A Psychiatrist for Bowmore

The President of the United States of America had been feeling somewhat out of place in his very own office for the last half hour. After having briefly introduced herself als Lindsay Hopper, the psychiatrist had immediately started to pose questions. First for the screening. She'd gotten the confidential documents from his last psychologist, she'd quit due to pregnancy. After listing all of the 'problems and symptoms' he had, she asked him if something had changed. When she said changed she moved her hands in the air, around an imaginary ball, as if she was trying to gather enegery from the air around them and then smooth it out. Alistair found it strange; even distracting. 

"So what else is up, Alistair. I noticed you seemed to agree with the things I listed but it almost feels like something is missing to me. Tell me about it." Her voice was kind of smoky. She sounded like she was out of a TV show from the 80s. He almost expected het to start talking about gypsies. 

"I've been having reoccuring dreams." He admit. 

"So you often dream the same thing?" She pried. "About someone chasing you, or about falling off a cliff or-."

"No, they're not reoccuring in the sense that the same things always happen," Alistair interruptd, "they're just always in the same place and with the same people."

"With who, and where?"

"I'm in Germany, in 1939. Well when the dreams started it was late 1938. I'm with the elite for some reason, I often dine with Adolf Hitler," he paused between saying Adolf and Hitler, as if he was used to saying only his first name, "and I even work for him now. As a translator. Tomorrow he's going to send me on a trip to Dachau and I'm...terrified." He allowed himself a glance up at his psychiatrist. She was staring at him intently. "And the weird thing is that when I drink or take other drugs in my dream I feel hungover the next day, I even took," but he stopped himself mid-sentence. It wasn't necessary to tell her about the picture. "And the dreams are all down the timeline. They make sense, the build up on each other. And once when I was at one of Adolf's speeches I found that it was exactly how I knew it. I never memorized his speeches? So why would I know them in my dreams?"

"Have you thought that maybe it only 'sounded' correct to you and really wasn't the same at all?" She asked. Alistair shook his head. "Well then you know, next time a speech happens, try to look it up when you wake up and then point out the differences to yourself. Do small little things to remind yourself it's not real." But it was real. The picture proved it. "And maybe think about why exactly it's Hitler and the Nazi regime. Do you feel powerless and are hungry for more approval, are you afraid of impeachment, or are you afraid that people won't agree with you? Try to connect your dreams to your everyday life. Maybe then you'll find out what it is that's bothering you so much, Alistair. It's not healthy to be caught up on dreams, especially not for a man in a position like yours."

"Thanks for the advice, I'll try..." He muttered. Once again he only looked at his hands folded together in his lap and not at her face. She had a strange energy about her, and although her advice had been fine - good atually - he knew it would be impossible for him to work with her much longer. He simply wasn't 'digging' her. 

"I can perscribe you sleeping medication, if you want?" She asked tenderly. "It'll knock you out enough that dreams won't be possible. But that would only be a short-time solution and not a long-term one."

"I'd love the pills." Alistair said hastily. Anything to escape from Dachau. 

"I'm happy to give them to you Alistair, just know that your sleep isn't natural so you might experience a headache after waking up and you won't be as fully rested as if you'd drifted away on your own."

"That's fine, that's fine truely, Lindsay." He muttered. "I can't sleep anyways, they won't mess me up at all."

"Well then, I'll get some of them to you. I'll have them ready by tonight. Is that alright, Alistair?"

"Yeah, that's fine, thanks." He stood up absent-mindidly, gave her his hand to shake and then already turned to go, only realizing after a second that this was his office. She laughed a little and got up.

"I'm the one who should leave, Alistair. Not you. Have a good day at work, and think about what I said. I'm sending you lots of positive energy." He didn't want to accept her positive energy but he just shrugged and nodded and then closed the door behind her. Peace, finally. He immediately texted his secretary Abby to get him a new psychiatrist and to schedule a meeting for in a few days. He looked at his agenda and saw that he still had a good twenty minutes until a scheduled meeting with the Secretary of Defense. He could already his his voice piping up to ask for more money for the military. No, sorry, that won't be possible, we have other domestic affairs to think about...His mind travelled to the school he'd visited. He didn't remember the teachers name, nor the name of the boy who'd challenged him, but he remembered their faces clearly. I need to interact with the people more, he decided. 

As for the sunken naval submarine; he was the president, he'd gotten it sorted out with a paycheck to the families and the long apology speech. He'd also allocated more funding to the navy so that they could figure out what had happened; which they were still working on. And, to his horror, he'd agreed to get on a naval vassal and go under the surface himself. He'd needed to show his country that he believed in them, or how could they believe in him? He shuddered at the memory. In the beginning it had been very scary but he'd warmed up to the submarine, so to speak. He still got out with wobbly knees though.