The 'Mentalist' Association

Past Rage

Past Rage

By @Bethy1416, Britain

*Angela Jane*

"Look, Mommy! Daddy's on TV!" Charlotte shouts, jumping up and down. I walk over to her and sit on the edge of the couch.

"So he is, sweetie-" I stop. I gaze into the screen and stare straight at him. My husband. My psychic. His smile forcing his eyes to dance as the subject of police work arises. "Right. Go on upstairs," I tell Charlotte.

"But Daddy's on the television."

"Yes, but I've asked you to go upstairs." My raised voice surprises her and she looks up at me with her big blue eyes, just like Patrick's. "Choose your bedtime story," I soften, stroking her blonde curls. She does as she's told and hurries up the stairs clutching her white, droopy toy rabbit.

I turn back to Patrick on the TV. I knew as soon as I heard the name that Charlotte shouldn't listen anymore. She shouldn't watch her father test the boundaries of safety and risk, or watch him turn into the devil he is not. This is the being he morphs into. I've seen it plenty of times to understand that this is not actually the gentleman I married.

Red John is a man only adults are allowed to worry about. Charlotte is young and naïve. Her beautiful turquoise eyes prove that. Hers are like calm oceans, whereas her father's are like blue, cloudy skies. More often cloudy than not.

"In this case, Red John... He's an ugly, tormented little man. A lonely soul. Sad, very sad..." Patrick informs the reporters. 'Why do you have to say stuff like this? I thought you'd know by now that taunting a serial killer is just as good as signing your own death warrant.' But what's the chance of Red John witnessing his snide comments? Surely he'd have more important things to do with his time?

I physically shake my head, wanting all my worries to shatter against my skull and plummet towards gravity. I get up from my position on the arm of the couch and head towards the piano. Music sheets are scattered over the varnished surface from Charlotte's amateur medley which occupied this morning. She'll be playing like Mozart in no time... Or maybe more of a Beethoven, judging by her performance of Für Elise. It was impressive for a six year old.

"Mommy!" Charlotte calls from the top of the stairs. I jump out of my trance and turn to face my beautiful little girl stood in her pale pink pyjamas, the cuddly rabbit still wedged under her arm.

"Have you chosen tonight's story?" I ask walking towards her. She simply nods with a grin across her face, a small gap at the front from where a milk tooth had made its departure yesterday, which caused great excitement. I scoop her up as a bubble of giggles escapes her lips and I plant a gentle kiss on her forehead. She smells of strawberries and cream, the shampoo I'd washed her hair with earlier. She nuzzles her bunny against her neck and fiddles with its floppy ears. I carry her into her bedroom and carefully lower her onto the bed then I begin the story...

I tuck the blanket around her and stroke her head as she lies in a peaceful slumber. Then I slowly rise off her bed and turn the table lamp off. I pull her door shut then begin to slowly rub my temples, attempting to push away an ever-growing migraine. I don't know why but I have an odd feeling inside, an anxious wave constantly rippling through me. Maybe it's just a mother's instinct. But it's peculiar, whatever the reason.

I take the last mouthful then lightly place my mug in the sink and make my way upstairs. Patrick's not back yet, but he'd specifically told me not to wait up for him. He'll cruise in later tonight, or early in the morning. I release my hair from the secure clasp of a band and let it fall past my shoulders. I climb into bed and try not to focus on the crisp sheets that are sending shivers all over my body. I think of Patrick and Charlotte and general stuff that I need to remember, until I slide into a sleep that's not as calm as my daughter's.

My eyes open so quickly that I don't have time to get them into focus. I see a blurry outline of a figure towering over me... It's only Patrick.

"Patrick?" I ask, raising a hand towards their face. But no reply, just the steady rhythm of breathing. Suddenly my outstretched fingers are pierced with something sharp, sending a convolution of pain racking through me. I recoil and gaze at the trickle of blood weaving a path down my palm. When I look back up the figure is so close I can feel their little clouds of moist breath against my neck.

"Your Patrick has done this to you, my dear." A chilling voice breaks out. "And don't you worry, I'll never let him forget it..."