The Vampire of Sacremento

Fake Shag and Facinating Swirls

So I guess that the visits with my shrink were helpful. And not. All at the same time. They were helpful because I found out where my problem generated from. Apparently, I have repressed anger. Dr. Portman assessed this in our third meeting.

“So Richard,” Nancy thought that putting each other on first name basis would help me open up more. “Would you mind telling me about your childhood?” She crossed her legs and began her annoying habit of tapping her pen on her clipboard.

“Let’s start eight years ago, when you were ten.” She looked down at her clipboard and looked back up at me when I didn’t answer.

“Well, what do you want to know?” That’s such a broad question. Does she want to know what I ate for dinner on Friday nights? Roast beef with potatoes and green beans. Yum

“We can start at your home life” She stopped tapping and poised the pen to write.

“It was much like how it is now.” I shook my head, this was going to be really embarrassing and I know that she isn’t going to leave me alone until I gave her the answers she was looking for. I sighed.

“Is everything alright Richard?” The concern on her face was awarded with a slight shudder from me.

“Yes…Nancy. Everything is fine.” I looked at the carpet. It looked like fake Shag. Cheap ass doctors.

“Good. Then please continue.” She poised the pen again

“My dad wasn’t as…abusive then as he is now. Under less stress then I’m sure.” I shook my head.

“My parents were mainly both happy. He would bring her roses just to watch her face light up. Back then, we were all happy. He wasn’t waist deep in alcohol yet.”

“Did you have any problems when you were a child?” She cocked her head to the side and her eyes narrowed.  

“Well I had…some.” She must have talked to my parents. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to talk about this.

“I was informed that you had Macdonald triad.” I had Macdonald triad? Wow, you learn something new every day; including about yourself. What the hell is Macdonald triad anyway? I knew the confusion was plain on my face.

 “Macdonald triad is a combination of enuresis, pyromania and zoosadism.” She studied my face and watched more confusion pile there but didn’t bother to volunteer to tell me on her own accord. Predictable.

“I don’t know what those are.” I looked at the dog puke walls. They were starting to grow on me. If you looked hard enough, you could tell the direction in which the painters were painting.

“Enuresis is uncontrolled urination. Pyromania is when the subject starts fires to relieve stress. Lastly, zoosadism is when the subject takes pleasure in harming animals.” She looked at me with no emotion on her face, studying me. I didn’t know what to say

We just sat there for who know how long. She was looking at me; I was looking at the dog puke colored walls.

“Are those statements true?”

“Yea,”

“Would you mind telling me what you did and what, do you think, caused these things to come about?” Actually I would mind bitch. I really wish I had the guts to just get up and walk out of there.

“Yea, I guess.” I ran my hand through my hair. I studied the carpet as I told her about my childhood. How as my father drunk more and more and abused my mother and I, the more it stressed me. How when my father was gone, and my mother was sleep, I burned all of my dad’s green dress shirts (he had about nine). I knew that I would never confront him face to face so I just destroyed something that he needed. Pathetic yes I know. Green looked bad on him anyway and I think the new gut he was developing would  prevent him from getting the shirts on all the way. As for the killing of the animals for pleasure, I didn’t really want to talk about that.

“What kinds of animals did you capture?” I knew she wouldn’t let this subject drop.

“Cats,”

“Cats?”

“Cats,”

“Why cats?” She was genuinely curious about this.

“One night, my dad hit my mom. It was one of the first times he had done this. He got angry because the steak was undercooked.” I strongly remember the emotions that I felt as I watched my father’s hand connect with the side of my mom’s face. She fell out of her chair and crumbled into a heap on the floor. On instinct, I ran to her side to help her up. Before I reached her, my dad grabbed my arm and threw me against the wall. Get out of here! I ran out of the house crying and into the backyard. Then I saw the cat. It was sitting in the middle of the yard, just staring at me. What the hell are you staring at? Without thinking, I grabbed a shovel and beat the cat. As I watched the blood pool out of its little body, I felt the strongest sense of relief.

“How did this incident lead to the cat?” I looked away from the walls and into her intense hazel eyes. They were so beautiful.

“Huh?”

“I asked you how did this incident lead to you killing cats.” I was wondering if I could annoy her but it looks like she shows no emotion other than concern. What the hell.

“Oh, my dad kicked me out of the house after he hit her and I found a cat in our backyard. I was angry so I killed it; taking my angry out on it.” I dissected Mittens head. I explored what bones connected a cats paws to its legs by the ways disconnecting them. When I got bored, I buried the thing under an old Magnolia tree.

“So at your young age, you realized that harming these cats provided you with relief?” You could plainly see the fascination written across her face. This woman was very weird.

“Yes,” I began to study the ceiling. Puke walls and fake Shag carpeting were beginning to bore me.

“And when did you stop?” she asked after a brief period were she was writing on her clipboard.

“I killed around seven before I quit.  I accidently killed my best friend Beatrice’s cat Marshmallow.” She never found out that it was me who killed him. I didn’t care that it was her cat though, I just cared that I had hurt her. So I stopped with the neighborhood cat killings.

“Did Beatrice find out that it was you who had done this?” More scribbling on the clipboard.

“No, I didn’t tell her. I knew that she would hate me if I did.”

“Did you parents ever find out about your abductions?” More scribbles.

“No, I made sure to bury them away completely.” The ceiling was kind of an off white color; complete with intricate swirls all fanning towards the middle.

“Do you think that if you had never found out that you killed Beatrice’s cat that you would have stopped?” pen poised

“I probably wouldn’t have stopped. I didn’t give a damn about those cats or their owners.” Scribble scribble.

No one gave a damn about me. But those swirls were indeed quite fascinating.