The Closet

Darkness. Complete darkness. I can’t see anything. Where am I?

A strange feeling rushes through my body—familiar, yet suffocating. Even in this void, it clings to me like a memory I can’t name. Ahead, a faint light struggles to reach me, flickering weakly, almost mocking me. I run toward it, desperate, but with every step my body grows heavier, my limbs numb. So close, yet impossibly far.

My chest tightens. Breathing becomes a battle I’m losing. I gasp for air, but nothing comes. I try to scream, but my voice is swallowed whole. Sweat beads down my skin. Somebody help me. Please—end this. I can’t take it anymore.

“Emma.”

The sound cuts through the dark, soft but unmistakable.

“Emma.” A voice calling my name. Help me! I want to cry out, but my throat is locked.

“Wake up!”

Wake up? Who is it? Why are they telling me to wake up?

“Emma?... Emma! Wake up!”

Something tugs at me—gentle at first, then insistent. A pull on my shoulder, rocking me. The shadows splinter. My lungs burn, and suddenly—air floods in.

The voice sharpens, no longer a ghostly echo but real, right here. My body jerks under their grip, and the cold sheen of sweat reminds me I’m no longer trapped. My eyelids drag open. The world blurs at the edges, shapes swimming into focus.

A face leans over me, their eyes wide with worry, grounding me in reality. For a heartbeat I’m caught between two worlds—the nightmare’s choking void, and this dim-lit room. But the warmth of their hand anchoring me pulls me back.

The darkness slips away. I’m awake.

“Mom?” My voice trembled, thick with tears, as if speaking might make the shadows return.

“Emma… are you okay?” Her face twisted with worry, a storm of emotions in her eyes.

“I’m… okay, Mom,” I whispered, so weakly that even I didn’t believe it. My chest ached, heavy with the remnants of the nightmare, my body still trembling.

“This is it. You’re going to therapy. I can’t stand to see you like this anymore. I’m scared.” Therapy? My mind recoiled. The word felt foreign, heavy, like stepping into another dark room I wasn’t ready to face.

“I’m… okay…” No. I couldn’t go. What if I got lost in that place? Who would take care of her if I disappeared into my own mind again?

“I’m a grownup, sweetie. I can take care of myself. You don’t have to carry that burden,” she said, cupping my face gently. Her eyes seemed to read my every thought, see through the fragile mask I’d been holding.

“Mom…” I whispered again, the word barely leaving my lips.

“I’ve already talked to your uncle. He knows someone—a friend—who’s a great therapist. We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Mom, listen—” I tried to protest, panic threading through my words, but they stumbled into my throat.

“I’ll do anything to get rid of these horrid nightmares, I—”

“Mom!” I shouted, my voice cracking, but she fell silent, waiting. The heat of my tears burned my cheeks. “I’m okay… they’re just nightmares. I don’t need therapy.” The thought clawed at me—another expense we could barely afford. Another burden I didn’t want to add to hers.

“No, sweetie. You’re suffering. I see it, even if you refuse to.” Her voice was steady, unwavering, and the weight behind it made my resistance falter. I wanted to argue, to convince myself I was fine, but deep down, I knew she was right.

A shiver ran down my spine. Even now, shadows lingered at the edges of my vision, echoing the fear that sleep always promised to bring back.

The room felt smaller now, walls pressing in, the dim light unable to chase away the remnants of the nightmare. I sank into the edge of the bed, pulling the blanket around me as if it could shield me from what was coming.

Therapy. The word echoed in my mind like a warning bell. What if it made the nightmares worse? What if I had to face things I couldn’t handle? My chest tightened, a cold weight settling over my ribs.

“Emma?” Mom’s voice was soft now, patient, but it carried the same unwavering concern. She crouched beside me, hands folded in her lap. “I know it sounds scary… but you’re not alone. You don’t have to fight this by yourself anymore.”

I wanted to nod, to tell her I understood, but the lump in my throat made me choke on the words. My fingers clutched the blanket tighter. What if I broke in front of her? What if I admitted how much the nightmares had been eating at me, and she saw all of me—the part I’d been trying to hide even from myself?

“I…” I swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. “What if it doesn’t help?”

“It will,” she said simply, but there was no anger, no impatience—just a steady certainty I wanted to believe. “Even if it’s hard, even if it scares you… it’s better than this.” She gestured around the room, at the shadows lingering in the corners of my mind, at the ache I carried in my chest.

I looked at her then, really looked, and for a moment I could almost believe it. Almost. The fear was still there, coiled and sharp, but beneath it—something like hope, fragile and tentative, began to stir.

Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow I’ll face it. But tonight… tonight I just need to breathe.

I leaned back, letting the blanket fall slightly, letting her presence anchor me. The nightmares were still out there, lurking, but maybe… maybe I didn’t have to meet them alone anymore.

The next morning, the sun felt too bright, too real. Every sound—the distant hum of traffic, the soft creak of the floorboards—made my chest tighten. I followed Mom through the streets, her hand brushing against mine, a silent reassurance I wasn’t sure I deserved.

The office was quiet, the kind of quiet that made my ears ring and my thoughts spin. The receptionist smiled, polite but distant, and handed Mom a form. My fingers brushed the paper, and I flinched. This was it. No turning back.

“Emma?” Mom’s voice cut through my haze. I forced my head up. “You’ll be okay.”

I nodded, but the word felt empty in my mouth. My legs felt like lead as we walked toward the office where the therapist waited. The door loomed ahead, polished and serious, and I could feel the shadows of the night clinging to me, whispering that this was a mistake, that I wasn’t ready.

The therapist smiled gently, gesturing to a chair. “Emma, you can sit wherever you feel comfortable,” she said. Her voice was calm, steady, like an anchor in a storm.

I sank into the chair, blanket of anxiety wrapping around me. Every muscle in my body screamed to bolt, to escape, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Not yet.

“I know this is hard,” the therapist said softly, leaning forward just slightly, “but you’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you, and you don’t have to answer anything until you’re ready.”

I swallowed, feeling the dry lump in my throat. The nightmares—the suffocating darkness, the desperate running toward a light I couldn’t reach—they were still there, lurking just beyond the walls of this small room. But for the first time, I sensed a faint flicker of something else: control. Maybe… maybe I could face them.

I took a shallow breath, then another, letting it fill my lungs. My hands rested on my knees, trembling slightly. “Okay,” I whispered. The word was small, fragile… but it was a start.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t completely alone.

I sat in the soft chair, hugging my knees a little closer, my fingers clutching the edge of the cushion. The room was quiet except for the faint ticking of a clock, each second echoing like a heartbeat in my chest.

“Emma,” the therapist began gently, “I understand you’ve been having recurring nightmares. Could you tell me more about them? What happens in these dreams?”

I hesitated, my stomach twisting. Who was this stranger, asking me about the things I had never told anyone? “I… I don’t know if I can,” I muttered.

“You can take your time,” she said, her voice calm. “There’s no rush, and you don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.”

I swallowed hard, the memory surfacing anyway. “It’s… darkness. Complete darkness. I can’t see anything. And I run… I always run. But I never reach the light. It’s… impossible.” My hands shook as I gripped the cushion, nails digging into the fabric.

She nodded, jotting notes. “And when you try to reach the light… what happens?”

“I… I don’t reach it,” I whispered, my voice almost breaking. “My body… it gets heavy, I can’t breathe. I try to scream, but nothing comes. And then I wake up.”

The therapist looked up, calm and steady. “It sounds like the nightmare isn’t just about the light—it’s about the running, about trying to escape something.”

I frowned, suspicious. “Escape something? From what?”

She leaned back, hands folded, not pushing. “That’s what we’ll try to understand together. The darkness in your dream is always the same. Maybe it’s not something to run from… maybe it’s something to face.”

“Face it?” My voice was sharp. “Why would I do that? It’s dark. I hate it. It’s scary. I don’t want to!”

“I know it’s scary,” she said softly. “But you don’t have to face it alone. We can take it slow, just small steps. You’ll have control. You’re not being thrown into anything.”

I looked away, chewing my lip. I didn’t know if I could trust her, didn’t know if I wanted to. “I… I don’t know,” I said finally, shrugging. “I just want it to go away.”

“That’s okay,” she said gently, scribbling something in her notebook. “That’s the first step—wanting to try. You don’t have to do anything more until you’re ready.”

I swallowed, still uncertain, the knot in my stomach refusing to loosen. But for a tiny moment, I thought… maybe I didn’t have to run forever.