."

Kate couldn't stifle a smile as Melissa almost immediately asked Mrs. Townshend if she wanted something to eat or drink, supposing the temp was more suitable than the one before her, then focused her attention fully onto Henry once more. He had been looking at her, observing her as he had everything else in her office space thus far, but his gaze immediately returned to the hands folded in his lap as her own hazel eyes settled on his frame.

"Can I just call you Henry?"

He shrugged.

Shit. This'll take some time... "Alrighty then. Lemme ask you this time. How old are you, Henry?"

"... Twenty-eight."

"Right. So. Why does your mother think you need to be here in my office?" she asked pleasantly, tucking her pen behind her ear. It was obvious writing down whatever he said would just make him even more nervous, judging by the constant shift of his attention toward the pad with every scratch of the pen. He seemed to refuse to make eye contact with her regardless, because his eyes remained on his hands and the floor as he spoke. She knew he was still keeping an eye on her through his peripherals, though. He wasn't the first patient to do so. Hell, she had patients she'd been treating for months who still held their reservations.

"... She thinks I'm going crazy. Not that she'd say that, of course, but... I know that's what it is. She thinks I'm going crazy. You probably would, too, if..."

She frowned when he didn't finish his sentence. "Henry, you can tell me. Nothing you say will leave this office, and I promise not to judge you except for on a professional level. And even then, it'll only be to diagnose you and get you the medication you might need to help you. Okay?"

The soothing tone seemed to assure him to a degree; his shoulders relaxed a little, and he stopped fidgeting. "... I'm not exactly sure where I should start."

"How about you start by telling me about this 'Incident' your mom mentioned?" she prompted, sipping some of her coffee before making a face. On top of already being way below sub-par, it was practically frozen at this point.

Henry sighed a little, and there was the slightest hitch in the exhale – as if he were reluctant to even recollect any of it, lest it come back tenfold. "... A couple years ago, I moved into this apartment over at South Ashfield Heights. Room 302. And earlier this year... I was trapped inside it. I was locked in. From... From the inside."

She tried to keep her expression neutral, but inwardly she was conjuring up plenty of possibilities as to what could be wrong with him; he was making a claim that was certainly an oddity, but not entirely surprising. Kate had heard plenty of tales in which the patient had utterly blacked out before or even after the incident, unable to recall ever doing it themselves – thus shifting the blame onto a third party. "Locked from the inside? Why would you do that?"

That got the reaction she was hoping for – an actual one, as opposed to resignation toward these undoubtedly traumatic events he had yet to divulge. Henry finally looked at her directly, and for a split second, his tone was pretty damn defensive compared to how neutral it had been so far. "It wasn't me. It was Wa – ... Someone else."

"Whose name were you about to say just then?"

"... It was Walter Sullivan," he admitted with a sigh. His hesitation to mention that name was now completely understandable. She was unsure how to approach this subject; even Kate, hardly conscious long enough to watch the nightly news, knew about Walter Sullivan – or at least of Walter Sullivan. Mainly from her mother in her years at home pre-graduate school, as she constantly insisted she could find more than enough material for Kate should she change the focus of her thesis to the Sullivan Murders.

"... Henry, Walter Sullivan's been dead for years now. What makes you think it was him?"

"I saw him."

"So… You mean to say you saw the ghost of Walter Sullivan."

He shrugged, looking at the ground again. "You could say that."

She resisted the urge to sigh heavily. He had been opening up a little for a moment there, but now he was turning back inward, shutting more and more tightly with each question.

"Could you describe him to me?" she asked, making him glance back up at her again.

"... Better than I'd like."

She waved a hand at him. "Go ahead, whenever you're ready."

It took a few minutes, but he eventually managed to summarize what he could easily recall in his mind. "... Pretty tall. Dark blonde hair, it was long and sort of stringy. ... Green eyes, I think. But one was different from the other. His coat... Long. Usually blood-spotted. And he..." he trailed off, and Kate had noticed the slight quiver as it returned to his voice. She also noticed he was blinking quickly; it was difficult to say whether he was warding off tears, the mental image, or a bit of both.

"That's good for now, Henry. You did excellent. … Can I ask you something that might upset you?"

"I expected that."

"Do you think what you saw was real?" she asked carefully. "That's the important thing, after all."

He was quiet for so long that she almost prepared to rephrase the question, under the assumption he was ignoring her. It was hard to tell, after all, when he wasn't looking at her. Finally, he replied quietly, "I'm... I'm not entirely sure anymore. But... I know the dreams are."

"Dreams?"

He nodded. "Dreams. It's really why I'm here. I've been having these... Well, dreams lately. But they're not... Like the ones he gave me. These... Are different. There's always fog. And..." he trailed off, shaking his head.

Kate nodded. "Henry, I think I might have a solution." He didn't answer, so she continued. "I think being trapped in your apartment, by whatever means, has traumatized you somewhat." That seemed to strike him as funny, because he suddenly smirked before returning to his normal expression: painfully neutral. In retrospect, she supposed it was a quintessential case of stating-the-obvious on her part.

"... I think you might have a slight case of PTSD: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Your foggy dreams might be a result of you repressing your memories, leaving much of it unclear or vague… There may even be some other underlying issue. But for now, I'm gonna put you on some medication – don't worry, it's very light. A bit stronger than the generic stuff you find in your local pharmacy. Basically, they'll help you sleep longer, and minimize the chance of you vividly remembering those dreams – or the chance of those dreams taking a nightmarish turn; those circles under your eyes tell me you haven't been doing much sleeping lately. And I want you seeing me every other day for a couple more sessions. Be prepared for some questions you really don't wanna answer, because I'm not doing my job unless it's challenging for you, too. With me so far?"

He nodded, taking the prescription she'd filled out while she was talking. "Mostly, yes. But... I'm not repressing memories of what he did to me. I'll need more than medication for that."

And on that note, he left without so much as a glance.

"... Same time Wednesday, Henry," she called out, her tone laced with worry. Well, maybe not worry so much as a doctor's intrigue.

... He's gonna be a tough one.