Shelly has been confronting the demons of childhood with a psychiatrist for some time. From the outside, she seems to be holding it together, but her hold on reality wavers from day to day. Tormented by violent scenarios presented by her imagination, Shelly constantly fears for her familyâs safety.
John was raised by a mother who wasnât particularly maternal, or kind. Shadows of childhood abuse cling to him, sabotaging his relationships and keeping him in the grip of fear. His buried feelings of anger simmer below the surface of his life, threatening to erupt in a vicious show of power.
Their paths collide when Shelly discovers a shocking truth about Paul and heads out on a rainy Oregon highway. A tragic accident lands her in a comaâor does it? She enters a dark and transitory world, where she chases a child ghost named Red and encounters the setting of earlier trauma. As she fights for her life along the road, she meets John, who has a score to settle of his own.
This gripping psychological thriller will leave you pondering the enigmatic boundaries between reality and the subconscious, and the impact of the on our quest for inner peace.
Shelly has been confronting the demons of childhood with a psychiatrist for some time. From the outside, she seems to be holding it together, but her hold on reality wavers from day to day. Tormented by violent scenarios presented by her imagination, Shelly constantly fears for her familyâs safety.
John was raised by a mother who wasnât particularly maternal, or kind. Shadows of childhood abuse cling to him, sabotaging his relationships and keeping him in the grip of fear. His buried feelings of anger simmer below the surface of his life, threatening to erupt in a vicious show of power.
Their paths collide when Shelly discovers a shocking truth about Paul and heads out on a rainy Oregon highway. A tragic accident lands her in a comaâor does it? She enters a dark and transitory world, where she chases a child ghost named Red and encounters the setting of earlier trauma. As she fights for her life along the road, she meets John, who has a score to settle of his own.
This gripping psychological thriller will leave you pondering the enigmatic boundaries between reality and the subconscious, and the impact of the on our quest for inner peace.
âShould we proceed?â Dr. Frazier-Velli asked. He sat with legs crossed and a notepad balanced on his lap. The sharp line pressed into his gray pants led to argyle socks and deep brown, shiny Oxfords. His head angled down, and he looked at her over the top of his glasses, waiting.
Shelly sighed. âI need to try.â Sheâd made this declaration before, many times.
The room was hazy and darker than usual. She wondered if he noticed the change. Shadows peeked from the cornersâbehind the gray couch, tucked into the leaves of the drooping plant.
For the last six months, sheâd been working through horrible recollections that threatened to fling her into a panic attack during the day or disturbing nightmares drenched in sweat. The window over the doctorâs shoulder drew her attention; it worried her that the only shift occurring during their sessions seemed to be the seasons passing outside. Today, the glass streaked with drips of rain. Typical November in Oregon.
âOkay. Letâs go back in.â
In the slow transition from the present to one of her altered moments, sheâd relax her body while the doctor gently prodded her with questions. Sheâd hold on to his melodic tone, like a rope through a maze, until Dr. Frazier-Velli faded into a blur and her mind would spin. Smells generally came first, followed by obscured images that became clearer as time passed. Then sounds.
She breathed in deeply and allowed her senses to take over. The foul, urine-soaked smell coated the air, burning hot through her sinuses and needling the back of her throat.
Focus. Go forward.
âItâs pulling me. The closer I getââ Her voice was near a whisper. âIâm so scared.â
âWhere are you?â he asked.
A trick question. She was at the beginning, where she always started.
âThe hall.â
In each session, she began in a darkened hallway, facing a familiar door. Today, the walls were painted an ugly muted yellow that hinted at tobacco stains. Sometimes, the walls were grey or blue. The paint was brittle under her fingers and bubbled in sections.
âAnd the room?â the doctor asked softly.
âNot the room. The closet.â
âExcellent, Shelly! Can you take a step?â
âI donât want to see. I need to hide. I canât be here.â
âWhy hide?â he asked, slightly louder.
Is he talking, or am I? She gripped the arms of the chair, her breaths quickening, and thoughts jumbled.
âBecause someoneâs coming.â
Muscles jumped inside her legs as she bent forward. The effort nauseated her; the walls turned like a kaleidoscope, cascading toward a distant door. In the hall, the carpet was a darker green than she remembered, discolored with murky stains. Mesh showed through, with rough fibers extending like angry fingers, ready to catch a toe and pull her to the ground. Then she noticed the stench. How could a smell be so intense in a memory? It crashed over her like a frothy, churning current of filth, strong enough to wash her away to an even darker place.
Warm puddles lurked in the rug under her bare feet, splashing and suctioning with each step. God, she wanted shoes. Her steps slopped through an inch or so of wetness, leaving deep imprints, and she didnât dare look down. She tried to stay centered and follow the clues. She squeezed her eyes, shutting out the office, the window, the sound of the rain.
âI can sense it in my chest. The tight feeling, like my throat is going to close.â She massaged the muscles at the front of her neck. âMy palms are sweaty. So sweaty.â Her lower back ached, and her breathing grew shallow. She felt the sticky cling of the liquid between her fingers. Then, raising her hand, she saw itânot sweat but blood.
The panic spiraled up from her stomach. âHide. Hide. Do it now!â Shelly cried out.
She spun around, waiting for something or someone to come for her. As if reorienting out of a free fall, she shot forward, her breathing rapid, her hands trembling. With her head between her knees, she stared at her feet, which were still safely contained in black flats on the doctorâs pristine white rug.
Dr. Frazier-Velli caught her hand. âBreathe, Shelly. Breathe.â
Tears welled up and coursed down her cheeks. She moved her hand across the green velvet armchair, back and forth. She hated the chair, along with the countless, awkward disclosures that happened while sitting in it. Staring at the soft, plush surface, like swirling, melted chocolate underneath each fingertipâhow many times had she repeated this same pensive action?
Shelly looked up to see the doctorâs brown eyes boring into her. He really did have a nice face, behind the glasses and sometimes, an infuriating, matter-of-fact demeanor.
âYour expression changed just then,â he said. âWhere did you go?â
She was used to such observations. The good doctor seemed to notice instinctively whenever her mental dominoes tipped over. âThis canât be my life,â she said. âIâm tired of being damaged and weak. Josie deserves more than a bat-shit mother. My head is full of this bullshit. She knows I love her, but she deserves a mother who can sit with her, carefree. I hope she doesnât absorb any of this, my fears. I panic and hide over these violent scenarios, and Iâm good at it.â She chuckled. âAt least Iâm good at something.â
True to form, only solidarity and quiet compassion filled Dr. Frazier-Velliâs eyes. He also knew how to handle her episodes of self-pity.
 Shelly continued. âWhen I hold Josie, I see only death. Her eyes, her beautiful hair, but my mind flashes to her body, dead and blue. The images are dark, and I freeze. These thoughts donât end. They just donât end.â She fell back into the chair.
Until therapy, she had fought the memories on her own. She fantasized about attacking anyone who tried to hurt her child, always with the same endingâfighting to the death, ripping out eyes, biting necks in a horrible barrage of violence, her daughter witnessing everything. The rage left her paralyzed, exhausted. With Josie now seven years old, the battle had been endless.
Dr Frazier-Velli scribbled in his notepad. âIt sounds like youâre trying to affirm safety at all costs.â He looked up. âIs this possible?â
Her mind churned. It wasnât just possible, but necessary.
âWeâll get back to that,â he said after a moment.
Shelly hugged her shoulders. He had never written as much in a session before, had he?
âAre you having flashbacks or panic attacks?â he asked.
âWhatâs the difference?â She shrugged. âThe ocean image has come up. Thatâs not a flashback, I guess, but itâs scary. Paul wants to go to the beach over the weekend. We havenât gone in a year.â She thought back to the last timeâwhen she took a sedative to get over her fear. âJosie should see the water and play in the sand,â she said. âSheâs missing out on so much because of me.â She remembered her daughterâs golden hair catching the sunset as the chilly water soaked her toes.
âThe ocean could bring up considerable worries,â Dr Frazier-Velli commented. âYouâve talked about the fear of water, how uncontrollable it is. Does Paul know the level of anxiety it causes you?â
Shelly smiled. He had used her words from a previous session almost to the letter.
âPaul might know what it means, but he doesnât show it. If I resist or hesitate, he wonât let up with the pressure.â Her shoulders pinched and tightened, and she adjusted in her seat. âWeâve talked about what scares me before. I donât think he understands. Iâd hate for him or anyone to know what this is like. Iâd rather spare them.â
Itâs my burden.
âI see,â said Dr Frazier-Velli. âDifficult as it may seem, you should let Paul know how you feel. As you said, he may not understand your level of worry and its effects. Without more context, he might see your behavior as a choice, not one your mind is forcing you to make.â
His tone implied it would be easy to talk it out with Paul, and that irritated Shelly. He should know enough about their marriage to know how complicated that would be.
âHave you been sleeping? Any nightmares?â he asked.
âYes, some.â She shifted again, adjusting against the velvet.
âAnd what about the little girl?â He paused. âWhat was her name?â
A hot wave flashed through her veins. âRed.â Her feet shuffled underneath her. âNo, Redâs been gone a while, and Iâm glad. Iâd rather not deal with her right now.â
âRed,â he scribbled. âWhere do you think that came from?â
Did the name embarrass her? Why not something more common, or even a childâs name? She imagined the doctor thinking of Clifford the dog, or cinnamon gum.
âI canât remember,â she lied.
When he straightened up in his chair, Shelly read the cue. It was time to wrap up the session.
âLetâs finish with some closing relaxation,â he said. âWeâve covered a lot.â He set down his notepad on the nearby table.
Shelly found his session-ending rituals annoying, an abrupt transition as she sat in the clammy velvet chair with her tear-stained cheeks and stiff shoulders. She fantasized about throwing his always-offered glass of water in his face and running out of the room. But good judgment prevailed.
Reluctantly, she planted her feet on the floor. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
âFind the sound of the clock,â he said softly. âAllow your breath to go in and out as your mind follows the rhythm.â
Shelly complied. Once again, she followed the rain against the window. The clock. The focus. She tried to believe better days were coming.
"The Dark Road" has great promise but, in my opinion, needs to be put together differently to make sense. In its current state, it falls flat, not for lack of trying or material but because of its execution.
Parts of this book are riveting, but much of it is disturbing and confusing. Perhaps this is intentional, as the characters in an in-between space are confused about why they find themselves there. However, the character confusion lends itself to the reader's confusion, and it's not an enjoyable space to be caught up in as a reader.
The in-between space is never fully explained. The reader is up to interpret the disconnect for themselves. Is it a type of purgatory? It doesn't represent heaven or hell. However, is purgatory a place where you can alter realities? Is it a place where you can choose to die?
While some of the outcomes within the in-between state are heart-rending and shocking, and you might wish for different endings, other parts are sad but satisfying. Good-byes are important.
This book wasn't for me because of the swearing, grotesque descriptions that didn't necessarily need to be so detailed, the confusion in the in-between, certain storylines that weren't fully fleshed out, and endings that were ultimately too predictable. However, for other readers who enjoy psychological thrillers, perhaps your experience will be different. The character arcs are many, overlapped, and intertwined, but this also holds your attention. While you may not like all of the characters, there are enough to choose from that you'll ultimately be sucked in until the end because, for the character you resonate with, you won't be able to stop reading until you know how their story ends.
The grammatical edits are spot-on. The storyline itself, the unfolding, and the lack of clarity are where the edits failed (in my opinion). The in-between space lasts too long. A tighter, less drawn-out story with more rapid succession and shorter chapters would have suited this book best. Keep the confusion to a minimum and have it be less drawn out; then, the dramatic episodes would have been the cliffhangers that would automatically keep the readers turning this book's pages until it was neatly wrapped up in a bow.