Chapter 3

Her eyelids fling open. A flash from the overhead light fixture soon follows. Dazzling as it is jarring; her body jolts from her current position. Things swirl and overlap. Double-vision consumes everything her freshly open eyes can see. Apparently, she had been lying down and—much to her surprise— she wasn’t alone.

“Oh, oh oh! Are you ok? Are you alright? Doc, is she going to be ok?”

A familiar voice rings out. It’s feminine. A bit squeaky yet mature.

“Sis?” The patient mumbles out.

The two close the distance between each other. The felt of velvet envelopes the patient’s hands as her sister meets her there. Her senses return one after another as clear thoughts start to fill her mind. The fact she had awoken on what feels like an oddly shaped couch shoots to the forefront of her mind. It sinks her stomach into a deepening pit.

“What’s happening?” The patient shouts, “Where am I? Who were you talking to, sis?”

As the patient rises with her anxiety, a new voice bellows out.

“Miss Sinclair, it’s ok. You’re okay.” A baritone voice catching her off-guard, “My name is Dr. Tarsh and you are at my office. You volunteered for an EMDR therapy session with my office for today. Do you not remember?”

Albeit soothing in tone, his words renders Lutèce momentarily catatonic. Each syllable carving a way through her inner ear and into the brain. She needed a moment and none of them contested.

Dozen or so minutes trickles on by until a glimmer resurfaces within Lutèce’s irises. Her ears twitch as their voices whistle in. If only the tail end of it all.

“Why can’t she remember coming her?” The squeak accenting every wobble in her voice.

Nevertheless, the doctor’s monotone replies remain consistent. While strange to be hearing it about herself, his replies are still the same kind of answers you’d see in any televised reenactment of a similar therapy scene. Almost akin to white noise at midnight for her at the moment.

Until, “Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy has really been quite effective when dealing with these types of traumatic situations.”

Without missing a beat, “What?” Lutèce speaks.

All eyes are on her. Instead of a narrowing, their eyes become softer. More inviting their postures become as the conversation switches to the person of interest in the room.

“Miss Sinclair, what can you tell us about what you saw while under this hypnosis?” The doctor cutting straight to the point of her session.

“I… uh,” Lutèce stutters about finding the best place to start. Her bumbling words retelling her dream. Beginning back at the expedition itself. Hands waving, a glint twinkling in her like the silver fields she witnessed; like a child retelling the best parts of their favorite fairy tales. Yet, as her excitement balloons, the faces of the others grow solemn.

Just as she finishes, the room shrinks into silence. Not even the autumn breeze outdoors could pierce this deafening veil. Her glee fades into obscurity as the clutches of the sinking depths return. Staring into Lutèce’s eyes, Dr. Tarsh pulls out something from behind his cushioned chair.

“…!”

The sight of this flares something fierce within Lutèce. Sinking transforms into piercing thorns. Her limbs frail against this sight with all her might. An act visceral as it is quick, if not instinctual. The object being that of a sword’s hilt with rusted wings.

“Please understand, Miss Sinclair,” Dr. Tarsh comforts, “that was not a dream. Those were repressed memories.”

Absurd as it sounds, Lutèce does not contest. Having curled up into the corner of the couch, she trembles in the void her conscious mind dares not touch. Akin to a lock left to collect dust. Only her sister there to comfort her within such welcoming arms. This shaking seals Lutèce’s mouth. For the nameless sister speaks in her stead.

“Doc, you’re going too fast! I don’t think she knows. Why—“

The sister’s reprimands to no avail. Dr. Tarsh doesn’t break his attention from Lutèce. For what he has in his hands signals more than the source of the unfortunate woman’s bane. For him, this strikes deeper than a single person’s troubles.

His rough skin caresses the fragile artifact. Faint odor of aged blood radiates off the wings. As much enthusiasm as something like this entices many a person, all the doctor can see is the potential. The potential only a weary, aging man could taste. A type that puts wrinkles prematurely onto the skin. The kind that can give one a thousand yard stare. Something he couldn’t let time corrupt— that couldn’t let go unsaid.

In a grim tone, “I’m sorry. But, there isn’t time. The world knows of her vanishing and resurfacing. Three months is nothing to concern many about. And, if it was just her, no one truly would’ve bat an eye. But, it’s because of this,” the doctor holds up the rusted, broken sword. “This is evidence. This is proof— along with her augmented composition. Many out there are beginning to learn of what this might mean.”

Clearing his throat, Dr. Tarsh can see the contortions in the sisters’ faces. The gritting of teeth and tensing of muscles. Seriousness of the situation is starting to seep through. Thus, he doubles down while the metaphorical storm is still calm.

“Miss Sinclair,” Dr. Tarsh concludes, “I am very sorry. But, we must continue. We need to understand what happened to you over there. We need to know before it’s too late to save you here. We need to know: where did you go, Miss Sinclair?”