Page 1 of The Chamber

ONE

KENNETH

Kenneth’s brush plunged into the blood-red acrylic paint, churning the color on his palette. The potent scent of oil and linseed choked the air as a sprawling beast of a canvas swallowed up one wall. It held a tempest of vibrant color, a raging storm that seemed to throb with vitality.

“Too flat,” he grumbled, eyes shining under the harsh studio light. His hands danced over the canvas, injecting violent orange and electric blue streaks into the storm. His studio was his haven, the sacred ground where he could express his inner chaos in an eruption of color.

The paintings were abstract, designed to echo the edgy emotional landscape of Kenneth’s mind. The colors often clashed and fought each other for dominance on the canvas. The paint itself lay heavy and textured on the canvas encouraging viewers to want to touch as well as view the works.

He wore a tattered white shirt, the fabric freckled with the ghosts of forgotten art pieces. His lean body, honed by a lifetime of vigorous physical activity, stretched the cotton taut. Scarred arms bore silent testimony to skirmishes he survived, as well as the battles fought in foreign lands and within his own mind.

An ear-splitting scrape of metal shattered his focus. The guttural screech echoed through the studio, making his heart pound out a fierce, racing rhythm. The paintbrush clattered onto the floor, and his fingers began shaking violently.

“Damn,” he hissed, struggling to get a grip. Suddenly, his experience of Iraq surged back into his senses. The desert was a burning hell beneath his boots, and the heat of the remorseless sun was a staggering weight on his body. As memories of gunfire bounced around inside his skull, he pictured his body crouching behind a wrecked wall with sweat rolling off his forehead. His mouth was suddenly dry with the raw taste of dust and panic.

“Kenneth! Move!” His squad leader’s voice tore through the chaos. The faces in his memory remained obscured by years of trauma. He flinched with the recollection of hot lead scraping his skin and sparking a phantom sting. The acrid scent of blood tainted the death-laden air.

“Get a handle on it,” he snapped, massaging his temples to silence the intrusive past. Every day seemed to spark a war against old mental images. When the attacks came, Kenneth required hours of recovery time to return to his painting.

He feared that he was losing ground to the war he’d left behind years ago. It felt like a slow, painful retreat in the face of a relentless enemy.

“Here and now,” he instructed himself, anchoring his gaze on the canvas. After a long outdoor jog in the withering desert heat and a hot shower designed to figuratively wash away the trauma, he was finally ready to try again. With its paint-splattered tranquility, his studio gradually fought back against the horrors of the past.

Every paint stroke was a sigh of relief, the weight on his shoulders crumbling bit by bit. Art was his savior, his weapon against the shadowy demons. He clung to it like a drowning man holding onto a lifeline.

* * *

Kenneth settled into a chair patched with age, fingers tracing its threadbare arms. The faint smell of lavender hung in the air as Dr. Bridges lit a candle. His silver-streaked hair framed his warm eyes. His presence was a soothing balm.

“Your nightmares, Kenneth,” Dr. Bridges murmured, the words soft. “You said they’re worse?”

Kenneth shifted, anxiety twisting his gut. “Worse, yes. Sweat-soaked, heart-racing nightmares plague me almost every night.” His fists clenched with the familiar weight of the wicked thoughts threatening to crash down.

Dr. Bridges leaned in; worry etched onto his face. “Could you tell me what happens in these nightmares?”

Kenneth paused and then exhaled. He needed to face his tormentors to banish them. “Starts the same. Sand. Heat. Gunfire. Then it morphs. My friends die. I’m alone. Or I’m shooting the innocent. That’s the worst part—my crime against humanity.”

His voice faltered. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Dr. Bridges nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“I feel guilty—like I caused it all. And I just—“ His voice faded out, the words too heavy to speak.

“And have you tried anything new to deal with these feelings?” Dr. Bridges asked, gentle as ever.

Kenneth hesitated before replying, unsure of the doctor’s reaction. “I’ve tried—something. BDSM. It’s not conventional, but it helps.” He braced himself for disapproval.

“Go on,” Dr. Bridges encouraged, his face non-judgmental. “How does it help?”

Kenneth sighed in confessional mode. “So far, it’s just a buddy I play with a bit that I met online. Spanking, slapping, he ties me down—I lose control, and for a few hours, I just exist. It’s a release, a purge of all the guilt I lug around. After it’s over, the nightmares are less intense for at least a few days.”

Dr. Bridges pondered over the comments before he asked another question. “Do you think your past trauma connects with the physical pain during these sessions?”

“Possibly,” Kenneth admitted. “Physical pain somehow eases the emotional. It beats the pills I’ve tried.”

“Kenneth, healing is a journey, and everyone’s path is unique,” Dr. Bridges comforted. “If this brings you peace and helps you cope, that’s what counts.”

A wave of relief flooded over Kenneth. Gratitude bloomed within him for Dr. Bridges and his understanding and acceptance. For the first time in a long while, he dared to hope that he could heal and take back his life.

* * *

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