You fell, smashing into the ground.
You were crushed, likely dying instantly.
You fell all that way, and died.
I sobbed at your side, your form like that of a frog run over by a car. The whole, entire time...... That is the entirety of the dream. The conclusion. I’ve been made to watch the same scene over and over. All I see the whole time are your crushed organs, your body lying in a sea of blood.
The memorial bell rings out.
That’s the end.
The conclusion of my dream.
I’m at the end of my rope.
Even so, reality just goes on. I have the same dream over and over and wake up in a sweat. And then I begin to sob, back in this suffocating reality. It’s been like this for so long. My dreams, my unconscious stops there, ceasing operation. They’ve died.
However, in reality, I breathe, I metabolize.
I have no choice but to live.
“We’re going to perform a type of examination on you. It’s what we call a word association test. It’s a pretty standard thing in psychology, but you may have heard of it over the course of your lifetime.”
I’m exhausted from having that repeated image of death thrust upon me.
The doctor’s voice somehow seems far away.
“The things you’ve kept hidden in your heart have become slightly exposed. Having them becoming exposed is what caused your mind to break. You likely kept those things secret in order to protect your heart and mind. It was self-defense. However, those things were dragged out of you, and you couldn’t take it. You became aware of the wound, of the pain, and couldn’t maintain your sanity.”
It seems as if I’ve raged, screamed, and caused a fuss many times before.
The bandages and dressings on my fingertips and the exposed parts of my arms grab my attention. I feel disgust with my surroundings, with all of reality. And so I shed my blood.
The doctor before me is also wrapped in bloody bandages as if he had been stabbed with a knife. His form is fuzzy, like his outline was sloppily drawn, and my mind can’t really get a firm grasp on it. He has scratches on his face, likely from when I made a fuss.
Over the course of treating the mind, our hearts and minds collide and we both wear each other down.
We both get hurt, both bleed.
“I apologize for being too hasty. Your recovery is most important. Like doing a surgery without a blood transfusion, it’s only natural that you would reject it. You protecting your own heart and mind is instinctual. In that way, I was no longer a doctor, but became like an enemy who would do you harm. That’s why you felt you were under attack. That mistake was mine. There’s no need for you to be concerned,” the doctor says courteously, then turns my way once more. “Word association is just a form of medical examination. There’s no need to touch you, nor to stress your heart and mind. We’re just assessing your current state. It’s like taking an X-Ray photo. I want to cure you. I want you to have a peaceful life. That is the heart and mind’s ultimate goal. I want to help you to do so. So I want to examine you closely, without harming you, much like peering through a microscope.”
I nod slightly.
I’m completely wiped out.
Every time I close my eyes, the image of your crushed form hovers before me. The splattered blood and organs, the depressing image of death, they follow me about. I’m drained, haggard, like I’ve been possessed by a ghost. I can’t seem to muster the will to do anything.
I readily follow the doctor’s instructions.
Like a machine.
“Word association, just as the name implies, is where I give you a word, and then observe whatever you associate with that word, as well as your reaction. It’s like a simple survey. It’s not very difficult, so there’s no need to be guarded,” the doctor explains warmly.
He seems almost apologetic. It feels like a waste for him to use up all his sincerity on someone like me. However, that’s a doctor’s job.
A difficult, cruel, and thankless job.
“So from here on, I will say a total of one hundred words. With each one, I want you to respond with how you felt upon hearing the word, and what it made you think of. From those answers, I will draw out the inner workings of your mind. Even though it might be a roundabout method, it is an effective form of examination that will allow me to grasp the full picture.”
My head bobs like a certain type of toy.
I’ll do whatever it takes to free myself from this suffering.
If this could spare me from the nightmares.
“This isn’t some test for school, so there’s no right answer or score to be kept. No one is going to scold you for the answers that you give, nor will your answers preclude you from treatment. On the other hand, if you give an impressive answer like some honors student, I’m not going to praise you, for this isn’t some thesis competition. If nothing comes to mind, you are welcome to remain quiet. Having no response is a response in its own right.”
It’s like the doctor is explaining the rules to some game.
I merely take the information in.
My guard seems to be lowered.
“I will fire these words at you in rapid succession, to deprive you of time to give your responses undue thought. I will judge the state of your mind by taking note of your responses, the speed of your reactions, your expression, and your tone collectively. I want you to let me know if it becomes difficult partway through, though. There’s no need to be nervous. There’s no failure or success. This should be something that puts you at ease. Now then...”
The doctor speaks calmly as he begins the word association test.
I am unable to sit myself upright.
I don’t have the strength to. All I can do is react to stimuli like an animal.
“Now, what if I say the word, ‘head’?”
I’m baffled by the word the doctor has used.
Head. He said head. But what appears in my mind is your head — and your swaying braids.
“No need to think it over. I just want you to tell me exactly what comes to mind.”
The doctor speaks gently, as if this is the first conversation I’ve ever had.
“Severed head,” he says, his words muffled and unclear.
The image of your head detached from your body appears in my mind.
He just said something very creepy. I can’t shake the image of death attached to that phrase. I panic and change the subject.
“I’ve dyed my hair before. Everyone was doing it, so I decided I would too. Back in those days, when I was younger, playing with my hair was fun. I’ve dyed my hair blonde, grown it long, even did it in a funny style. Uhm, is it all right to reminisce about past stories like this?”
“How about, ‘green’?” The doctor gives no sign of reacting to my response and just tosses the next word my way.
I blush and panic, as if he’s seen through something I’ve said somehow.
However, everything about me, including my attitude, is likely being observed. Feeling such discomfort, I respond.
“Sea of trees.”
What comes to mind is that sea of trees I pursued you through. In the end, it too bears an image of death...... It’s so dark, I begin to feel depressed. I probably would have preferred “frog” instead. That at least seems happier.
However, I don’t have time to think.
Words are steadily thrust at me, and I react to those vague words dripping with symbolism. This process just repeats over and over.
Gradually it starts to feel like I’m answering on reflex. That’s the point, to answer without being conscious of it — in other words, to answer unconsciously.
It’s like dreaming.
“What if I say, ‘window’?”
“Window...? That girl...... I watch you from the window, for it’s the only place I can.”
“What about, ‘village’?”
“School, maybe. There are all these little groups, tons of faceless people.”
“How about, ‘cooking’?”
“Knives. But knives are dangerous. They can become lethal weapons.”
“And how about, ‘travel’?”
“I want to go traveling. There are so many places I wanna go.”
“And, ‘blue’?”
“Didn’t you ask me the same question earlier? You said green, right...? If we’re talking about the sea of trees and blue, then it would just be a sea, right?”
“And how about, ‘stab’?”
“Didn’t you ask me that one already too?”
“How about, ‘death’?”
“......”
“And, ‘money’?”
“I guess it’s something you need, money I mean.”
“And, ‘bird’?”
“I hate birds...... They scare me. Their screeches, their eyes, all of it.”
“How about, ‘frog’?”
“There’s a fairytale about a stubborn frog. There are those who think it’s funny to inflate frogs until they explode. But I like them.”
“And, ‘child’?”
“......”
“‘Marriage’?”
“......”
“‘Home’?”
“Somewhere to return to. Though no matter how much you clean and decorate it, no one’s coming over to visit.”
“And how about, ‘draw a picture’?”
“I prefer to read rather than draw.”
“How about, ‘family’?”
“......”
“And, ‘happiness’?”
“I don’t know... I can’t understand it anymore.”
“What about, ‘storks’?”
“I told you, I hate birds!”
“How about, ‘kisses’?”
“They’re gross, I don’t like them. You just keep bringing up things I don’t like!”
“And, ‘door’?”
“What about, ‘alien’?”
Suddenly, I feel uneasy.
The next word keeps coming even though I haven’t responded to the last.
It’s a voice repeating the same rhythm, the words all blurring together.
I am in a trance-like state, but still I can discern one thing.
That word just now was weird. I know about word association, I read a book about it. But I feel like that wasn’t among the words — and so I lift my head suspiciously.
And then, I see it.