Dirty Psychopath

by Celia Crown

  A distant siren blares, but I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if the asylum weren’t so quiet. A dreadful thought comes to me as I wonder if everyone had met the same fate because of John’s madness.

  “We’re leaving, little girl,” he commands, but doesn’t move.

  I shudder at the cold tone of his voice. “But, Lisa—”

  “Will be fine,” he reckons impassively, “Or she won’t be.”

  He pauses and wraps a hand around my jaw to raise my eyes to his. “Your choice.”

  The ultimatum makes me lightheaded, queasiness gurgling in my stomach as it churns.

  The siren is getting closer, piercing my ears as I struggle to comprehend the choice being presented to me. I need time to think, but John applies smothering pressure to my jaw as a reminder of his demand.

  “You won’t hurt Lisa if I go with you,” I say, making it non-negotiable.

  I want his word that Lisa will be safe. I can’t let him hurt her because of my impulsive decision to go with John. I need to know he won’t go back on his word.

  He curtly nods with a pointed glare.

  I lick my lips and nod back as the sirens arrive at the building, flashes of light breaching the windows and striking the walls. He calmly stands his ground, ignoring the implications of the police seeing the carnage here.

  He will be in trouble with the law, the deaths of both Doctor Carrey and Doctor Hancock on his head. And there could be more deaths that occurred when I was unconscious.

  I grasp his hand, affirming the choice I am making about which way my life is going and the impact on my soul.

  For everyone’s sake, I have to do whatever it takes to stop John from harming anyone else. I don’t want Lisa’s blood on my hands; I will spiral out of control if her death is a result of my wrongdoing.

  I breathe deeply and spin around with his hand in mine, holding tightly in fear of being left behind.

  Nothing is said as we rush down the hallways; bodies slumped over, blood painting the surfaces like festive art, and objects scattered from panicked rummaging.

  I fumble with the lock on the door to the main employee area. The door opens with a groan and closes with a squeak, placing unnecessary stress on my heart as my hand trembles in John’s.

  He makes no move to comfort me when I glance over my shoulder as we make a beeline for the exit.

  John’s lips curl in a wicked smile, and triumphant lunacy shows in the loneliness of his eyes.

  For a moment, I wonder if I made the right decision by jumping into the lion’s den.

  John clutches my hand as if he is either reading my mind or sees the doubt on my face. But I continue to drag him down the stairs to the underground bunker with exposed pipes.

  The stale scent of dust and mold fills my lungs as I quicken my steps. This underground bunker leads to an abandoned exit that had been sealed off to prevent squatters from coming inside. I heard about this underground area through staff rumors but have never seen it before.

  There is only one way to get there, so it’s not hard to find with white lights shining above the iron bars of the exit door. The scent here now includes fresh grass from the other side of the door.

  I release John’s hand and examine the rusty lock, rattling the chain to see if it comes loose. No luck, though, and I drop the chain with a frenzied sigh.

  John calmly reaches over me and curls his thick fingers around the chain. He yanks on it nonchalantly, and his strength breaks the lock open. The oxidized chain thuds as it hits the ground.

  He shoves the barred door open, dragging the dried leaves and crusted mud along with it.

  He stands outside for a second, savoring the freshness of the world as he stares into the sky. Then he turns and extends his hand. I seal my fate by putting my hand in his.

  I’m in too deep; there is no going back. If I go to the police now, they will charge me based on the worst-case scenario. John would be able to use a criminally insane defense to get out of this. But I wouldn’t have a defense because I would be seen as an accomplice in this horrific event.

  John has proof that he’s not capable of taking care of himself. It’s been well-documented and filed with the court that he’s a killer who lacks the capacity to know what he did was wrong.

  A whisper of doubt wonders if John planned this five years ago, using an insanity defense to get away with the murder of any poor soul who crossed him.

  We’re in the same boat now.

  “I want to go home,” he says.

  I do take him home. My home because he doesn’t have one. I let him inside the place I feel the safest, inadvertently putting my roommate in danger from this psychopath.

  She’s not home yet, but she will be soon. I don’t know where to go from here.

  The journey home was blindingly fuzzy, but we made it into my living room in our dirty clothes.

  This is the wrong time and the wrong place to question his motives, but I need one piece of truth from him. He’s someone I have unknowingly let into my heart. But John’s an enigmatic puzzle who keeps evolving into someone special.

  “Why did you do this?” I ask with thick saliva choking the words.

  He leans down and presses his lips to mine. He breathes out an atrocious chuckle, so deep and disturbingly soothing.

  “Any of this,” I add as an afterthought. “Why?”

  He hums, slanting his lips more forcibly on mine as he grins. His tongue darts out, slithering through my lips and parting my reluctant teeth as he deepens the kiss.

  His tongue curls with mine. It’s innocent and curiously reassuring. It makes me forget what happened just a mere hour ago. I need to let the anxiety escape my mind, so I don’t cry.

  My life will never be the same again.

  His teeth bite down, and my tongue throbs painfully before I pull it back. I wince and hiccup; the pain is a wake-up call to face reality.

  John smiles indifferently.

  “I don’t know what ‘love’ is, but this is the closest I can get.”

  I never thought his actions were fueled by love. They have not been what a normal person does to someone they love. But I remember that John is not normal by anyone’s standards.

  He’s insane, to put it mildly.

  “This is the first time I have wanted something this badly, so badly that I killed to keep it,” he sneers menacingly.

  “Are you going to be a good girl for me?” he asks the innocent question with tyrannical vehemence.

  “I will,” I say as I swallow the fear. “I’ll be a good girl for you.”

  Epilogue

  John

  Five Years Later

  Be civil.

  That’s a concept I was just beginning to understand when a new neighbor moved in down the street.

  It didn’t bother me or disrupt my life. Whatever happens in the neighborhood doesn’t concern me as long as it doesn’t involve my family.

  I don’t care if the neighborhood watch group rallies about needing more protection when cars from other places drive down the streets to view Christmas lights. It’s easy for me to ignore people, and our neighbors think I’m an uncultured asshole for not having the common courtesy to greet them when I see them.

  They could have acid pouring down their throats, and I wouldn’t blink an eye.

  The new neighbors happen to be a young man with his wife and three-month-old baby. He had gone door-to-door at every home in the area to greet the owners in person.

  They had introduced themselves and their baby while making sure Jessie and I knew they’re newlyweds.

  I thought it would be the last time I talked to them because they live down the street. We rarely interact with anyone more than three houses away from us.

  I thought wrong.

  For some unfathomable reason, the husband took it upon himself to get acquainted with Jessie. My little girl doesn’t want trouble with the neighbors, so she chalked it up to being overly enthusiastic about meeting someone near his age.


  I did not like the man right off the bat; his eyes had wandered too low on my wife’s chest, and he held her hand for too long when they shook hands.

  Jessie often tells me about her day and what happened at work. She never fails to mention seeing that particular neighbor when she’s driving back to our neighborhood.

  It’s like he’s camped on his lawn and purposely waiting for Jessie.

  I never saw the man’s wife again or the baby. But he keeps coming over under the guise of asking questions about the neighborhood. I have security cameras mounted on our home’s exterior, so I know exactly when and how often he comes to our house.

  Jessie is uncomfortable with how frequently the man invites us out for drinks at the bar a couple of streets down.

  She has started pretending she isn’t home when he knocks on the door. Neither of us has given anyone our phone numbers. Despite all the times that she hasn’t answered the door, he continues to pester us.

  I’ve seen the way he looks at my wife, but he thinks I don’t notice. He doesn’t see me as a threat. If he’s thinking of a marital affair, that’s a mistake he will regret.

  “Why are you glaring at the couch?” my wife asks.

  I blink and turn my attention to her curious eyes. The adorable tilt of her head is making her hair cascade down her small shoulders. She just put our son down for a nap since he had been playing too long in the backyard.

  I keep an attentive eye out for my family and refuse to let anything destroy it; not that man, and certainly not Lisa.

  The only time she jumped back into our lives was two years ago when a private investigator found out where we lived. I sneaked up on his car and yanked him out the window, holding a boot to his throat until he told me everything.

  Lisa had hired him to find Jessie. Since then, I regret not ending her life when I had the chance. I made sure to properly introduce myself to the private investigator as “John Doe” and pounded into his head that I am a clinically-diagnosed sociopath with psychotic tendencies.

  The implications made him scurry away.

  I never told Jessie about Lisa or the private investigator. In her mind, Lisa exited her life five years ago.

  We moved here after giving everyone the impression that the gas line at our old house was unsafe. I thought we could settle down here, and life with our son would be peaceful.

  Life had different plans.

  “John?” she quips as she shakes my arm.

  I plant a kiss on the top of her head, and she flushes at the intimate gesture. We’ve been married for a long time and engage in more salacious intimacies than kissing. But these gestures make her blush madly.

  Her innocence is still visible when she stares at me in awe for doing something innocuous.

  “There’s a big sale at the outlet mall,” she mentions shyly, “Do you want to go?”

  Past experiences as her personal baggage handler come to mind. I don’t care if she shops; it alleviates her stress, and we make more than enough money. I spoil her, but shopping for herself has a different effect on her.

  She gets tired before I do, so it doesn’t bother me to carry her bags. Jessie feels guilty about it later and makes it up to me in the bedroom. It’s not something I would ever complain about.

  This time, I have something to attend to.

  “I have to work,” I remark calmly as her head tilts again. “I can drop you off and then pick you up when you call.”

  I don’t really have to work today, but it’s the easiest excuse to fool her with.

  She shrugs and nods. “Okay, but don’t work too hard, though.”

  I nod back before kissing her soft lips. She still smells of me after our morning together, and it mingles with her addicting sweetness.

  Jessie skips off to the bedroom to get ready for her shopping, and I watch her bounce around the hall on the security monitor that’s mounted on the kitchen counter. I have live feeds in the common areas, but I would never breach our intimate areas with surveillance.

  I’m not ignorant of the possibility of hackers.

  My eyes dart to another square that shows our son sleeping soundly in his playroom. That’s a good sign.

  I need him sleeping while I do this.

  I shove my hand into my pocket and clench the small baggie of dimethyltryptamine. This psychedelic drug causes the worst hallucinations and passes out of the system within twenty-four hours.

  My intention is not to make that man die of an overdose, but I do want him to die from the side effects. At the wrong dosage, it puts immense stress on the heart and results in heart attacks. I did manage to learn something in the asylum, and it’d be a shame not to use that knowledge.

  Coincidentally, the talkative man once mentioned that he has had high blood pressure since he was a child.

  It was like an invitation to give him an induced heart attack, and I couldn’t pass up the offer. Not when he’s adamant about wanting to sleep with my wife.

  I was going to wait for a better time, preferably one when the man’s wife and child were away from their home. But his presence is getting too infuriating.

  I can’t guarantee that I won’t crush his skull the next time I see him because he undoubtedly flirts with my wife every time he spontaneously runs into her.

  “Behave, husband,” Jessie chides with a playful grin.

  I hum and meet her lips with a kiss. The car key dangles noisily from her fingers as she kisses me back even harder. My arms curl around her waist, and I interlace my fingers. The wedding band digs into my finger as a symbol of her control over me.

  “Always, wife,” I vow menacingly.

  Finale

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