Constantina, lay upon the couch. The back of her left wrist rested on her forehead which, since she lay in the prone position was at the same elevation as her eyelids - these same eyelids which, in their present state of being half closed, gave the impression of betraying an inner peace. The lips, again at the roughly same elevation in her present position as wrist, forehead, eyes, and eyelids, were almost without expression. Perhaps, if one were to look closely, these normally full lips might appear to be pressed a little too firmly together; from a distance of no more than a few feet, however, no tension was revealed. Her complexion, smooth and pale as milk in a still glass, lay all about her other features. One could say that her face seemed placid, yet this was all but a mask concealing the turbulently frothy emotions which bolied her soul.
"It seems to me like a bad dream," she began in a wispy voice, "a dream which can not be awoken from even though one knows it is only a dream. And yet, since I wasn't actually dreaming, but it had merely seemed like a bad dream, it is rather like a bad dream one does not know that one is dreaming, but wishes was merely a bad dream one knows one is dreaming and yet can not awaken from. Not that I wish for such a dream, but that such a dream would be much better than the fact that it is not a dream. For if it were such a dream I would eventually awake. Oh, if only it were just that!"
Dr. Joel Hutchinson, who had been taking careful notes of the interview, glanced up from his yellow notepad. Normally dry and clinical, the sound of her distress had thawed his heart and he said with more than a little tenderness, "Please, do go on."
Constantina sighed deeply, and with just a touch of vibrato, as if, had she not sighed she would have sobbed. "I do not think I can. And yet, I wish I could, and I feel I must."
Joel set the notepad and the fountain pen he had been using to write upon the notepad down upon a little table he had aranged in his interview room just for that sort of purpose. The table, next to the chair upon which he now sat, was of a dark wood, perhaps old cherry, for it had a dull reddish hue. It may have been Eastlake Victorian for though it was elaborate, with round turned legs, it was still more functional than embelished. The table upon which now rested the notepad and pen and the couch upon which Constantina reclined, the chair upon which he now sat all stood upon a richly embroidered rug. Perhaps they had stood so for too long for the pattern on the rug was somewhat dull by many years of foot traffic and it could use a good beating. The couch was even more ornamental. It was composed of plush red velvet in those areas where the human body was to be comforted, but where no such comfort was necessary, but strength and rigidity required, the material was mohagony. It looked, and ideed was, heavy. Joel, had once, to test his strength, lifted one end of the couch from the floor, and though he was quite strong he had been impressed by the couch's weight. His own chair, maple but stained walnut, was set upon casters. It was only utilitarian in nature, comfortable enough that he may sit on it for hours, but not such as he would prefer to sit on if he were not working. So thus, of the three pieces of furniture that have been described we see that a pattern emerges, that whereas the item he used for his own purposes was strictly utilitarian, the table, a mediator as such was also aesthetically pleasing, and the sofa was entirely for the comfort of his patients. There was one other item upon the rug, it was a footstool and it stood near the couch. If Constantina had so chosen, she could have sat upright and rested her feet upon that stool for it was not at that moment in the employment of Dr. Hutchinson, though he did, on occasion, use it. But she was rather more inclined to rest in that position in which we have found her already than to sit upright.
"Then you must try." He said, stressing the end of his sentence ever so slightly as if he wished her, but would not force her beyond her will, to make an effort. There was a moment when she turned her face away from him, as if she were struggling to gather herself. He could only see the turn of her cheek and the tips of her fingers, and it was fortunate that he could see that for, had it been her right wrist instead of her left which lay against her forehead, when she turned away from him, her arm may have hidden her face entirely. But as it were, her right wrist did not lay against her forehead. Her right hand lay at her waist her right wrist was nearby and did not conceal any part of her face.
After a pause, which seemed thick with unspoken agonies, she began again in a smoother, calmer voice. "Well, Dr. Hutchinson..."
He broke in, for he did not want formality to interupt the interview. "Please, call me Joel."
"Oh, yes." She said these words though she did not mean them. She was not comfortable calling him by his familar name, for she was a lady still, despite all the tortures she had endured. "Oh, yes" were the words on her lips, but her heart whsipered "Oh, please no." Despite this anguish, she went on bravely. "Yes, Joel. Yes, I must go on." Having resigned herself to tell the story, she now summoned up within her a little courage -- courage like a flicker of light in a dark cave. It was a light, perhaps too small to reveal the dimensions of the abyss in which she found herself, but a light nevertheless which was reflected here and there by the damp walls of this cavern of misery. "But it is a long story, so very, very long." She had, turned back to face him, her voice sounded weak and her eyes gleamed moistly, their bright blue color illuminated by the glow from his heavily shaded lamp which stood a little off upon his desk, the desk which was an impressive construction of old butternut wood with a white marble surface speckled with inclusions of so dark a black they can only be called coal in color. This desk did not rest upon the oriental rug like the aforementioned table, couch, chair, and footstool.
Joel was a patient man, and prepared to listen for as many hours or days or weeks or years as was needed. For he knew that only through patient attention could one hope to understand one's fellow man. And only by understanding dared one hope to heal him of his troubles. This was true, and perhaps even more true (if we can speak of truth with added emphasis) when his fellow man happened, in this case, to be a woman. "Please, continue, and spare no detail..."