Page 32 of In Somnis

And that’s how I present myself to Mrs. Vaughn, as someone who can deal with a change in routine, when my naked truth is that I’m already battling another wave of anxiety as I follow her instead of walking straight to the sunroom.

Upstairs, Mrs. Vaughn opens the door to a large, bright room, then gestures toward a pair of chairs near the window. I cross the room and take the seat opposite her daughter. “Good morning, Tessa,” I say softly.

Her hands are on the armrest of the chair, her gaze fixed on the garden beyond the glass.

My gaze drops to the small table beside Tessa’s chair, where two mugs of tea sit, and I take a discreet inhale, barely holding back a shiver when that same scent from outside floods my senses.

Maybe they’re trying a new blend, and that’s what smells so different. So good.

But another naked truth?

If they’ve changed even a single thing about this tea, I’ll never be able to drink it again.

One of the mugs is only half full, and Mrs. Vaughn seems to catch my frown and immediately hurries over to clear both away.

“I’ll bring you some fresh tea.”

“No, thank you.” I offer her a polite smile. “I’m not in the mood for tea today.”

“How about a coffee?” she offers. “Or water?”

This time, my smile is more genuine. “I’m good, but thank you.”

“Dr. Bennett.” She arches an eyebrow at me, a hint of dry humor surfacing. “You don’t have to die of thirst because I let Simon go. I am perfectly capable of making coffee.”

“I’m sure you are, but still, no thank you.” A quiet chuckle escapes me as I settle back into my chair, and Mrs. Vaughn leaves us to our session.

I turn my focus back to my patient. “So, you had a guest today? An old friend? Or is your mother looking for a replacement for me?” I joke, well aware that Mrs. Vaughn spends a small fortune to keep me coming here.

But then again, I also thought she’d been satisfied with Simon’s work.

I watch Tessa carefully, as I always do, for the smallest signs. A blink that lingers a fraction too long, a subtle shift in focus, the faintest flicker of awareness behind her eyes. Sometimes she gives me those. Sometimes she doesn’t.

My working theory remains unchanged. Tessa and I suffer from the same fracture, just at vastly different severities.

Sleep paralysis is a condition where the body is held immobile while the subconscious remains active. During the REM phase of sleep, when the brain is highly engaged, that’s when we dream. To prevent us from acting out those dreams, inhibitory neurons suppress skeletal muscle movement, effectively causing paralysis. When there’s a disruption or overlap between REM and wakefulness, consciousness returns while the body does not.

Most people recover from the paralysis in seconds. But for me, when I tear myself out of a nightmare, my body keeps me hostage for minutes.

Tessa hasn’t returned at all, at least not in a meaningful way. It’s as if paralysis exists in layers, some deeper than others. The same way dreaming does.

And dreams have always fascinated me.

I didn’t choose this specialty by accident. Long before I knew the language for it, I was already experiencing sleep differently than most people. Lucidity came early to me—childhood early. I don’t remember learning how to realize I was dreaming, only the moment I understood that other people didn’t. Or couldn’t.

I used to enjoy the heck out of my lucid dreams. Most of the time, I was flying or being a superhero. Until one day, when I was around twelve, I was out playing on the logs behind the house—on the ground of the logging company, really—climbing where I shouldn’t have been. I took one wrong step, the logs rolled out from under me, and I fell between them into a dark space full of spiders.

I screamed until my throat burned, unable to get myself out. By the time Marcus finally came looking for me, hours had passed. I was still trapped there in the dark, frozen, and surrounded by legs and skittering bodies.

Paralyzed.

The nightmares from that day forward were relentless, and I quickly became afraid of going to sleep. Afraid of the dark, and of my own mind. When I started becoming lucid inside those nightmares, it opened up a new hell, and I reacted the same each time.

Blind panic, followed by a single desperate plea to my frozen body.

Wake up.

Wake up.