Camp Damascus(25)

“Your sin is real, but she is not,” Dr. Smith firmly repeats.

“Who?”

“Pachid,” he confirms.

It feels as though the air has been sucked from this room, all of reality upended by a single statement.

After learning that name, I dove headfirst into my research, secretly pouring over volumes of biblical lore and far-reaching occult theories that would likely give my parents a heart attack if they had any idea what I was doing. Thankfully, these days I’m expected to mourn in deep thought and prayer, providing the perfect cover to let the most obsessive parts of my curiosity run wild.

I’ve moved on from fun facts about death.

At this point, it’s my sincere belief I’ve read every scholarly work on Pachid in existence.

And Pachid, like most demons, is always described as a man.

Your sin is real, but she is not.

Dr. Smith’s words repeat in my mind, washing through me as a vision of the pale woman emerges from the darkest recesses of my subconscious.

Regardless of how much research I do on these occult forces, I’ll never understand them completely. They are powers well beyond my mortal understanding, which I’ll gladly admit. For all I know, demons present themselves in various ways to different people, or change their physical manifestation over time.

But why, for the love of all that is holy, would Dr. Smith say she?

Unless he knows.

“Rose?” He breaks through my mental haze.

“Yeah?” I reply, refocusing my eyes on his.

“I’m gonna do something I don’t normally do,” he continues.

Dr. Smith stands up and walks over to a large iron cabinet at the corner of his office, the safe built into his wall like a bank vault. He bends over and enters a three-number combination, struggling to cover it up with his left hand and doing an absolutely terrible job.

11, 14, 15.

There’s a hollow metallic clang as the lock pops open and Dr. Smith reaches within. He pulls forth a small bottle of pills, bringing them over and placing them in my hand.

“While I don’t condone your flirtation with science over faith, I’m more worried about treating you than winning any sort of ideological battle,” my therapist explains. “This is an antianxiety medication. If you feel like you need to calm down, take one of these.”

I nod, gazing at the small white bottle.

The label indicates it’s a drug called Cebocap, a powerful substance that’s been used to treat all kinds of ailments in one form or another since the beginning of time. This particular version is made from lactose, something most folks coming in here would never realize because they don’t constantly devour seemingly random information like I do.

These are sugar pills, from the Latin word meaning “to please.”

It’s a placebo.

“I think that’s all the time we have for today,” Dr. Smith announces, ambling back toward the door of his office and opening it for me. “That was a difficult session, but I think we made a lot of progress.”

“I think so, too.” I climb to my feet. “I’m gonna focus on stamping out temptation instead of making excuses.”

“That’s great to hear,” my therapist replies, placing his hand on my shoulder, making my skin crawl. “I’ll see you in two days, Rose.”

I leave, Dr. Smith closing the door behind me, then make my way down the hallway before heading up into an empty church outreach center. It’s late, the shadows stretching like long fingers as the sky blooms above them in glorious purple and orange. Objectively speaking, it’s a breathtaking display, but my mind is humming along too fast to pay much attention.

Head spinning, I make my way out into the parking lot. There’s so much to unpack that it feels as though I might fall over, my legs threatening to buckle under me at any moment.

One thing’s for sure, I’m in no condition to drive.

Still, I climb into my car and sit for a moment, allowing this anxiety to pump through me in the hope that it might run its course and fade away. I start running through my finger patterns, counting them down over and over again, but the solace this typically provides me comes on muted and slow.

It’s not working because another pattern keeps getting in the way.

11, 14, 15.

This is likely a cheeky reference to Numbers. I cannot carry all these people by myself; the burden is too heavy for me. If this is how you are going to treat me, please go ahead and kill me—if I have found favor in your eyes—and do not let me face my own ruin.

Therapist humor?

It could theoretically connect to any volume in the Bible. I consider Second Corinthians.

And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light. It is not surprising, then, if his servants also masquerade as servants of righteousness. Their end will be what their actions deserve.

Who knows if there’s any real connection to be made here. After all, this combination of digits could easily be nothing more than Dr. Smith’s three favorite football players, but lately I’ve been enjoying this feeling of trusting my instincts.

Not some abstract cosmic faith, but my own instincts.

This recognition sends another shockwave through my body.

It’s getting dark, and I should be heading home, but right now going home to my parents feels like a bridge too far. Instead, I pull out into the unknown.