She was lost in a maze of hallways bending and re-bending in the direction of the four compass points, until she couldn't tell if she was moving forward or backwards. Marisa felt like a lab rat. When it seemed that she would never reach her destination, she passed by the door with a metal plate on it: Dr. Rebeca C. Spitzer — Psychoanalyst. Marisa pressed the intercom button, identified herself, and the door opened with an electrical buzz. A camera above the door frame monitored her as she entered the deserted waiting room.

After hesitating a moment, Marisa proceeded to sit down on the straw loveseat positioned between two chairs. She inspected the magazines on the coffee table before her, but only found French psychoanalysis publications there. So she let her eyes wander to the far end of the room, where she could see a door next to a sideboard adorned with a red anthurium arrangement.

The sight of the swollen, shiny blood-red flowers made her uncomfortable. She averted her gaze to the watercolor hanging right above them, a square canvas displaying a black circle against a white background. She stared at it, a bit intrigued, until Doctor Spitzer emerged from the consulting room and waved at Marisa.

What would best define the psychoanalyst were her eyes: two impenetrable green sparks magnified by the glasses with tortoise frame, which extended to the same copperish hue of the short hair. The suit and the scarpino shoes were gray. The age, indefinite, contrary to her posture: when preceding Marisa in the consultation room, rather than walk she marched.

The light-green walls suggested a soothing ambiance. Set against one of them was the divan topped by a painting almost identical to the other in the waiting room, except that this one displayed inverted colors: a white circle against a black background. On the divan's edge, Marisa noticed a small blanket neatly folded and a box of tissues. A sober desk and two caramel leather armchairs filled the remainder of the small room.

Doctor Spitzer sat in one of the armchairs and signaled for Marisa to take the other. She had energetic ways and an astute expression.

"Very well," she said. "Now you are going to tell me what your problem is, without omitting any thought that may occur to you while you talk. Here everything is important. Do you see that painting?" She pointed to the watercolor above the divan. "What does it show us?"

Marisa thought for a little while. The sphere, she deduced, must have a meaning linked to the mysteries of the human psyche. She studied the image attentively, from top to bottom, from left to right. Then replied with caution:

"A white circle."

Beaming with a smile that combined insight and triumph, the therapist shook her head.

"You are mistaken. The image consists of a white circle and also a black square, but most people only perceive what's on the foreground. If we were to make an analogy, the white circle would represent the manifest content of your thoughts. The black background would encompass repressed wishes, neurosis, everything that is situated beyond the conscious level. The unconscious, you see, is the fertile ground for symbolisms: that's how it communicates with the conscious mind. In such quicksand terrain, for instance, the female sex can be represented by a box. Or a crochet purse."

"Oh..."

"Now let's concentrate on the matter at hand. And remember: everything you think or say means something else."

"Oh..."

Not knowing exactly how to begin her account, Marisa moistened her lips, cleared her throat, fiddled with a strand of hair and started to braid it. In a belated reflex, she hid her crochet purse under the armchair. Doctor Spitzer observed her with the expression and muteness of a sphinx. That vigilant silence made Marisa want to fraternize with her purse under the armchair.

How to explain the inexplicable? One week had passed by since the disturbing events at her college, and she still did not quite understand what happened. Flashes brought to her memory a kaleidoscope of isolated scenes, which she had a hard time piecing together in a coherent order...

... The confusion in the classroom after she had fainted. The mad escape through the campus. Her reflection on the window pane. The man behind the bush. Her mother despairing like in a bad Mexican soap opera. The rush to the hospital, where a strong sedative was prescribed to both daughter and mother...

As Marisa described the incident, she relived the details with disturbing clarity. Worst of all were the comments that spread in her college afterwards. Classmates stated that no one peered through the window. The college security guard said he saw Marisa running indeed. There was no man after her.

 "So it was all a figment of your imagination," concluded the psychoanalyst.

"Apparently, yes. But I could swear... that man looked so real..." Marisa was on the brink of tears. "Do you think I'm crazy, doctor?"

"Be calm. Desperation won't help, we need to tackle the problem with a rational approach. What triggered the crisis?"

The therapist entwined her fingers and leaned back solemnly, waiting for an answer. Marisa shook her head. She didn't know what to say. Her mind was spinning, once again peopled with disconnected images...

Dismayed, she clenched her hands.

"I'm scared," Marisa blurted out.

"Scared of what?"

"Everything."

"Be more specific."

Doctor Spitzer then cast a look at Marisa that almost pierced her soul. Marisa sunk in the chair and glanced at the evening sky through the window. She shivered. The night gave her claustrophobia. She would have preferred another time slot, but the psychoanalyst's schedule was full. Averting her eyes from the window, Marisa tried to reflect. Say something that would make sense.

That thing, she explained, had started with a vague discomfort every time she entered an elevator. She became obsessed with the free falling bodies theory, thinking the elevator would plummet. Her uneasiness then expanded to incorporate overpasses, bridges, cliffs. Now everything merged into one and the same terror. She was afraid of going near windows. Afraid of having a car accident. Afraid of the dark. Afraid of sounds, afraid of silence. An intangible danger lurked wherever she went.

There was nowhere to run. Danger lived within her.

"You're afraid of your own emotions and had a panic attack, that's all," Doctor Spitzer diagnosed without the slightest hesitation.

"A panic attack?"

"Calm down."

Calm down? Marisa stared at her in despair.

Doctor Spitzer gave her in return an unperturbed look. She checked her golden wristwatch and announced:

"Our time is up." 

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Are you following what's going on? Let me know if you have any questions!

Dammit, and here I go again with the vote-comment drill. Really sorry about that. 

But it's reaaally important!

Thanks for your support. You are an amazing human being! :-)