What’s so hard about going to his palace-like house and meeting his father, the mighty Jonathan King?
Nothing… right?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Being back in Dr Khan’s office after more than a year of interrupting my therapy is weird, to say the least.
The office is white without anything distinctive other than the wall-length library opposite us. The lack of paintings or objects is on purpose to not distract patients and to keep their minds as open as the white walls. Or at least that’s what Dr Khan told me when I asked him a while back.
He’s sitting on the brown, leather chair with a notepad in hand while I lie down on the recliner chair.
Dr Imran Khan — who I learnt is the same name of a Bollywood actor — is a small-built man in his mid-fifties. His salt-and-pepper hair is more salt than pepper now compared to when I first met him ten years ago.
His skin is tanned but is considered light compared to others with Pakistani heritage.
“I’m happy you decided to return, Elsa.” His tone is welcoming and he looks genuinely happy to have me back on his recliner chair.
“Mr Quinn mentioned trouble with stress for exams.” His kind but piercing brown eyes focus on me. “What do you think is the cause of that stress?”
“It’s senior year and the pressure is real.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the reason I’m here either.
Dr Khan bites it. His eyes fill with what I call detached care. I think that’s what makes him perfect at his job. He has the ability to empathise but not let his patients’ feelings rub off on him.
He jots down a note. Another thing about Dr Khan is his traditional methods. He doesn’t use recordings much.
“Has there been anything triggering lately?” he asks.
“Yes.” I shift against the leather and it squeaks in the deafening silence of the room. “I’ve been having nightmares about you hypnotising me, Dr Khan.”
His pen pauses on the notepad and his shoulders tense. That’s all the answer I need. It hasn’t been a play of my imagination.
Dr Khan recovers fast. “Why do you think you had such a nightmare, Elsa?”
I sit up, the leather squeaking, and face him. “It’s not a nightmare. It’s the truth.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but I hold up a hand.
“I’m not blaming you, Dr Khan. I know you have two thesis, one in psychotherapy and the other in hypnotherapy so it’s not like you’re doing anything illegal. I also know that Aunt and Uncle probably made you do it, but I need to know why.”
He shuffles his notebook as if he’s about to stand up. “Perhaps we should call your guardian and —”
“Soho Miller,” I cut him off. “He’s the reason why you don’t practice hypnotherapy anymore. After you helped him restore his memories, he committed suicide.”
Dr Khan’s eyes fill with what resembles sadness, and I know I struck a chord. I did my research before coming here.
“I’m not Soho,” I puff my chest. “I’m not suicidal either. I promise to stay alive if you promise to not have Aunt and Uncle involved in this. They’re hiding something from me and I need to know why.”
“Soho also said something similar,” He sighs and the wrinkles around his eyes ease. “He begged me to know who he was before losing his memories. When he remembered he was behind the accident that killed his wife and children, he couldn’t handle the truth and took his life.”
“I’m not him. I can handle the truth.” My tone turns pleading. “I just want to know what Aunt and Uncle called you for.”
He slouches in his chair but keeps his posture uptight. “When your guardians first contacted me, you had violent episodes of screaming and falling in and out of consciousness.”
I straighten, my hands turn clammy in my lap. “
Like my nightmares?”
“Your nightmares are a manifestation of your subconscious. When you were a child, your consciousness was filled with nightmares. You were traumatised and in severe shock due to the fire.”