The darkness stretched out in every direction in front of me, I had no idea how I had gotten there, but there I was. Moments before I had been driving along the Eisenhower expressway, cruising at a steady sixty-five miles an hour. It was a rainy evening, but late enough to have missed all of the traffic. It’s always in that sort of situation, during periods of calm concentration, that the darkness comes.
In the distance, a single ray of light broke through the darkness, illuminating a chair. I approached the seat, it was black leather, the kind you see in those fancy modern cafes.
“Please, have a seat,” a voice spoke from the darkness. It was a calm and understanding belonging to an obviously learned man.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Please, have a seat,” the voice repeated.
I did as the mystery voice asked, and sat in the chair. It was comfortable, but not too comfortable. I imagined I’d be squirming in it if I had to sit for too long. I sat there for several minutes, the voice remained silent. Finally, I spoke again, “Who are you?”
“So, you’re finally ready to ask that question?” the voice responded, “Though I would think that you of all people should know who I am. After all, you think yourself fit to tell my story.”
“Dan?” I asked.
“You have called me that, yes,” the voice answered. In front of me, a dim light, similar to the one surrounding me appeared, revealing the silhouette of a man sitting in a chair much like my own. He was sitting with his right leg crossed over his left knee, and his head was tilted slightly to the right.
“But that’s not really your name,” I said, “I’ve never asked your full name.”
“You have not,” he responded in that same calm voice, it reminded me of a dozen different therapists I had when I was a child. It was then that the light grew slightly brighter, revealing a small electronic device in his left hand, which he scribbled on with a stylus in his right. It was a PDA, he was taking notes.
“You’re a psychologist,” I said.
“I do have a doctorate in psychology, yes. But I work as a criminal profiler, investigating the criminal mind,” Dan answered, as he did the light grew once more, revealing a pair of thin gold-rimmed spectacles framing hazel eyes that were lost in thought. His hair was light brown, but it had just begun to grey around his temples, he was older than I initially thought, but not by a whole lot, his face was unmarked by lines or wrinkles.
“You were born in 1974…” I breathed, the image of Doctor Daniel Fillmore grew clearer in front of me, “… left Chicago right after graduating high school in 1992,” Daniel nodded as I spoke, “You decided to major in psychology at the University of California in Santa Cruz. After you got your masters, got your doctorate at UoC in San Francisco.” I looked at the doctor for several moments, “You had a friend in the Santa Cruz police department, and you began offering assistance to him. At first you did it for free, happy for the experience in analyzing the criminal mind. After your insight led to some arrests, they began hiring you on as a consultant, and that’s how you earned your way through college.”
I could see everything clearly now, the room around me lit up to reveal that I was in a living room, sitting across from Daniel. There was a creme carpet on the floor, and the room was bathed in orange sunlight streaming through a panoramic window that spanned the western wall. Outside the pacific ocean stretched out as far as the eye could see. When I looked out there, I knew I was in Monterey, California.
“So… you think I’m ready to tell your story?” I asked him.
“I think so. But maybe you should start at the beginning.” With that, the room faded and I was back on the road, just as I had started.
Though, I think I’m better for the journey.