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[b][color=D22626][u]Prologue: Speed Demon[/u][/color]
New York City, United States -- Office of Dr. Margaret Dillon
May 2nd, 2016[/b][/center][hr]
[INDENT][color=D22626]“The laughter becomes demonic, distorting like it is being put through some sort of filter until it just becomes screeching dissonance. The world dulls like it is in slow motion and everything feels heavy— I’m running… I’m trying to move as fast as I can, but… I’m only moving slower. I [i]need[/i] to move faster, but I can’t no matter how hard I try. I can hear their screams underneath it all, crying out for me as they get father and farther away. I reach out… I can’t breathe— and then it stops. They’re dead. I don’t want to be alive. And then I see a twisted, demonic face— the glimmer of my own face in the reflection of its eyes… and then I wake up.”[/color]

I’ve always been told therapy was supposed to be good for you, but as far as I can tell it just makes things worse. Out of all the things I thought would help, this is probably in the top ten worst ideas I’ve had in 2016— actually, I’m pretty sure it’s the #2 slot. Challenging a Kryptonian to a fistfight is pretty hard to be beat in terms of ideas that I did not really think through in all fairness. But I digress.

The office of Dr. Margaret Dillon is quiet, save for the occasional scribble of a pen on paper as I relive my nightmares and express my “feelings” about said nightmares. What does she think I’m going to feel about these nightmares, anyway? I’m not going to suddenly think these nightmares are a “good development of my character that allows me to cope with what has transpired in my life” or anything; they are objectively terrible reflections of my thoughts and desires; it’s not really all that complicated. But my friends told me it was a good idea and since Ollie’s parents decided to put money down on this first visit I’m kind of trapped here for another… five minutes. [i]Great.[/i] 

Yeah, I’m not all too convinced this is a particular productive waste of my time and energy, especially considering I could be stopping a bank robbery or intrepid car chase through downtown Queens. Which, in all honestly, has been happening a bit more frequently considering we’re still rebuilding after the Kryptonian Invasion. But with all the money the mega-corporations are putting into the city to get us back to some semblance of “normal” within the month. Midtown High says they’ll be re-opening their doors in a few weeks, though that also means that finals and graduation will be pushed a few weeks as well. I can just hear Flash Thompson’s whining about it now. 

“How often do you get this nightmare?”

How about every month for the last year? I sigh, [color=D22626]“Pretty much every month since it happened.”[/color]

“I see.”

[color=D22626]“I’m not sure if talking about it is helping.”[/color]

The words kind of slip out of my mouth. Though I try not to make a fuss about it, I think I’ve heard “I see” enough for one day. If therapy is supposed to be a conversation about how to tackle my repressed feelings and regrets, then my therapist sure has a funny way of responding to it. I know she’s not quite the cartoon therapist from the movies I’m writing her off as, but I have this strong feeling that some non-answer to try to keep me doing these sessions will be her next reply. 

“Therapy is a process, Mr. Parker. We can only accept our reality if we are willing to take the time to.”

Ding. Should have put money on that one.

[color=D22626]“Maybe.”[/color]

“Well, that’s about all the time we have for today— though I hope to see you for a second one.”

Well, of course you do— that’s how you make the big bucks. Regardless of how I feel, I give her a nod before I step up from the chair and make my way to the door. I’m not sure if I’m wrong about this therapy thing or not, but she deserves at least some acknowledgement even if this is her job. I want to hope that she did some good here even if I’m some kind of cynic. I give a faint smile and turn back at her before opening the door. 

[color=D22626]“Thank you for your time, Dr. Dillon.”[/color]

I take a huge breath as I finally take my exit— the door closing behind me, I take a wave at the next kid in line for an appointment. I manage to half-remark before I exit the building. [color=D22626]“Good luck.”[/color]

It’s a little funny when I think about it. He’s only in for an appointment to talk about his issues, but I have a responsibility to attend to— maybe I should be saying good luck to [i]myself[/i]. God knows I'm going to need it.[/INDENT]