by Amy Cross
"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".
I stare at him.
"You're going to have to tell me eventually".
I stare at him.
He stares at me.
I stare at him.
He stares at me.
"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 think?"
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 evil, 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. "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".
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. The balance is off. It's just not a wise thing to do. 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. "I'm not looking for a... continuation of our old relationship".
"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 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 help you. I could never have made everything perfect for you. You understand that, don't you? If you feel I let you down because your life isn't how you want it to be, you must recognize that the responsibility is yours and yours alone. I tried to help you, and I hope I had some impact, but -"
"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 was bad. 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. "I really, really would have been fine. I would have just got through everything without any problems, but you..." I pause for a moment. "You and my father, between you, made me like this. I could have..." I pause again, trying to make sense of my thoughts. "I'm not saying it's your fault," I add, before deciding that there's no point explaining everything. 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 push me away. He reaches up to his neck and tries to pull my hands away, as he stares at me with a terrified look in his eyes. His whole body is twitching and convulsing as he tries to push me away. 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, he 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, so pleased with myself and so, 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.
There's a part of me that wants to sit here with his body and just stare at his dead face, but I feel I should probably get on with the job of hiding him away. I carefully lift him off the bed and set him on the floor, before opening the door and dragging him out into the corridor. After double-checking that there's no-one nearby, I start hauling him toward the abandoned ward. He's fairly light, and I've started to get better at pulling bodies along, so it doesn't take too long before I'm at the door. I reach into my pocket and pull out the key, before opening the padlock, pushing the door open, and dragging Dr. Larson's body into the cold, brightly-lit corridor. Soon I've managed to maneuver him all the way to the rec room, at which point I start glancing about for Jennifer Mathis. She usually meets me as soon as I enter the abandoned ward, and shows me where to put the body, but this time there's no sign of her.
"Hey!" I call out.
Nothing. No reply.
"Jennifer!"
I wait. Where the hell is she? I want her to see what I've done; I want her to finally understand how important it was for me to do this. She's the only person I can share these moments with, which I guess means she's my only friend. I smile, feeling kind of pleased that I've finally got someone in my life who understands me.
"Jennifer!" I call out again, but there's still nothing. Leaving Dr. Larson's body on the floor for a moment, I head through to the next corridor. "Jennifer!" I listen out for some sign of her, but there's nothing. Suddenly, I feel very cold and alone in this part of the building, and I feel a slight sensation of panic in my gut. "Jennifer!" I call again, hurrying back through to the rec room and almost tripping over Dr. Larson's body. "Jennifer!" I try to keep calm, but there's something strangely ominous about her disappearance. "Jennifer!" I shout as loud as I can, determined to make her hear me. Still, something tells me that she's nowhere around. "Jennifer!" I pause for a moment. "Jennifer! Where are you?" I wait. Nothing.
"Jennifer!"
Chapter Six
Eleven years ago
"There's no need to be afraid," Dr. Larson says, dropping the pill into my hand. "It's not magic. It's a drug that has been designed specifically to help people like you. It stimulates certain hormones, and represses others, and it makes changes in the chemical balance of your brain. The aim is to reduce your negative thoughts and generally make you more open to positive ideas. Most importantly, it helps you overcome certain barriers that you might have erected in your subconscious. What do you think of it?"
I stare at the pill. The thought of swallowing this thing is terrifying. I don't want to change; I don't want to have chemicals balanced in my head, or whatever he's talking about. For the first time since I started coming to see Dr. Larson, I'm feeling genuinely scared. Whatever's in this pill, it could change me in a way that I wouldn't be able to resist; it could enter my body and rewire my brain, turning me into someone else.
"I've spoken to your father," he continues, "and we've agreed that it would be in your best interests to take a single course of these pills, to see whether they can help you. What I'm hoping, Juliet, is that they'll help boost your endorphin level. Do you know what that means?" He waits for me to answer. "Basically, it means that you'll be happier. My theory is that if you're happier, you'll be more engaged with the rest of the world, and you won't dwell too much on negative things. Do you think that might be something that could help you?"
Still staring at the pill, I slowly shake my head.
"I'm afraid you're just going to have to trust me on this," he says. "I've treated a very great number of people who have problems that are very similar to the issues you're dealing with, and I can assure you that these pills have worked wonders for them. All you have to do is take one every day, and wait for the results. It won't be instant, and you might feel a little nauseous at first. I've told your father all about the possible side-effects, and he knows how to help you if you feel ill. It might be hard at first, but I assure you that eventually you'll be very grateful for these little white miracles. And don't worry. They're not a permanent solution. Eventually we'll have retrained your brain, and you'll be able to stop taking the pills. Doesn't that
sound good?"
I close my eyes. Is this really happening? Are they really planning to change my brain? Why don't they just cut my head open and start poking me with knives? Why don't they fill me up with chemicals, or attach electrodes to my temples? A pill seems like such a cowardly method; it's as if they want to sneak into my body and slowly force changes over an extended period of time.
"Say something, Juliet," Dr. Larson continues.
"I don't want to take it," I reply.
"Why not?"
I stare at him.
"Are you scared? Do you feel as if your current emotional state is something precious? Something to be preserved and nurtured? Do you feel that you're unique, and that you don't want to get better? After all, getting better might seem like a way to just sink into the crowd and become forgettable. Is that the problem?"
I shake my head.
"Then what?"
I sigh. Why doesn't he understand? Damn it, why can't I work out how to explain it in a way that he'll understand?
"You don't have a choice," he continues. "In my professional opinion, this is the only way to help you. You're a good girl, Juliet, but you need a little help. You're going off the rails, but fortunately you have people around you who are only too willing to make sure you get sorted. Would you prefer that no-one bothered? Would you prefer it if you were just left to drift?" He smiles, as if he's trying to be my friend. "This pill is a lifeline. It's going to solve your problems. It's going to take all the darkness out of your soul and leave behind the real you. Doesn't that sound exciting?"
"What does it taste like?" I ask.
"I don't know," he replies. "Probably nothing. But you can wash it down with juice".
I can't take my eyes off the pill. It looks so small and innocent, but it has the potential to change my brain completely. There's a part of me that wonders whether I should just surrender, start taking the medication, and hope that Dr. Larson is right when he says that I'll feel better. I've fought against him, and against my father, for so long now; I'm tired, and I just want to rest. The thought of my life always being like this is terrifying, so perhaps the best option would be to start taking the pills and let myself float away into a new life of happiness and comfort. Besides, I doubt I've got much choice: my father will insist I take the pills, so I'll have to work extra hard to trick him if I want to stay clean. Slowly, and with a mounting sense of fear, I reach out to take the pill from Dr. Larson's hand.
