by Amy Cross
Chapter Three
Today
"So what's the problem?" Jennifer Mathis asks as we sit in the rec room of the abandoned ward. "You know the guy from some time in the past. Big deal".
Sitting with my head in my hands, I stare down at the carpet. She doesn't understand. Until this point, she's understood everything, but this is something that's my problem and mine alone. Just the thought of Dr. Larson being anywhere near me is enough to make my skin crawl. I've spent the past eleven years putting him out of my mind, and pretending that he's gone forever; now, finally, he comes back into my life just as I think everything is going to work out.
"He's an old man," she continues. "He's in a wheelchair. You barely even have to -"
"You don't get it," I say, turning to her. "He's the one! He's the one who made me..." My voice trails off; there's no point trying to explain everything to her. The whole mess with Dr. Larson is so insane, I'd just come across as some kind of crazy person. I pause for a moment, and everything becomes clear. "I have to kill him," I say. "It's simple. I'll go there right now and I'll kill him, and then we'll -"
"Is that your answer for everything these days?" she asks.
"It's my answer for this," I reply, with mounting confidence. "All I have to do is go to his room, kill him somehow, and bring his body here. It's perfect. It might even turn out to be a good thing".
"And where are we going to put him? This place is filling up fast, Juliet".
"There's room for one more".
"And one more after that? And one more?"
"This'll be the last one," I say. "It's symbolic".
"What about Charles Taylor?"
I stare at her.
"Don't act all innocent, Juliet," she continues. "I know you've already started to think of ways to get rid of Charles Taylor so you can take over. We both know the only way you can remove him from the equation is to kill him and bring his body here, to me, so I can get rid of it".
"Can't you?" I ask, starting to feel a little annoyed by her tone. Why can't she just support me?
"When you killed Lizzie, it was self-defense. When you killed Piotr Cymbalista, it was... misguided, maybe, but you still claimed it was because you wanted to protect other people. And now you want to kill Stephen Larson because... because you don't like him? Because he makes you feel a little weird?"
"A little weird?" I say, raising my voice. I can't believe how insensitive she's being. If she knew what that man did to me when I was younger, she'd be marching straight to room 111 to help me tie a rope around the bastard's neck. "You weren't there," I continue, trying to stay calm. "You don't have a clue what it was like".
"Tell me".
"I can't even begin," I reply. "I can't explain it all. He was the psychiatrist I was sent to when things got difficult. He and my father, between them, were pretty much the biggest problem in my entire life!"
"And is your father going to be next?" She smiles. "After Lizzie McGuigan, and Piotr Cymbalista, and now maybe Stephen Larson... Is this all leading up to the most obvious target, Juliet? Are you going to try to kill your father?"
I take a deep breath. "This is about Dr. Larson," I say firmly. "It's not just me. I'm sure he screwed up a whole lot of patients. There are probably hundreds of girls out there whose minds got fucked with because that bastard thought he'd try out some new theories".
"And you're going to get revenge for all of them?"
I sigh, realizing how crazy I must sound.
"If you want to kill him," she continues, "then that's your choice. But don't act like you're some kind of vigilante, righting wrongs from the past. Admit that you're doing it because of what he did to you, not what he did to anyone else. Admit that it's your anger that's fueling this rage".
I stare at her. She used to be my ally, my friend, but now she seems to be deliberately causing me problems. It's as if she doesn't want me to kill him, but I know deep down that she thrives on this sort of thing. I guess it's just not in her nature to sit back and say nothing; she gets some kind of kick out of playing devil's advocate. What matters, though, is that I get the job done. Already, the thought of snuffing out Dr. Larson's life, after all these years, is filling me with a kind of intense, nervous energy. It's all I want. In fact, looking down at my trembling hands, I'm starting to think that I need to take a more direct role this time. I killed Lizzie by hitting her in the head with a fire extinguisher, and I killed Piotr Cymbalista with a pair of scissors; Dr. Larson, however, needs to be killed slowly, and I need to feel the life leave his body, and that means only one thing: I have to use my bare hands. I have to wrap them around his neck and squeeze the life out of him.
"Are you sure about this?" Jennifer asks.
I nod.
"And you think you can do it?"
I nod again.
"Then I can't stop you".
"But you don't think it's a good idea?"
"Who knows?"
Standing up, I walk away without looking back at her. There's something a little 'off' with her tonight, as if something's bothering her, but I don't have time to sit around trying to get to the root of the problem. I have my own issues to deal with, and I won't feel calm until Dr. Larson is dead. I thought I'd managed to get over the events of eleven years ago, but now it's clear that I need to take action if I'm going to have peace. If he'd stayed away from me forever, none of this would have been necessary. I don't know if there's a God, but if there is, it's his fault for turning the wheel of fate in such a way as to bring Dr. Larson back to me. If I don't kill him, I'll have to spend months or even years helping to look after him. Really, I have no choice about any of this.
When I reach room 111, I pause for a moment outside the door. It occurs to me that I should go and find some kind of rope, or something else to use when I kill him, but at the same time I feel I should definitely do this with my hands. I try to imagine what it will be like to squeeze his neck as he struggles; to watch the fear in his eyes as the life leaves his body; to finally let go and feel him fall limp onto the bed. The most important thing is that he knows, in his final moments, the kind of fear that I felt all those years ago. I want to take all the torment and horror I've experienced, roll it up into a little ball, and shove it down his throat. Men like Dr. Larson shouldn't be allowed to get away with their cruelty. So I guess maybe there is a God after all, since he's given me this opportunity to get my revenge. I have a feeling that after tonight, things are going to be much easier.
Opening the door, I peer into the room. At first, I assume he's asleep; there's no sound coming from the bed, and the lights are off. As I step inside and push the door shut, however, I hear movement under the sheets.
"Hello?" he says.
I open my mouth to reply, but I don't know what to say. Should I tell him who I am? Should I wait to see if he recognizes me? Surely, after what he did to me, he won't have too much trouble realizing who I am? Then again, maybe he had so many patients, it's hard to remember them all. Besides, his memory might not be so sharp these days. It's weird to think that someone could mentally torture a patient and then, just eleven short years later, not remember what happened.
"Hello?" he says again.
"Hi," I reply. My heart is racing, and I'm tempted to turn and leave, but I force myself to stay.
"Is that you?" he asks.
"Who?"
"The girl from earlier?" I hear his hand reaching out, trying to find the light switch.
"Yeah," I say, forcing myself to stay calm. "It's me. The girl from earlier".
"Is something wrong?" Still, he searches for that damn switch. "I was almost asleep. Are you going to keep coming in all the time?"
"No," I say. "This is the last time".
"I can't find the light switch," he says.
I pause. Maybe this would be easier with the light off. Then again, I guess my main aim isn't to make this easy. I need to see his face as he dies, and I need him to see mine. I need us to be look each other in the eye at t
he precise moment that he dies.
"Here," I say, reaching over and hitting the switch. As the light comes on, I see him looking frail and old in his bed. It's weird, but I remember him being a fairly large, imposing man. I guess the years have taken a toll.
"I'm quite alright," he says, staring up at me. "I don't need anything".
"You don't?"
He shakes his head. There's an awkward pause. "I'm sorry, is there something you want?"
"I..." My voice trails off. Damn it, I should have planned this better. I should have come up with some kind of eloquent speech. Instead, it's almost as if my mind is going completely blank. "I just came to..." I pause again. Why is this so difficult? Why don't I just tell him who I am, remind him how we first met, and then get on with what I need to do to him? Every second I wait is a second wasted.
"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. There'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..." I start to say, before pausing for a moment. Am I really ready to do this? "My name is Juliet Collier," I say finally. 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.
"Right," 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.
"So from your perspective, the only sign of her pain was that she screamed".
"She didn't scream," I say.
"Not at all?"
"Not at first".
"How soon did she scream?"
I take a deep breath. "After about a second".
"So then there were three or four seconds where she was screaming, and you still had her face held down firmly?"
I nod.
"You didn't let go when she screamed". Again, he looks at his notes. "What made you let go in the end?"
"I..." I pause for a moment, not really sure what to say.
"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 -"
"My father came out," I say, interrupting him.
"Your father?"
"And Samantha's mother. They came out to see who was screaming".
"And when they came out, you let go of Samantha's head".
I nod.
"And then 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 tear 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. Tell me, when this smiling happens, what are you thinking? Are you trying to make it stop?"
I nod.
<
br /> "So you're trying to stop, but you can't. Is that a fair assessment of the situation?"
I nod.
"Interesting," he mutters as he adds yet more notes. "And you're aware that other people react negatively when you smile in this context?"
I nod.
"But you can't stop it? No matter how hard you try, you can't help but smile when you're faced with any kind of emotional situation, even if that situation would ordinarily be expected to elicit some other response?"
I nod.
"Okay," he says, closing 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.
"Then why did you do it?"
I stare at him.
"Why did you do it?"
I stare at him.
"Juliet, why did you -"
"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. This is the only way I can think of to get him to leave me alone completely.
"No," he says after a moment. "No, Juliet, I don't think that's quite true".
