Shadowed Soul (25 page)

“Beth, would you like to come to one of my sessions with Sophie?”

“Is that allowed?” she asked, disbelieving.

“Sophie encourages it.  She says you’re affected by everything that’s going on in my life, so you should come.”  I paused. “Sorry, but she thinks it’d be helpful if you attended with me.”  I smiled a little.

“Do you think it will help?” asked Beth.  I nodded.

“It’d give you a safe, structured environment to let me know how you feel.”

“You know how I feel, Thomas,” said Beth and squeezed my fingers.

“Yeah, but Sophie’s good.  She has ways of just making you feel comfortable enough to be really, really open,” I said.  “To be honest, I’ve learned more about myself than I thought possible.”

“You sure you want me to come?”  Beth stared me down.

“I do,” I answered without hesitation.  Beth’s presence would provide the key to settling my mania once and for all.  She agreed that she would attend my next session and held me tightly until she fell asleep.  My heart filled with love as I watched Beth sleep.  When I finally dozed off I found myself back in the phantasmagoric street that haunted me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Do either of you have any idea what this street represents?” asked Sophie from across her desk.  A week had passed since my mother’s interment.  Life continued. My bereavement had not seemed to have given the Shadowed Soul any advantages.  Perhaps he was feeding quietly upon residual venom.  Beth had stayed through the day after the funeral and I had managed to let her leave without making any enormous scene or bombarding her with guilt.  I asked about our boy and promised that I would come and see him soon.  To my shame I had used mother’s death as a convenient excuse.  Clearing out my mother’s home was another.  In reality, my mother’s neighbor had offered to do it and I had readily agreed.  The neighbor, Florence, a middle-aged divorce’, graciously assumed going there would be too painful for my broken heart to bear. 

“You were a lucky boy, weren’t you,” said Florence.  Bile rose in my throat.  “Your mother was such an angel.  Such a good Christian neighbor!”

During the week since the funeral, I had lapsed back into BDSM sojourns on the internet.  Guilt no longer factored in; I had become desensitized to images of women coiled in serpentine hemp, their mouths distorted by thick gags. I was no longer disgusted by myself.  No shock value remained in the images.  Sexual arousal was long gone. The hours wasted online were mind numbing.  My Pavlovian habit no longer delivered any particular emotional stimulation; it was merely a reflex.  So immune to my stew of troubles, I had been reduced to a mass of emotional scar tissue and thoughtless reflex.  A human soul trapped in tissue without synapses.

My only nagging source of concern was my recurring nightmare.  Several times each night it replayed:  The ominous street and that weight in my pocket.  Since the funeral, the nightmare had become more defined.  Threaded into the dream was the potent presence of the solitary man with the hat who had stood away from the crowd at my mother's funeral. He lived on the edge of my consciousness since that day he appeared shadowed under the cemetery trees.  What was it about him that terrified me?  Had the Shadowed Soul gained so much power that he had manifested himself into the real world.  Had he crawled from the grave?  Perhaps the tall man was merely the grave digger.  Nevertheless, he now visited my nightmare, and waited for me at the end of the street.  Obscured by shadows, yet I sensed his sadistic grin as I approached.  As the dreams progressed my anger escalated.  With each progression, the man with the hat appeared with two objects on either side of him, both of them around three feet high and covered in dirty sheets. It terrified me to imagine what was hidden beneath the sheets. 

With Beth by my side in the safety of Sophie’s office, I had found the courage to talk about the details of this recurring dream. I still felt uncomfortable telling anyone about what was in my pocket.  I alone knew.  And I was too ashamed to tell Sophie or Beth.

“You know where the street is in real life?” asked Sophie.  “Does it mean anything to you apart from being a street?”  Sophie looked at me with interest and I shrugged.

“No, it's just a street that I know,” I replied.  “I've passed it a thousand times but there’s nothing special about it.  I'm bewildered why I dream about it.”

“What about you, Beth?” Sophie turned her attention to Beth.  “Does the street ring any bells for you?”  Beth shook her head no.

“I think I know the street he's talking about,” replied Beth.  “But, I don't think it's a particularly important street to either of us. Thomas never mentioned it before.  Even passing it with him in the bus he's never really shown any sign of recognition or discomfort.”

“Okay, it's interesting because it seems to be such a constant part of your dream, Thomas,” said Sophie.  “Perhaps the dream has become such a part of your nightly routine that the street means nothing, but that would be unusual.”

“Like a habit?” asked Beth.  Sophie nodded.

“Tell me, Thomas, what emotions go through your head when you're on that street?”

“I'm usually angry.  Furious.  A steady rage rather than uncontrollable fury,” I said.

“Yes, do you have any thoughts as to why you’re angry when you’re on the street in the dream?” asked Sophie.

“Well, I know that I'm going to meet someone,” I said. “I’m going to punish someone but I'm not sure who it is and I'm not sure why I'm going to them.  It’s redemption for something they’ve done to me.”

“Have you a sense of what is making you want redemption?” asked Sophie.

“I don't know.  It's his actions that made me so angry,” I stammered, grasping for clarity.

“His actions made you angry,” parroted Sophie.  “And this tall figure, Thomas, the man who wears a hat?  Who do you think he is?”

“Maybe the Shadowed Soul, Sophie?  I think that's why I'm going down that street, because I want to face the Shadowed Soul and kill him, or at least destroy his power. Crazy?”

“Not crazy, Thomas,” assured Sophie, then turned her focus to Beth whose expression was untroubled but I also sensed that my wife was not feeling entirely comfortable in this setting. 

“Beth, I'm really sorry if you feel uncomfortable,” I said, and Beth turned her face toward me and smiled a little.

“Thomas, I'm fine,” said Beth.  “I just don't want to interrupt you.”

“I mean, there's no real point of you coming here if you don't feel able to speak or see anything.  You won't be interrupting.  I want to know what you feel, Beth,” I said, believing my words would reassure her.

“It's your dream, Thomas,” countered Beth.

“I know but…” I trailed off not really knowing what else to say.

“If I may,” Sophie deftly redirected us.  “You need to take things at your own pace while you’re in here.  You’re not obligated to say anything or have an opinion.  I’ve worked with many couples.  But usually they have come together to begin with and it can be difficult because neither really wants to be the first to say something negative or voice an opinion that the other one may not want to hear. Thomas has been an excellent client, he has been open, he has been honest and he has trusted me.  That is a huge factor in making steady progress. One thing that comes from Thomas’ general attitude is the certain knowledge that he is ready to try to improve.  It may not be easy for him.  Most likely it's not going to be easy for either of you because he has a very difficult fight ahead of him. Now I'm sorry to be blunt but you both deserve my honesty and because Thomas has been suffering from this illness for such a long time and is going to be exceptionally hard for him to give up the depression.”

“
Give up
the depression?” asked Beth.  Sophie nodded.  “Interesting choice of words.”

“In fact,” continued Sophie. “…and I say this only from experience with other clients and not from a medical standpoint, but chances are Thomas will always have this condition. It never truly goes away for most people.  But there are mechanisms that can be used to help alleviate the symptoms when they do come.”  She paused, waiting for this to sink in.

“You mentioned mechanisms?” asked Beth.  Sophie nodded.

“We’ll get to all of it, Beth,” assured Sophie.  “Now, from what Thomas says, Beth, you are a very understanding and loving person.  It's not just what he says it's the way that he says it.  He is very much in love with you and from our very short time together I think it's safe to say that you feel equally so toward Thomas.”

“I do,” said Beth squarely.  “Thomas is everything I ever wanted in a man.  He’s sweet, kind, funny, intelligent, handsome and thoughtful.”

“And smart,” I added, winking.

“No argument there,” assured Beth.  “I know that he has his illness and I can accept that.  I can fully accept that in the same way that he has accepted my blindness and the other things that are wrong with me. I love him.  I love you, Thomas, and I hope you know that?”

“I do know, Beth.”  I squeezed her hand and she smiled slightly although I could see tears building up in her eyes.

“And because you love him so much,” persisted Sophie.  “I know that it is difficult for you to fully explain how you feel.  I may be wrong so please feel free to ignore everything that I am going to say.  In my experience, couples that are very much in love are the ones who do whatever they can to keep each other safe and sometimes that means that they jump through hoops not to hurt each other. I know from talking to Thomas that many of his decisions have been designed to try and cushion you from his condition.”

“Like living separately at the apartment,” I interjected.

“I know but I miss you, Thomas,” said Beth.  “Sophie, I worry that if he is by himself then he won't cope very well.  And he doesn’t.” Beth sobbed as she spoke and my heart felt as though it were breaking.

“Thomas, how does that make you feel?” asked Sophie.

“I absolutely hate to see Beth cry,” I blubbered.  “I hate the fact that I have been the cause of so many tears in her life. If she had ended up with someone else then she would have been happier.”

“No, Thomas, no, that's not true!” cried Beth.  “I promise you that, listen to me.  Yes, I have cried, of course, but when you get like this you forget that I have laughed and smiled much more than I have cried and that's because of you.”  She turned to Sophie.  “May I ask you something, Sophie?”

“Of course,” confirmed Sophie.

“In your honest opinion, and I do want you to be honest, do you think that Thomas can do this?” asked Beth.  Sophie sat back in her chair and bit her bottom lip as she considered the best way to answer this question.

I knew from my limited experience with Sophie that she was not particularly fond of answering these types of questions directly, she wanted to encourage her client but she felt uncomfortable giving definitive answers.  Sophie wanted to facilitate but she had told me once that there was nothing helpful about the whole concept of false hope.

“I think he can, if he chooses to,” confirmed Sophie.  “If he chooses to.  It may not be easy and he will have some dark times ahead of him, but he has endurance.  I mean his family life growing up made him resilient. And crippled at times by his condition, emotionally and mentally crippled, I mean, but he has gone on.  He faced the world when it had seemed to be at its very darkest. He's come here and he has been open and honest and I know that he really wants to improve because he loves you and his family.”

“I worry because I don't think you love our son, Thomas,” blurted Beth, her expression full of determination. “I'm sorry, Thomas, but that's how I feel.  It’s like you have no real interest in him.  I mean, you ask all the right questions, but you don't seem to have much true care or interest, and I hate the idea that you don't want him.”

“I'm sorry, Beth,” I said, ashamed.  But she raised a hand.

“Don't be sorry, Thomas, just please let me know how you feel about our son.”

The office seemed to twist and pitch as I was forced to confront something that I had done my best to avoid. I had no real idea what I felt about my son beyond a vague disinterest and competition for time with my wife.  I knew I should love Jonathan, but in the same way that I knew I should love my mother I found the emotions difficult to conjure.  I lacked passion.  I was guarded.  Like a marionette my movements surrounding my son were calculated to appear appropriate.  Beyond appearances, I sought no connection with my son that required any commitment or intimacy from me. It was too big a risk.  I lacked tools, never having learned them from my own parents’ toxic relationship.  I wanted to tell Beth that I loved my son but I did not say anything definitive until I truly knew what my feelings were.  I wanted to give her an honest answer.

Sophie seemed to understand my discomfort but was not giving me an easy escape and I hated and admired her for this with equal ardor.

“As I said, Thomas,” interjected Sophie.  “Sometimes the questions that you are asked will not be easy to deal with.  So, I'm not forcing you to answer the question and neither is Beth.  But the one thing that you have never really talked about in here is your feelings on fatherhood.”

“I do love him,” I said, nodding with a guilty smile. “I
think
I love him.  Beth, I want to be the best father I possibly can for our boy.  But I don't know if I’m genetically capable.  I mean, look at the example I learned from my absentee parents. Jonathan is so small and fragile and I don't want to fuck up his life.  But I think I might.  I worry that if I get too involved with him then he’ll be a big screw-up like me. I want to love him but I don't know how to do that in a way that's not going to ruin him.”  I closed my eyes, evaluating whether to continue with the truth.  I owed it to Beth and Sophie, and most of all I owed it to the child I had brought into this world.  How could I speak the truth without appearing to Beth and Sophie as utterly infantile.

“There’s no pressure to continue,” coaxed Sophie indirectly.

“I resent him,” I gagged on the words.  “I'm sorry, Beth.  I am so, so sorry but I resent him.  He came along when I needed you most, Beth.  Ridiculous but the love that you gave to him felt as though it was being taken away from me.  I'm jealous of the fact that he takes up all of your time when I need you. I'm such a bastard and I am so sorry.” I braced myself for Beth’s attack.  After all I had just told my wife that I thought of myself as being more important than our son, but Beth just smiled gently and shook her head a little.