Vindicta: The Story of a Vengeful Spirit

Chapter XI

            "Child, after all that happened, you do need psychiatric assistance," said the police officer. "This is non-negotiable."

"Really, and arranged by whom?" Dolores challenged. It was unwise, she knew, and damaging to her "innocent victim" act, but the thought of her sitting in a clean room, in front of some clown that would feign sympathy over her personal issues (which she would be forced to share) was enough to trigger her rage. And besides, the "tragedies" that had befallen her were almost enough to justify any change in personality.

"The court," the officer replied, and Dolores immediately knew that he was lying. The court does not meddle with this business. She was about the argue back, to call his little bluff, but she was suddenly reminded of her role; she was not supposed to know this, so she kept quiet, but inside, doubt filled her as she wondered who would have had the time to send her to this psychiatric care—and there was only one being, but she wouldn't send her to psychiatric assistance...would she? There was no purpose, at least Dolores hoped. Dolores sighed in mock defeat, but she would not be telling anything to some stranger that only listens to people's life issues for some money.

Dolores arrived at the appointment via taxi. How strange; she had never taken a taxi before. It was always chauffeurs for her. She did not exactly like her first time experience, the leather from the car seats had peeled-off parts, revealing the white foam underneath. The floor of the taxi was littered with white speckles of what Dolores presumed to be cookie crumbs or dandruff. The air was stuffy, and there was no button to turn on the AC at the back. The car smelled musty with the sickly scent of fake leather. Just sitting in the car made Dolores feel sweaty and disgusting. She knew the car smelled bad when she stepped out of the car and the polluted city air actually started smelling fresh.

The psychiatric building wasn't a kind place. Dolores did not have high expectations for this place, but the building far surpassed her lowest expectations. With the cost of those sessions, she would have expected somewhere cleaner. The formerly white had yellow stains running down them, the floors were covered with ashy footprints. Even the windows weren't clear, with some foggy brown colouring in them; some were cracked, while others were completely gone. Perhaps the quality of the psychiatrist would make up for the conditions of this hospital. Unlikely though, Dolores thought.

Room 413 was the one Dolores was looking for; it was the second-to-last room down the hall. She climbed up the stairs to the fourth floor because the filth of the elevator floor disgusted her. She was panting slightly when she reached the door, but vanity was never her style; she didn't mind. Using as little physical contact as possible, she pushed open the rusty metal door of room 413, not bothering to knock.

A short plump woman with a clipboard looked up. Dolores did not imagine Dr Clepta Animi to look like this. She had always imagined a tall woman with glasses and a clipboard. Although the woman did have a clipboard, Dr Clepta Animi had sharp eyes, without glasses, and she sized Dolores up in a way that almost made the girl feel uncomfortable.

The doctor patted a red sofa facing toward the one that she was sitting on, motioning for Dolores to take a seat. Dolores moved unsurely toward the chair, sitting stiffly and placing her leg in a position to avoid touching the tear at the edge of the chair. Dr Clepta Animi seemed to take note of this on her clipboard, making Dolores feel extremely awkward.

"Hello, darling," Dr Clepta Animi said, in a warm bubbly voice that was almost too fake. "You must be Dolores."

Dolores stiffly nodded.

"Let's not waste time and get started, okay? Why don't I tell you something about myself first. Hi, my name is Terra Madone Clepta Animi, I graduated from University of Milan in Italy. I don't live there—I just went there to study; have you been to Italy, Dolores?"

Dolores nodded and Dr Clepta Animi continued, "It was beautiful there, wasn't it? I own two cats, called Moss and Sage; I am not married; I have no children. Outside my passion for psychology, I love art. My passion for painting started when I was as young as you! Can you tell me something about yourself now, Dolores? What do you like to do?"

"Umm," Dolores started, faking unsureness. As she expected, Dr Clepta Animi marked this down. "Hello, my name is Dolores Banquesta, I like to, err, read."

"Reading? That's very nice, honey. Now, do you know why you're here?

Dolores nodded yes again, but the doctor only kept talking: "There's nothing 'wrong' with you, don't get me wrong, but following the recent happenings of your family, we all feel that you would be feel better after some sessions with me"—at this, Dolores mentally rolled her eyes—"so if you have anything to say or if you have anything to talk about, just come to me, m'kay?"

Dolores later learned that psychiatrists could be very evasive. Their conversations led to Dr Clepta Animi asking about Dolores's family multiple times, with Dolores steering the conversation away each time. Right after Dolores said something, the doctor would mark it down. Even though Dolores didn't know much about psychology or psychiatry, she was sure that Dr Clepta Animi's questions would have led to an emotional breakdown to any other patient that was really mentally affected, from the sheer evasiveness of those questions. It seemed as if she were purposefully prodding the wounds with a stick. Also, something about her fake bubbly tone made Dolores despise her.

Soon came the words that Dolores was rather relieved to hear: "Okay, sugar, this will be the end of our session; see you next Wednesday, hope this helped!"

"It did, thank you," Dolores replied sweetly. After they both exited the room, and Dolores watched Dr Clepta Animi step into the elevator, then she turned back with a bathroom excuse and re-entered room 413, but not to meet the vengeance spirit this time. She rushed to the downturned clipboard at the corner of the doctor's desk, curious to read the notes. The pen, full of ink, dropped to the ground in her rush, and she bent down to pick it up, careful not to let any part of her dress touch the ground. Then, swiftly, she turned the clipboard to read the notes.

The pen was full of ink—she had seen the tip of that pen touch the paper, she was certain it was that paper and there was no chance for the doctor to have changed the paper—but when she flipped that clipboard with the paper, almost eagerly, she saw that the paper was blank.