The Daily Dormouse (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2915 by Angharad Copyright© 2016 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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I was trembling, the girls were screaming and shards of glass were all over me and the car. I didn’t know what to do, one of them stopped me getting out of the car. One of them tried to grab Hannah and Danielle, my precious Danielle, managed to turn around and kicked him in the face pushing him backwards from the car.

Then they got really nasty and tried to grab us all. I could feel one grab my arm and I screamed and punched at him as hard as I could. I heard him yell, “Wake up, Cathy, for god’s sake, wake up, you silly cow and stop hitting me.” I felt someone shaking me, “Wake up, you’re having a bad dream.”

I opened my eyes, I was in bed, Simon was standing over me with a bleeding lip and scratches on his face. “What happened to you?” I asked, though I think I already knew the answer.

“You did.”

Oh shit. “I am so sorry, darling.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going to the bathroom.” He sloped off to the bathroom and I heard him gasp as he put antiseptic on his war wounds—yeah, acquired in the battle of the sexes. I looked at my wrists, his finger marks were fading, obviously where he’d tried to restrain me.

I followed into the bathroom. It was two in the morning and we were both standing staring into the mirror; him at his bruises, me watching him. “I am really sorry, darling. I was back in the car with those three thugs smashing the windows.”

“It was a dream.”

“I know that now.”

“How many times have you had it?”

I shook my head, “I don’t know.”

“Will you please go and see someone about it.”

I nodded, “Okay.”

“I mean it, or we’re going to have to get separate beds. I might not survive your next attack on me.”

“I’m really sorry, I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, you know that—don’t you?”

“Of course you do—when you’re awake. It’s when you’re asleep I’m worried.”

“I’m sorry, I’m spoiling your sleep, I’ll go down on the sofa.” I turned to leave the bedroom.

“Cathy, go back to bed. Now it’s happened I should be safe until tomorrow.” I felt tears well up inside me. The man I loved most on earth and I kept hurting him. He got back into bed and was a little distant, my efforts to apologise were politely rejected and he turned over and went back to sleep. I lay there silently weeping until I cried myself to sleep. When I awoke he’d gone to work, at least the blue energy helped him by reducing the bruises and scratches or was it helping me, removing the evidence of my sleeping attacks upon him.

I showered and dried my hair, put some makeup on to hide the rings under my eyes and dressed, waking the girls as I went downstairs to start breakfast.

After dropping them off to school, I called Anne Thomas from my mobile. She answered the phone herself, her receptionist wasn’t in yet. I apologised for calling so early but I asked her to see me urgently, privately if necessary.

“Come straight over, Cathy, I’ve just put the coffee on.”

Of course when I got there, there was no note on the computer so I had a row with reception and she went off in a huff to complain to Dr Thomas. She came back looking a little more contrite. “She’ll see you now.”

“Thank you.” I said sweetly as I passed her and knocked on Anne’s door.

“I was beginning to think you’d had a better offer.”

“Uh no, I was trying to get past the bouncers on the gate, your coffee must be better than I remembered if they’re trying to gatecrash for it.”

“It probably is, Waitrose have got some new ones in recently and they really are good, but as an aristocrat, your opinion would be appreciated.”

I looked behind me and she asked what I was doing. “Looking for this ’ere aristowotsit.”

She laughed, “If ever they put a value on self-deprecating humour you’ll be as wealthy as Croesus, maybe even as rich as Simon or his dad.”

“I believe Croesus got special terms from Simon’s grandfather, Henry wouldn’t have allowed them.”

“Really, you do surprise me.”

“Henry makes it a point not to lend to foreign nobility—their fortunes can change overnight.”

“That makes sense. Now what can I do for you Lady Cameron and why were you calling me before the stars had gone to bed?”

“It was light when I called and had been for about two or three hours.”

“I was waxing lyrical...no matter. What troubles you so?”

“Sorry to spoil your dramatic moment but for the past few nights...”

“And you hurt him because in your dream he becomes one of the gang who attacked you and the girls in the car?”

“Basically, yes.”

We talked some more and I explained that honour had been restored with some help from James.

“So what is the likelihood of them attacking you again?”

“Very small, probably more chance of winning the lottery.”

“So why the continued bad dream—and it’s always the same?”

“More or less yes.”

“And you always feel this sense of powerlessness?”

“That’s how I felt at the time.”

“That’s the problem isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“The feeling of powerlessness.”

“Is it?” I wasn’t as convinced and I suspect my face showed it.

“It was designed to make you feel vulnerable and to give you nightmares.”

“In which case it worked.”

“It’s like terrorism, you only need to make sporadic attacks but the fear in its victims either real or imagined goes on developing its own momentum. They only need to threaten a further attack and the targets run round in circles like headless chickens.”

“How does that apply to me?” I really hadn’t seen the comparison.

“Unconsciously, you fear their return because they took away any defences you had and that both frightens and angers you. You keep replaying it until you can find some answer, like Danielle did. Perhaps she did because she’s more of a tomboy than you, or more recently converted to the cause, so hasn’t forgotten how to be a boy occasionally. Your response was much more girly than hers.”

“I know. They might have got Hannah had Danielle not intervened.”

“That sounds like you’re a bit ashamed of your response?”

“More than a bit, I’m mortified by it. I was paralysed by fear, I can feel myself sweating now, simply talking about it.”

We spoke for about half an hour and I found myself waking up. “Sorry, I fell asleep.”

“Only because I told you to.”

“Excuse me?”

“I hypnotised you and I’ve reframed the experience, you shouldn’t dream of it again at least, not in the original form and any other form will be less frightening. You’ll also realise it’s a dream and wake yourself up almost immediately.”

“Is that guaranteed?”

“Nothing in psychiatry is guaranteed, but we have less than perfect subjects to work with.”

I was still grumpy about last night, deprived of sleep and almost challenged her on who was less than perfect? Then I saw it was a metaphor—or hoped it was. I was too chicken to ask.