by Amy Cross
"Are you okay?" he asks. "If you want to talk, maybe I can help. I'm a psychiatrist. Well, I was, until I retired. Now I'm surplus to requirements, so to speak, but I can still listen."
I stare at him.
"Sit down," he says. "Please."
Barely able to form a coherent thought, I grab a chair from the corner of the room and drag it over to his bed. Sitting down, I realize that my hands are trembling again; I try to hide them under my knees, but I can tell he's already seen that something's wrong.
"So what's the problem?" he continues. "It doesn't take a genius to see that there's clearly something bothering you." He waits for me to answer. "Did you see on my documentation that I used to be a psychiatrist? Is that why you're here? Is there something specific that you want help with?" There's another pause as he waits for me to say something. "Show me your hand," he says eventually.
"Why?"
"Just show me."
I hold my left hand out to him; it's still trembling a little, but to my surprise he reaches out and holds it. "You're terrified," he says. "Really, really terrified. I can tell. I can see it in your eyes. It's a kind of fear I don't think I've seen before. Not for a long time, anyway. Tell me what's wrong."
"I can't," I say, pulling my hand away.
"I won't tell anyone," he replies. "I spent forty years talking to patients about all sorts of things and I never breathed a word about their problems to anyone else. Believe me, some of them had some very serious issues. You can trust me."
"Can I?"
"Oh yes," he says with a kind, friendly smile. "I can't promise to help you, but I'll do my best. Sometimes it's useful to just get things out in the open. Is there something you've been bottling up for a long time?"
I stare at him. "Do you recognize me?" I ask.
He frowns. "Recognize you?" Suddenly, I see a change in his expression; it's as if he's finally realized what's happening. "Are you a former patient?" he asks. "Did we meet before?"
I nod.
"I see." There's a clear edge of tension in his voice now. "Well, maybe this wouldn't be the most appropriate conversation to be having right now," he continues. "Perhaps I should get some sleep and we should -"
"My name is Juliet Collier," I say suddenly. I take a deep breath; my heart is racing. "Juliet Collier," I say again.
"Juliet Collier," he repeats, though it doesn't seem as if the name is familiar to him. "I'm very, very sorry, Juliet, but I've had so many patients, and I'm afraid I'm getting old..." He smiles. "You seem quite young. How old were you when -"
"It was eleven years ago," I say. "My mother had died. I bit some people. Later, I burned someone's face. You -" I stop speaking as I see another change in his expression; suddenly it's quite clear that he remembers me.
"Juliet," he says. "Yes. I remember you. Your father..." A nervous, hesitant smile crosses his lips, and he looks over at the bedside table. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's looking at the alarm button, and wondering if anyone would come. "And here you are," he says, clearly concerned.
"Here I am," I reply, staring at him. "After all these years, here I am again."
Chapter Four
Eleven years ago
"And that's when you pushed her face down onto the hot-plate?" Dr. Larson says, staring at me.
I nod.
"How long did you hold her down?" he asks. "A second? Two? More?"
I don't say anything. How am I supposed to know how long it lasted? It felt like a million years.
"Okay," he says, looking down at the notes on his desk. "It says here that she suffered third degree burns consistent with a prolonged period of direct exposure, totaling at least four or five seconds, but probably not much more. Does that sound accurate to you, Juliet? Four or five seconds?"
I nod.
"So that's four or five seconds during which the skin of the right side of her face was pressed hard against a searingly hot metal plate." He pauses for a moment as he writes something in his notebook. "Did you hear her skin burn, Juliet? Did you smell it?"
I shake my head.
"Did you feel sorry for her?" He waits for me to answer. "Did you get scared that you might hurt her too much?" He waits again. "Did you -"
"I don't know," I say.
"And then eventually you let go and she lifted her head?"
I shake my head. "Not for another few seconds," I explain. "I think because the plate was so hot, her skin was kind of sticking to it and..." My voice trails off as I think back to the sound I heard when she pulled her head away. "I think I heard the skin rip when she moved," I continue. "There was something left on the barbecue."
Dr. Larson sighs as he makes some more notes. "And how did her face look when she lifted her head up?"
"Red," I say.
"What else?"
"Just red."
"Was there any blood?"
"Not really. She just looked red and a bit pink in places."
"And was she crying?"
I nod.
"A lot?"
I nod again.
"And how do you feel about that?"
I stare at him.
"Juliet, how do you feel about what you did to Samantha?"
I don't answer. I just continue to stare at him.
"You must have felt something," he continues. "You must have had some kind of reaction when you saw the extent of the injuries you'd caused to her face."
I open my mouth, but no words come out. To be honest, I can't work out what he wants me to say.
"Your father told me that you smiled. In fact, he told me that this is becoming an increasing habit. Whenever you encounter a situation in which you might be expected to demonstrate some kind of reaction, perhaps sorrow or sympathy of some sort, you choose instead to smile."
"I don't choose," I say, correcting him.
"You don't? So it just... happens?"
I nod.
"And you can't help it?"
I shake my head.
"And when did that start?"
"Recently."
"I see." He adds some more notes. "This is an interesting development, Juliet. It makes me wonder what's really going on in your head." He closes his notebook. "I want to get back to the thoughts that were going through your head just before you pushed Samantha's face onto the barbecue. Do you remember the last thing you thought before it happened?"
I shake my head.
"You must remember something," he continues. "A thought, or an emotion?"
I shake my head.
"Why did you do it?"
"Because I wanted to hurt her," I say. It's not quite true, but I figure I need to give him something or he's going to keep nagging at me. Hopefully this will be enough to make him think he's making progress.
"You wanted to hurt her?"
"I hated her," I continue, still lying. "I thought she was pretty. I thought she deserved to be less pretty, and I thought this was the best way to do it." I wait for him to ask me another question. Everything I just told him is a complete lie, but I'm hoping it's the kind of lie that he'll believe. All I need is for him to think he can fit me neatly into a category, and then he'll find me less interesting. I just want him to leave me alone.
"No," he says after a moment. "No, Juliet, I don't think that's quite true."
"It is," I say, starting to panic. Why does he always manage to see through everything I tell him?
He shakes his head. "No, you're lying. You're telling me what you think I want to hear. I want the truth, Juliet. I want the plain, unadorned, unvarnished truth. I don't care how bad it might sound. It's important that I know what you were really thinking. Nothing you say to me will ever leave this room. I won't even tell your father."
I stare at him.
"Come on, Juliet. Stop playing games. You're going to have to tell me eventually."
"I'm evil," I say. "I'm nothing but evil. I do evil things. I'm a monster. It's just what evil monsters do."
He frowns. "Is that what you th
ink?"
I nod. "Don't you think so too?"
He pauses for a moment. "Maybe."
"Not maybe," I reply. "I hurt Samantha because she's nice, and because I'm evil. I can't help it. It's just who I am."
"And how long have you been evil?"
"Since -" I take a deep breath. I can't tell him about Martina. It's one thing for him to understand that I'm a bad person, but it would be something else entirely for him to realize that I actually killed someone. "Since forever," I say eventually.
"And you really, truly believe this?"
I nod.
"Well that explains some things." He pauses. "Juliet, do you remember what I told you in one of our earlier sessions? Do you remember when I said I had a word that I thought described you?"
I nod.
"Do you remember what that word was?"
"You said I'm a psychopath."
"That's right. I still think it's true. I think you're a compulsive liar. I think you have little or no empathy for anyone else. I think you act purely based on your own needs and your own desires, and I think you ignore the feelings of people around you. Do you think that's an accurate summation of your personality?"
I open my mouth to reply, but then I pause for a moment. I want to agree with him, because I know it's what he truly believes. There's a part of me that wants to deny these things, though; even if they're true, I still don't want to acknowledge them so openly, and I don't want to be slotted into a neat little category. "Yes," I say suddenly, surprising myself.
"Good," he replies, smiling. "I think we're making real progress, Juliet. Most psychiatrists prefer to pussy-foot around the issue and avoid using words that might seem scary, but I think you can handle the truth. Fortunately, there's something I can do to help you." He opens one of the drawers in his desk and takes out a small bottle, before getting up and walking over to me. Sitting next to me, he unscrews the top of the bottle and shakes it until a small white pill drops onto his hand. "Meet your new friend, Juliet," he says with a smile. "Believe it or not, this little capsule is going to solve all your problems. Forever."
Chapter Five
Today
"You look well," Dr. Larson says after we've sat in silence for a moment. "You look like you're a lot better, Juliet. Didn't I tell you that one day you'd be able to lead a normal and happy life?"
I stare at him. Did he really just say that? It's almost as if he thinks his work with me was a success; it's as if he thinks he did a good thing. Is the man really so arrogant that he can't recognize his own mistakes?
"Listen, Juliet," he continues, "I have to be honest with you. The relationship between a psychiatrist and his patient is a very delicate one, and it only works within the strict confines of an office. There's a very good reason why I've never socialized with a patient. In the circumstances, I don't think we should spend too much time together. It's nothing personal, but I'd prefer it if we could keep a professional distance from one another. I don't mean that I can't see you at all. But if you're looking for a continuation of our old relationship, I -"
"I'm not looking for that," I say, interrupting him.
"Good," he says. "That's very good. It wouldn't be wise, Juliet. As you can see, I'm no longer practicing psychiatry. I'm retired. I'm just an old man. When a car mechanic retires, he stops fixing people's cars, and when a psychiatrist retires, he stops... Well, he stops giving psychiatric advice. Besides, I'm probably hopelessly out of step with all the modern methods and..." His voice trails off, and it's clear that he's panicking a little. In some small, strange way, it's almost as if he's sensed that he might be in danger.
"I know," I say. Damn it, why am I waiting? If I'd just struck as soon as I walked through the door, he'd be dead by now.
"Okay," he continues, taking a deep breath. "Perhaps we should set some boundaries. We should try to avoid acknowledging the past. You're a carer at this facility, and I'm a patient. We must remain within -"
"Shut up," I say.
He stares at me, a look of shock in his eyes. "I'm sorry..." he says after a moment. "Did you -"
"I told you to shut up," I say firmly. "I should have said it a long time ago, but I'm saying it now. Shut up. Shut your fucking mouth."
"I see." He looks over at the alarm button again. I know he's desperate to call for help, but he's probably wondering if anyone would get here in time. Perhaps he even suspects that I'm the only one on duty.
"I swear to God, I never thought I'd see you again," I say. I feel as if I should try to say something that makes him realize how much I hate him. It seems as if he still thinks of me as just another one of his patients, which means he probably doesn't fully understand the extent to which he hurt me. I guess I just seem like some stupid girl who takes everything too seriously.
"Life has a funny way of bringing things full circle," he says. "I think we need to -"
"No," I say firmly.
He stares at me. "No what?"
"I don't..." I look at his old, wrinkled neck, and I imagine clasping my hands around the flesh and strangling him. I read once that when someone is being strangled, their eyes sometimes start to bulge, almost like in a cartoon; I don't know if that's true, or if I'm mis-remembering anything, but I kind of feel like I don't want to see something so gross.
"Juliet, you must listen to me," he says, as if he's suddenly decided to try being authoritative with me. "Whatever happened in the past, must stay in the past. The job of a psychiatrist is not to make his patient like him, but to help that patient overcome whatever problems have arisen. You might have negative feelings about me, and that's perfectly understandable, but I sincerely hope that I was able to -"
"Shut up," I say again.
"I hope I had some impact," he continues, "but -"
"Shut up!" I shout. We sit in silence for a moment. "If it hadn't been for you," I say eventually, being careful to make sure my voice remains calm, "things might have been different. I was fine until my father took me to your office. He thought I had all these problems, but really I just had a personality. I didn't like doing a lot of the things people usually like doing, but that doesn't mean I needed help. And then things changed and I became... like this." I pause, realizing how pathetic I sound. Damn it, I've never, ever said these things to anyone before; now that I'm finally vocalizing my thoughts, I sound like some kind of superficial, bland idiot.
"It's not uncommon for patients to feel like this," he says, "but -"
"I would have been fine," I say, trying to hide my hands so he can't see that they're trembling. "I really, really would have been fine. I would have just got through everything without any problems, but you and my father, between you... you made me like this." No matter what I say, it sounds childish and banal, like a spoiled moron trying to blame everyone else for her problems. I hate that I can't be more articulate; I hate that I can't explain myself better and make him understand what's really going on in my mind.
"What do you want, Juliet?" he asks eventually. "Do you want me to apologize? I'm afraid I can't do that, not if I don't think I did anything wrong."
"I don't want you to apologize," I say, feeling a growing sense of determination in my chest. I have to do this. Words are stupid; words don't explain anything. The only way I can communicate with this man is through actions. I look down at my hands, and I see that they're no longer trembling.
"I think you should leave," he says. "I think -"
Before I can change my mind, I turn to him, push him down onto the bed and grab his neck, squeezing as tight as possible. He gasps and tries to push me away, but right now I feel as if I'm the strongest person in the world. I tighten my grip as much as possible, until my fingers hurt; I have to make sure he doesn't cry out for help, so I focus on trying to crush his throat. His old, frail hands push against me, but I can already feel that he's not going to be able to make me stop. He tries to pull my hands away, as he stares at me with a terrified look in his eyes, and I can feel his neck muscles tensing in my
hands, but I'm determined to make sure that nothing stops me. After a minute or so, he's still struggling, but I'm pretty sure he can't breathe at all; he's not gasping anymore, not making any kind of sound at all. I stare down into his eyes and see that his pupils are dilated. Worried that I might be loosening my grip a little, I squeeze harder and harder: so hard, in fact, that I start to worry that I might cause the skin to burst open. Finally, his hands stop pushing at me and he seems to have given up, but I'm determined not to let him fool me; I continue to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze for several more minutes, until eventually I realize he hasn't moved at all for quite some time. With a growing sense of calm and satisfaction, I take my hands away and sit back.
Looking down, I see that the skin around his neck is red and sore, and the complexion of his face is a little more pale than usual. His glassy dead eyes stare up at the ceiling, and his mouth is hanging open. My hands are sore, but my heartbeat seems to have returned to normal. In fact, I'm feeling something I never thought I'd feel in this situation; something I don't think I've ever felt before: euphoria. Rising through my body, I feel this intense sensation of absolute happiness and relief, as if I've just done the most amazingly brilliant thing in the history of the world. Smiling, I find myself starting to laugh: it's not a maniacal, crazy laugh, but a soft, genuinely happy and rather quiet laugh. It's as if I'm so pleased with myself, and so relieved to have got this done. If I could freeze time and stay in this moment forever, I'd do it; it's as if I've finally done something I should have done a long, long time ago.
He's dead.
I did it.
With my own bare hands, I squeezed the life out of him. Even better: the last thing he saw before he died was my face staring down at him. At the very end, perhaps, he finally understood how much I hated him.
I climb off the bed and walk over to the window. I don't know why, but for some reason I pull the curtain aside and look out at the darkness. I want to run out there and shout to everyone in the world that I've finally done it; I want to share my happiness with everyone, or at least with someone, and I want to be able to celebrate my achievement. Turning back to look at the bed, I see Dr. Larson's dead body and I realize how pathetically weak and fragile he looks. I guess that, in some ways, I regret not having killed him earlier; after all, it would have been much more of an achievement to have killed him back when I was his patient. Still, I figure I need to stop being so self-critical. What matters is that he's gone, and that I'm the one who killed him.
