Dr Otswold

“What can you tell me about this dream?” Dr Otswold enquired; carefully slicing the end of his cigar before taking it between his teeth and striking a match.
Michael cowered in his leather chair. He licked his dry lips slowly, delaying his response.
“Michael, my dear friend, please share. There are no judges in this room.” Otswold’s eyes crinkled into a smile as he held out his hand in offering.
“I dreamt that... Well, I dreamt that you, that I. Um, that we were in a forest.”
“And where would this forest be?”
“It was at home – at my home in Russia.”
“What were we doing in this forest, Michael?” Otswold steepled his fingers, his cigar poking out like a chimney.
“We had found an old coin. We sat on this huge tree stump. It was orange. The light made it orange.”
“What did the coin look like?”
“It wasn’t like a pound coin or anything like that. It was black with grey lettering on it.”
“Okay, I think that’s enough for today. Please fill in your dream journal for the remainder of the week and I shall see you next Monday.” Dr Otswold hurried Michael out of his office with a smile that didn’t meet his cold blue eyes; eyes that usually reflected the turquoise sparkling of the Mediterranean. Eyes that never failed to reach the most distant patient.
Otswold closed the door and strode to his desk. He sunk into his high backed, wooden chair and opened the top drawer. He let out a long, low sigh as his gnarled fingers swept across the book. He placed it on the oak desk and slid off the brown paper protector. He flipped it to page 901 and the black coin stared back at him. His eyes skimmed over the caption beneath the picture but he’d read it a thousand times before. Otswold rubbed his temples as his mind whirred. How could this happen? Why did it have to turn up in someone else’s mind? This was going to prove even more difficult as the owner of this mind was a few cells short from Forrest Gump. Another thought ignited itself brighter as Otswold realized how easy it would be to manipulate Michael.
He pulled out his notepad, filled with notes on his patients’ dreams. He really should file these separately. Otswold shook his head at how unorganized he had become in his investigation. If this was THE coin that he had been searching for then he would have to call in his psychoanalysis. His other research would be lost. There would be no going back once he encroached on this venture. He dared not to think of the consequences if he could not escape. Otswold ran his fingers down the page, trying to entice clues to jump out at him. He decided he would photocopy the notes for his own use and then burn them. It was illegal for the notes to leave the office and for them to have any other use.