Under A Rest Pt. 01

"I understand, and I admit it sounds nice in theory," he replied, half out of politeness and half in earnest. "But surely you can understand why I have to decline."

"Detective, you remain in complete awareness and control. You can even use these techniques on yourself. They're harmless."

"I'm sure."

"I just want to demonstrate a form of my work to you, maybe even better equip you to handle stress going forward. I want to give you just a bit of an idea of what my technique is and is not capable of, for my sake and for the sake of your peace of mind. And what it is not capable of is the death of another individual, no matter where your suspicions may or may not lie. So I ask that you allow me that if nothing else, please."

He averted his eyes and pursed his lips. The detective wasn't entirely sure he believed her, but the idea occurred to him that if she did indeed do what he thought she did, and in the way he thought she did it, then perhaps it might be conducive to the investigation to see exactly how she went about this sort of thing firsthand, even if it meant accepting the risk inherent to being the guinea pig. He'd locked horns with plenty of high-caliber minds, what was the worst that could happen? Besides, perhaps it would help him--the stress from his work as of late had, after all, become rather oppressive.

"Would I be able to record?"

"By all means."

"Then, uh. Guess it couldn't hurt to try," he said, setting his cell phone to record audio.

"You won't regret it. All right, now, first thing's first. Take a nice, deep breath, in and out. In...and out. Simple as."

"That simple?"

"Just that simple. In...slowly, now, slowly. Hold...very good. Aaaand out."

"Huh," he said after a few repetitions. "Amazing what just breathing can do."

"Absolutely. You'd be surprised how many people simply forget to breathe. How do you feel?"

"I'd say a little less tense, sure."

"See, it's all rather unremarkable," she said leisurely, her voice slipping effortlessly into his ears, the ticking of the clock almost concealing itself therein. "You're here. You're present. Just breathing deeply, in and out...consciously letting go of stress. Aware of your senses, your surroundings, the ticking of the clock, the sound of my voice, the sounds of traffic flowing in the streets below. Letting it all flow through you. Letting it all fade away. Breathe in...be aware of your body, your lungs, the air flowing through you, following the sound of my voice, bringing that sensation up through your body. And breathe out, releasing tension from bottom to top. I want you to feel, really feel your bones and muscles, and be aware of all their tension and exhaustion. Inhale, hold it, feel it...then exhale, release, and feel it all beginning to dissipate. Because the more aware you are, the more easily you can release your body from stress. In...hold...hold...and out...just like that."

"I can see why people do this. It's a unique feeling," he said, attempting to continue talking. Between her voice, his staggered breathing, and the assorted ambient stimuli, the detective did notice himself feeling slightly lightheaded. Perhaps that was why people did this sort of thing in the first place.

"That's right, it's a powerful feeling that can enrich your wellbeing if you let it. Inhale...feel that sensation of building release climbing up from the muscles of your feet, through your ankles...calves...your knees...thighs...hips. Feel that tension, acknowledge it. Really grapple with it. And then exhale, releasing it all, allowing those muscles to relax fully, relax completely, feeling their weight, feeling relief as that tension dissipates, your physical stress dissipates, the tension you're holding releasing as you breathe out...releasing...wonderful."

"...Not a bad feeling," he remembered to say. Her direction and rhythmic cadence actually causing tangible relaxation in his body began to unnerve him. He tried to resist the sensation.

"It's a marvelous feeling if you can manage to release that tension and focus on your breathing. That's right, in...hold that breath...and out...slowly now, feeling even more tension releasing, allowing your body and mind to relax. Allowing your thoughts to come and go, passing through only briefly while not troubling you."

"Huh."

Detective Berman's line of sight was cemented to the ground as she continued, her obnoxiously mellifluous voice taunting him, that damned clock thudding in his ears, distracting him with ticking and tocking, ticking and tocking...

It was all kinds of stupid, really, this whole thing. It was stupid because it sounded stupid, it felt stupid. The very concept itself was stupid.

Most stupidly of all, it was actually sort of beginning to work.

The detective found that if he did acquiesce, if he listened to her suggestions, his active imagination made them rather easy to actualize. But trying to fight them in the interest of remaining professional became a real act of resistance, somehow legitimizing their presence far more concretely. He expected the suggestions to have some degree of effect, but he now found himself battling against and inevitably acquiescing to very real and very unwise urges. The more he fought, the stronger those urges became. His muscles did, in fact, feel more loose and heavy, so very loose and heavy, so hard to move, his stress eroding, his body more relaxed than it had been in months--all merely because it was being told so. Preposterous.

What was this, then, exactly? She had deemed it simple guided meditation, but truthfully his blinks were beginning to slow a little bit, and truthfully his mind was beginning to drift a little bit, and truthfully, this was beginning to spook him more than just a little bit.

He shuddered, the tangible sensation of his thoughts drifting away startling him out of the soft, hazy headspace that had snuck up on him.

"As this sensation of release travels from your hips up your spine, you feel--"

"Uh, sorry," Detective Berman interrupted, clearing his throat. He'd meant to rise from his chair, but his legs felt oddly rubbery, and so he only made the motions of priming to arise. "But I really should be going. Thanks again, though, I--"

"Oh, Detective, please--"

"I've got lots to do and, uh--"

"Stay."

It was firm, with a winning smile. They met eyes for what felt like ages. Doctor Angelos continued more delicately. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to press. Please, if you absolutely must leave, you're welcome to. But if you'd allow me to finish my demonstration, I promise it will be of great help to you. We're almost done here, anyway, it's only been a few minutes. It won't be very much longer."

Per the detective's dedication to investigation, boundless curiosity, and perhaps now mildly-impaired judgment, he felt compelled to continue this weird little experiment, which admittedly seemed less benign by the minute. Perhaps he just didn't want to be so hostile to his prime suspect this early on, when she still had so much information to offer him, and hostile suspects were much less useful. Perhaps it was that strange edge, that indescribable quality in her voice, in her whole personhood, that urged him, held him at rapt attention.

But perhaps, too, it was merely the thick, sweet heat hanging in the room, seeping into his tired bones, or the ticks and tocks of that blasted clock, or his own exhausted self unraveling in that altogether too-comfortable chair at the end of such a taxing day, taxing week; hell, taxing year. Or that it simply felt wonderful to relax and release stress for its own sake, something of which he did so little.

Besides, it wasn't as though he was frightened by her ability or motive for the exercise. He'd remained aware enough to object. And he was recording, after all.

He nodded.

"Thank you." She continued, describing in depth the warm sensation now traveling up his spine, relaxing his stomach, back, and chest. As he listened, resisted, and inevitably yielded, the warm release of tension indeed felt more real, more strong, more pleasurable by the second, surging through him, sending powerful, tingling waves throughout his body.

No wonder she could afford that new BMW he'd spied in the garage earlier.

"This feeling travels slowly," she said, slowing down in kind. "Radiating through your arms, through the tense muscles of your shoulders, your neck, your jaw, and into your head as you feel that warmth and relaxation spreading into your eyes and mind. The warmth relaxes your mind, puts it at ease, now allowing your thoughts to slow, allowing them to float away, just like all the stress and tension in your body. All floating away, allowing your muscles to sink into the chair beneath you, relaxed, limp, the growing need insatiable for your body to feel the effects of gravity, sinking deeper and deeper into the chair. Deeper and deeper, now."

Now Detective Berman remembered why he tended to avoid such relaxation--sitting still in such a quiet, comfortable setting, he was now acutely aware of the fact that he was steeping in the long-accrued debt of his perpetual weariness, which surely served to make her job easier. His previously-proper posture had begun to relent, his body slackened in that oversized chair, head cradled by its soft leather embrace. It was then that he distantly realized that he'd gone from reasonably alert to less so, now finding himself expending undue effort consciously lifting his eyelids open in a bid to fight their increasing heaviness.

Really, he could arise and leave if he so desired, but it would be so much effort now, especially considering how comfortable he'd gotten. Truthfully, he hadn't even known how much tension he'd been holding in his body until given permission to relinquish it.

Doctor Angelos gave him a small smile, kindly observing the poor, overworked detective's losing battle against his own exhaustion. This she knew from experience was typically the point of no return, the point at which any internal mutiny ceased.

"That's right, feeling all residual tension draining from your body, from the largest muscles to the very smallest, letting go of your thoughts until there are no more to let go," she said quietly. "It's alright to let go, Detective. It's alright to simply be. To allow your mind and body the peace and quiet it deserves."

His eyes, which had blinked closed for a moment, suddenly opened as he twitched awake. The man so in control of his demeanor mere minutes ago now appeared so candidly vulnerable and weary that she felt a pluck of sympathy toward him in her heartstrings.

"You deserve peace," she insisted softly. "You deserve rest. You need rest. You will allow your body and your mind to rest. Rest for me."

The profound tension in his dark, drooping eyes suddenly released. His look of intense focus vacated, features slackening, eyes rolling before fluttering closed.

"Very good, and as you sink deeper into that restful, relaxing meditative space, you find yourself still able to hear and respond to me while remaining so deeply relaxed. May I ask you a question?"

"Mm."

"You will be paying me another visit, correct?"

"Mhm."

"At what time?"

"Mmm...'morrow night. Round eight," he uttered.

"Wonderful, thank you. More and more relaxed, allowing your subconscious to hear my words while your conscious mind hears only my voice. It's okay to allow your conscious mind to wander as you find your focus drifting more and more inwards, your unconscious mind still listening and understanding. Allow yourself to drift...enjoying the warm, heavy calmness that enrobes you..."

Feeling dreamy but still of somewhat thoughtful mind, Detective Berman mused idly as she spoke, internally shaking his head at his own misstep. He'd underestimated her. It had seemed to him as though he'd remained perfectly thinking and aware of her words throughout her lulling litany, but it was this instruction about his conscious mind that jolted him a bit, made him realize how much of it had been going into one ear and out the other.

He wondered why she'd asked him questions about tomorrow's visit, wondered why his normally-prying inquisitiveness felt holstered, why his normally-buzzing mind felt so quiet, awash with this woman's oddly soothing yet authoritative voice. He wondered exactly for how long he'd been lying there like that, daydreaming, practically melted into this chair, when exactly he'd let his eyes close, why they now felt so incredibly difficult to open, what she'd said just then, why it seemed trivial that he'd missed it, why...why...

Why it felt so damn good.

"...and the suggestions I give you are absorbed by your subconscious. You find the sound of my voice, and therefore my instructions, compelling. Isn't that right, Detective? You seem to agree," she said, picking up the pace of her speech while maintaining its gentle timbre.

"Uh-huh."

"And so the more you hear my voice, the more you listen to my words, the more relaxed you become, and the more open you are to this state of mind, and the words I say. You and you alone will be compelled to listen to this recording later tonight, from the beginning, as many times as you feel necessary, and you'll find yourself taken into this state just as you are now, taken even deeper with each listen. In fact," she started, spontaneously struck by his immediate and immaculate response to the word she'd used earlier. "Every time you hear me say the word 'rest', you will be reminded of the pure, blissful feeling of relaxation you're currently experiencing. You will find that your defenses lessen for me, and you will find that what I say to your subconscious mind is very difficult to recall in your waking state. Doesn't that sound good to you?"

"Uh-huh," he breathed lazily after a moment, having given up on trying to consciously parse that many words. She did say his subconscious would take care of it all.

"Rest...rest...thaaaat's right, sinking deeper and deeper, even more relaxed. Deeper and deeper into a warm and comfortable--"

Dr. Angelos stopped suddenly, hearing a soft, heavy purr emanating from the man in front of her, now utterly slumped, his glasses askew. She chortled to herself, not having intended to relax him to quite that degree, then stopped to merely observe him for a short while.

Poor, sweet thing. Seemed as though he really did need it.

"Detective? Detective?" she urged, gently shaking him awake. He jerked and opened his eyes, reorienting himself. Despite his blanket of grogginess, he instantly felt a pit in his stomach.

"Huh?...I...did I--"

"Like a light," she said, reassuringly patting his shoulder. "But that's really quite alright, happens to people meditating all the time. Especially when they're like you and don't seem to give their bodies the rest they need."

"I...Jesus, sorry about that. Very rude of me," he murmured, rubbing his eyes. For some reason they still seemed so difficult to keep open. He figured he was more worn out than he'd realized.

"Oh, there's no reason to be sorry. Not rude, in fact it's quite understandable. And endearing."

Without thinking, his lips briefly pulled into a small, shy smile in response to her comment. He arose with some effort.

"See, that's really why I tried to leave earlier," the detective said with a yawn too big to stifle. "I knew this was going to happen. God, I can't believe it." She laughed lightly.

"Well you should go let yourself rest, give yourself the time you need to recover. I hope this exercise has reminded you of the beauty and power of simple, adequate rest. You can't do your job without it, you know."

Unable to shake a wave of sudden laxity, Detective Berman gazed into her eyes absently for a moment. Lips slightly parted, he gave her a singular heavy blink before realizing he hadn't responded.

"Ahem. You're right, of course. Just look at me. But thank you, Doctor, I'm, uh...feeling more rested already."

"Glad to be of service, Detective."