A young man is being hypnotised and keeps returning to a bad dream he has had ever since he can remember.

Never mind.  Are you awake?

“So it was a dream?”

I open my eyes and realise I’m in the darkened room with the colourful, drawn curtains.  A metronome is ticking softly on the desk, the weighted pendulum catching the light and flashing it at me in precise pulses.  The doctor is peering at me and I stiffen, suddenly remembering the dream and the hypnosis induced recollection of that dream.  The doctor is smiling, but I have a suspicion he smiles for all the patients in his care.  It is a professional smile, not a natural one.

“Yes,” I reply.  “It was a dream, nothing extraordinary.” 

I can still hear the mental echo of his deep timbre as he counted backwards, bringing me to slow consciousness.  But even as I focus on it, it fades away.

“What relevance do you think the bathtub plug and it’s placement on the front door has?” he asks.

I think on this for a moment.  It should be he who weeds out the importance, or unimportance, of such signs and symbols.  I feel a sudden rush of anger which disperses and dies before it can reach the surface.  My face is flush momentarily, though.

“I’m not sure, doctor.  These things often pop up in dreams and make no sense, don’t they?”

He frowns and scratches his thick, grey and red beard.  I can smell the remains of tuna fish and strong coffee on his breath from a rushed lunch.  I peer closer at him and I can see flecks of the meal still caught in the gaps between his canines.  His eyes study me, soft and small and blue, from behind the thick lenses of his round glasses.  I’m reminded of Danger Mouse’s sidekick.

“Do you think you could go under again?” he asks.  His voice is pleasantly soft and benign.

“Yes,” I reply, and although it’s not an unpleasant sensation - being hypnotised - the thought of it is quite frightening.  You give all of your senses up to another, your physical and mental being washed up on their shore of concern.  But there is no certainty of how you’re treated once you become nothing more than driftwood.

The metronome slows but the doctor kick-starts it into time with a flick of a thick, decisive finger.  He speaks to me, his voice soothing and comforting.  I watch the pendulum, drawn by the perfectly timed pulse of light.  Eventually his voice is nothing but hollow instruction, and my life is once again flowing in the dark stream.