Scary Stories: Continued

9

I see the ad in the paper on morning. It's a good ad, very solid. The writer was definitely a professional. A name, a face, a degree. "Specializing in behavioral therapy and domestic violence." Maybe this will help me.

I have the first appointment within a day or two. She's a sweet woman, but she can't really stay on track. I ask her a question about herself, and she deflects it back at me. But of course this session isn't about me. It's about her. She smiles cautiously and explains how new this is for her. She hasn't even told anyone she was doing this yet. She just finished school, and this seemed like a good next step. We bond over our experiences with abusive fathers. She's really a lovely woman, but it's clear to me that she's in so much pain.

It was such a good idea to run that ad. People like me can get delivery so easily these days. And here I was thinking the newspaper industry was dead.

"You're a therapist!" she cries as I tie her up. "You're supposed to be helping me!"

I just chuckle, shaking my head. Of course I'm helping her.

Dead people don't feel pain.