by Amy Cross
"This is only the paperwork for the past year," he continues. "God knows how long he's been doing this."
Two.
"How long's he been in charge around here"?
One.
At the last moment, Mr. Cymbalista suddenly tilts his head back and looks straight at me. I pause for a fraction of a second, and then I ram the scissors straight into his face. The blades crunch through his skull, and I see a single trickle of blood run from the wound as he stares straight at me. Realizing he's not dead yet, I slowly twist the scissors around, causing the metal to scrape against his broken bone. He still seems to be alive, though, so I start jiggling the scissors around, hoping to destroy enough of his brain. After a moment, he opens his mouth and a huge dollop of dark red blood flows out. Determined to finish him off, I force the handles of the scissors apart and then twist them again. As I stare into his eyes, I see his pupils get bigger and bigger, and finally I realize he's stopped moving. I wait a few seconds, and then I let go of the scissors and check his pulse.
He's dead.
Over in the doorway, Jennifer start clapping slowly.
"It's done," I say, stepping back. It's weird, but I expected him to cry out, or to try to say something, or at least to scream. Instead, he just stared and stared until he was dead. I've never seen it happen like that in a film.
"How do you feel?" Jennifer asks.
"I don't know," I say, unable to stop looking at Mr. Cymbalista's dead eyes. Slowly, a creeping sense of panic starts to rise through my body. "We have to get him hidden," I say eventually. "Right now. We have to move him."
"What's the hurry?" she asks, smiling. "We've got all night."
"We've got to do it now," I reply, trying not to let her see that I'm terrified. We have to get the body to the abandoned ward so that I can get rid of these emotions. "Now!" I shout.
"Okay," Jennifer says. "I'm not really a fan of dragging dead bodies along corridors, so I'll meet you there. Do we have a deal?"
"Sure," I say, grabbing Mr. Cymbalista's arms and hauling him onto the floor, before pulling him over to the doorway. "Can't you help?" I ask, turning to Jennifer but finding that she's not there. I glance around the room and realize she's already gone. I guess she's returned to the abandoned ward so that she can get ready for this second body. With no time to waste, I continue pulling Mr. Cymbalista's corpse across the carpet, heading for the door to the abandoned ward.
Chapter Six
Eleven years ago
"So," Dr. Larson says, taking a deep breath as he keeps his gaze fixed on me. "I hear you've developed a tendency to bite people."
I nod, but I don't say anything. It's important to not seem overly eager. After all, he has to believe that this is a genuine problem, rather than something I've made up purely for his benefit. The way I see it, I need to distract Dr. Larson and my father, and to make them think they're making progress with me. That's why, over the past week, I've bitten three separate people at school: first, I clamped my jaws on my teacher's arm while she was showing me how to solve a math problem; later, I bit a girl's ankle while we were in the playground; and finally, I bit my father's hand during dinner. I don't particularly like biting people, and I've been very careful to only choose people who look clean, but I figure Dr. Larson will be fascinated by the biting and will focus on this, rather than exploring my other problems. So far, my plan seems to be working.
"Why do you bite people, Juliet?" he asks.
I shrug.
"Is it an attempt to distract me from your real problems?"
I stare at him. Is it possible that he could have guessed my motives already? I shake my head yet again.
"I'll tell you what I think, Juliet," he continues. "I think you want to play a little game with me. I think you're a very smart young lady, and you think you can trick me into wasting my time on this matter." He smiles. "Well, here's the thing. I don't care about your biting. You can bite all the people you want. For all I care, you can eat an entire classmate. It's not going to distract me from the fundamental question of your deeper-rooted issues." He pauses for a moment. "So, why don't you tell me about your social phobias?"
I take a deep breath. Social phobias? I have no idea what he's talking about.
"I've spoken to your father," he continues, "and he informs me that you have no friends. I find it hard to believe that a clever, pretty young lady such as yourself could have trouble making friends at school. In fact, I should think that you have to go out of your way in order to avoid making some kind of connection. Is that right? Do you intentionally seek out ways to repel people?"
Feeling as if this conversation is getting out of hand, I climb out of my chair, walk over to Dr. Larson, grab his hand and bite down hard on his flesh. My initial instinct is to stop immediately, since he tastes like garlic mixed with tobacco, but I figure I have to keep going in order to make my point. Realizing he hasn't pulled away, I bite down harder, waiting for him to show some sign of pain; when he fails to respond, I tilt my head up and look into his eyes, and I see that he's staring at me with an impassive look in his eyes. Determined to get a reaction, I bite down as hard as I can, sinking my teeth deeper and deeper into his skin until finally I feel a hot, wet bead of blood against my tongue. Shocked, I step back and spit the blood out. I hate blood.
"And what did that achieve?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Would you like a drink to rinse your mouth out?"
I stare at him. What's wrong with this man? When I bit the other people, they all acted as if I'd done something awful; Dr. Larson, on the other hand, seems to find the whole thing amusing.
"I don't have a cat," he says, "but I could probably arrange to get one in time for your next session. Would that help? Maybe I could lay out a selection of scissors and you could show me what you did to the last poor feline that passed your way?"
Turning and hurrying over to the door, I grab the handle but find that it's locked. I can still taste Dr. Larson's blood in my mouth, so I try wiping my tongue on the sleeve of my dress, but it's no use. Finally, I turn back to him and see that he's still sitting impassively in his chair, watching me with the amused expression of someone whose pet has learned a new trick.
"The sooner you sit down and start talking to me," he says, "the sooner we can get on with things. You're a smart girl, Juliet, but I'm afraid you won't be able to trick me. It would be far better if you simply accept my help. We can work together and get your head in order. Wouldn't you like to be a normal girl, Juliet? Wouldn't you like to have friends, and go out to play, and spend more time out of your room? In fact, if you can just make a little progress, these sessions can end and you never have to see me again. Surely you'd like that, wouldn't you?" He pauses for a moment. "Sit down, Juliet."
Reluctantly, I go back over to the chair.
"Now," he continues, "we're not going to get distracted by stupid, false problems that you invent in order to pass the time. No, we're going to dig in, Juliet, and get to the root of your psychological issues. I don't know if this will interest you in any way, but I've started to think I might get a paper out of you. I'll change your name, of course, but I'm quite certain I'll be able to publish an account of our sessions. Wouldn't that make you feel special?"
"I want to go home," I say firmly.
"And you shall," he replies. "Later. For now, I want you to tell me about your mother. She died of cancer, I believe. Your father tells me she was ill in hospital for almost a year before she passed away. That must have been extremely distressing for you. Tell me, what do you think it was like for your mother?"
I stare at him.
"Come on, Juliet. You're smart. Surely you can put yourself in your mother's place for a moment and imagine how she felt. She must have known she was dying for a very long time, and yet she sat in that bed, just waiting to get weaker and weaker. Do you think she enjoyed it?"
I take a deep breath. Why is he bringing up all this stuff about my mother? That was weeks and weeks ago. I feel this stran
ge, tightening sensation in my heart, almost as if I'm getting short of breath.
"And the pain," Dr. Larson continues. "Think of the pain. I don't know the specifics of the treatment she received, but I'm quite certain it must have been agonizing. What do you think that was like for her, Juliet? If you had to sum up the last year of your mother's life in one word, what word would you choose?"
I close my eyes.
"Happy?"
I focus on staying calm.
"Sad?"
"Bored," I say suddenly.
He stares at me. "Bored?"
"She must have been bored," I say. "Nothing to do all day. She..." My voice trails off as I realize how stupid I sound. The truth is, I have no idea what it was like for my mother to be in that hospital bed. How could I know? I'm not her. Whatever she was thinking and feeling, it was all trapped inside her head. I know people like Dr. Larson think we can share our feelings with each other through words and actions, but we can't. We're all trapped in our own minds, with no real way to reach out and connect with anyone else.
"Is that the word you'd choose above all others?" Dr. Larson asks. "Bored?"
I stare at him. I want to say something to make him happy; something to shut him up and get him off my back. The problem is, I have no idea what the 'right' answer might be in this situation.
"I think she was scared," he says. "I think she was undergoing a painful, hopeless treatment for a disease that was eating her from the inside out. I think she was humiliated. She probably lost control of her bladder, her bowels... She probably had to be bathed and washed down. I think she was looking forward to death, Juliet. By the end, she was probably longing for that final moment to arrive. Think about it. So much pain and horror, and then right at the end, a single moment of relief. A fraction of a second between the pain ending, and her life coming to an end. In that millisecond, she must have felt like she was in Heaven. Don't you think so?"
I take a deep breath. The tight feeling in my heart is still there, and I'm starting to feel angry about the way Dr. Larson is trying to provoke some kind of response.
"What's wrong, Juliet?" he continues. "Can't you get inside your mother's mind? Can't you imagine what it's like to be someone else?" He smiles. "I believe in total honesty. I believe in giving my patients the benefit of every determination that I make. The fact that you're so young is not, in itself, a hindrance to this policy, so I'm going to tell you exactly what I think." He leans forward. "Juliet, I think you're have psychopathic tendencies. Do you know what that means?"
I shake my head.
"It means a number of things," he says. "Not all of them apply to you, but certainly enough for me to be fairly confident of my diagnosis. You have an inability to empathize with people. You're manipulative. You seem able to handle stressful events remarkably well for someone of your age, almost as if you're able to retreat into an internal world where the rules of logic are different. Tell me, Juliet. What do you think of your father?"
I swallow hard. This conversation is pointless.
"Do you love him?"
I don't reply.
"Do you like him?"
Still, I don't reply.
"Do you wish he'd die?" He pauses. "Or do you realize that you need him to be alive, because you need him to provide you with food and somewhere to live? That's another aspect of the psychopathic personality, Juliet. You've become a parasitic force in your father's life, using him for your own gain but developing no strong bonds to him on an emotional level. If you think I'm wrong, then by all means argue with me. Otherwise, I'll take your continued silence as a tacit acceptance of my ideas."
I stare at him.
"I think our session is over for today," he says after a moment, with a smug smile spreading across his lips. "I'll need to speak to your father briefly, but other than that, we'll see each other in two weeks' time. I hope you don't feel that I've been too harsh, Juliet, but I have a strong track record in helping people such as yourself. The first step is to get you to confront your own identity and to accept who and what you are. From this point, we can work to change you, although I should add that it's not possible to completely resolve such issues. These tendencies will always be a part of you, and you'll likely have to work your whole life to keep them repressed." Standing up, he walks over and unlocks the door. "Don't worry," he says, smiling. "I think it's better to be honest than to patronize you. We're at the beginning of a long journey, Juliet, but we'll get to our destination in the end. I promise."
Chapter Seven
Today
"This is becoming a habit," says Jennifer, as we stand together in the abandoned ward and stare down at Piotr Cymbalista's body. While Lizzie ended up stuffed into a closet, we decided to put Mr. Cymbalista into one of the storage boxes in the corner. It doesn't seem like the most secure place in the world, but Jennifer insists that she can make sure no-one starts poking around in here. I guess the abandoned ward is her world, and she's in charge through here.
"What about his family?" I ask. "Will there be any complications?"
"I'll deal with it," she replies. "You remember how I smoothed over Lizzie's disappearance? I can do the same with Piotr Cymbalista's life."
"It had to be done," I say quietly, staring at Mr. Cymbalista's face. The scissors are still wedged firmly in his head; I was scared to pull them out, in case there was a lot more blood. The one thing I don't want, in all of this, is to have to deal with too much blood; I've never liked blood.
"Maybe," she says, closing the lid before turning to me. "I've got to admit, Juliet, I underestimated you when we first met. I thought you were just another night girl, but there's something very unusual about you."
"I have to go and check on the residents," I say, turning and walking away. The truth is, I'm starting to feel a little bad about what happened to Mr. Cymbalista; fortunately, I know that all my negative feelings will vanish as soon as I step over the threshold back into the rest of the building.
"You never stay long," Jennifer says, as I walk around the corner and find her waiting for me by the door. "What's the hurry?"
"I have a job to do," I say.
"And you think you can leave all your bad thoughts and feelings behind?" She smiles. "You think it's that neat, Juliet?"
"It works for me," I reply.
"And you still don't have a question to ask me?"
I stare at her. "What kind of question?"
"The obvious question."
Sighing, I push past her and step through the door. As soon as I'm in the main part of the building, I feel my guilt and shock over Mr. Cymbalista's death start to recede. Within a couple of seconds, I'm back to feeling totally blank and calm. I turn to Jennifer. "What do you want from me?" I ask.
"Finally. It took you long enough." She pauses for a moment. "I've given you a lot, haven't I? I help you cover up the dead bodies and I take away all your guilt and bad feelings. That's a pretty amazing privilege for you. Who wouldn't want to be able to do whatever they want without having to deal with the consequences?" She stares at me. "Why are you smiling?"
I look down at my feet as I try to wipe the smile from my face, but there's nothing I can do. It's as if something about this whole situation is forcing me to grin like an idiot. I've always had this problem; whenever something bad happens, I start smiling. I want to stop, but there's nothing I can do. It's as if my face is completely independent of my mind.
"You want to know what I want from you?" Jennifer says. "Well, I'm not going to tell you, but eventually you'll work it out all by yourself. Just remember that nothing's free. If I'm helping you, then it's pretty clear that I'll want you to help me in some way eventually. I hope you won't try to avoid your responsibilities, Juliet."
I keep my gaze focused on my feet, and eventually I'm able to stop smiling. I look back at Jennifer, but she's gone. Closing the door to the abandoned ward, I take a deep breath as I think about the two dead bodies hidden nearby. Jennifer was wrong when she said that killin
g Mr. Cymbalista was somehow worse than killing Lizzie; in both cases, they were nasty people who were causing problems, and I don't regret what I did. If I'd let them live, other people would be suffering. Frankly, I think I should be proud of my actions. If Jennifer wasn't around to help take away my guilt, I'd never be able to kill anyone, but as things stand, I have a unique power.
Turning and walking through to the blue ward, I take a moment to stop outside Barbara Cymbalista's door. As soon as I peer into the room, I hear her contentedly snoring as she sleeps. If I hadn't killed her son, she'd probably have to put up with his trouble-making for the rest of her life; at least this way, she can live out her days in peace. Besides, her mind is so far gone, I doubt she'll even notice his absence. Meanwhile, the retirement home can carry on as normal, without Mr. Taylor's accounting irregularities being brought out into the open. Then again, I feel as if maybe Mr. Taylor is endangering the lives of everyone here, in which case I might need to take action.
Walking away from Barbara Cymbalista's room, I realize how easy it would be to kill Mr. Taylor. I know I shouldn't start trying to rearrange the whole world. I should stop now, while I'm ahead, but it's pretty clear that Mr. Taylor could cause a lot of trouble if he carries on with his dodgy practices. I'm sure I can get Jennifer to help me again, so I figure I might as well start coming up with a plan to get Mr. Taylor out of here once and for all. Then there's my father, who has been a huge problem in my life for many years. With Jennifer on my side, I suddenly feel as if I have a chance to put right everything that's gone wrong. Most people struggle with their consciences, but I've never really had that problem; now, with Jennifer's help, I don't have to worry about any emotions at all. I can just do what needs to be done, and not have to worry about getting caught.
The rest of the night passes fairly peacefully. I quickly tidy up Mr. Taylor's office, and then I do a few rounds of the wards, checking on all the residents. As the hours tick past, I start to feel pretty good about myself; after all, I've got the whole situation under control. For the first time in my life, I seem to be able to manage things. I know I have to be careful not to get carried away, but every so often, I catch myself smiling or even laughing at the way the night has developed. I don't feel bad about Mr. Cymbalista at all: he was a trouble-maker, and now he's gone. If I hadn't been helped by Jennifer, I'd probably be worried about someone finding the body, or about someone starting to wonder about his disappearance. I still don't know what Jennifer is, exactly, but she's definitely useful.
