I had no umbrella. Sounds. They battered. The rain in torrents, my racing, stumbling footsteps splashing, slipping. Slick tires pass. Falling, I crouch, and await the inevitable arrival of my attacker. He finds me on my knees, my hair plastered to my face. It is Paul. He stands me up and draws me into his arms. Our eyes meet, and hold. Two souls. Our heart beats reverberate against each other, chest to chest. For a moment I sense hesitation, then feel the cold metal of a knife thrust deep into my side, and I awaken.
My psychiatrist is quiet, then asks, “Who is Paul?”
“I don’t know! It’s like a memory from the past, but I cannot recapture it! I would have died—did die– from it.”
A longer silence follows, then “obviously you didn’t die.”