Minds of a Killer

First Session

      I’m waiting on an armchair in the building the lady I called works. I’m nervous. She’s a stranger to me, but yet I will try to trust her with my problems. I hope she’ll be able to help me. I’m not okay, and I know it. This time it’s different, I don’t think I have the strength to get over this problem. I’m powerless right now, and it scares me.
      “Tell me, Mr. ...”
      “Mark, tell me Mark.” I manage to say maybe too quiet.
      “Mark.” So she heard. Everything is fine, but it actually wasn’t. Just being there makes me uncomfortable, anxious. I’m sweating like I’m in a sauna just because of the thought that I will have to talk to her. I’m not used to express my feeling, I’m not used to talk to someone. I handle my problems in my own way, but it’s different now. I don’t have the power to control this. I need help. “What brings you here?”
     “I-I’m scared.” I feel crazy. It’s not a big deal after all. I must find a way to handle it, and maybe this isn’t the answer, maybe I’m overthinking like I always do. But something feels right about this. Maybe I’m exaggerating, maybe this isn’t too bad. My mind is full of contradictory opinions, that are clouding my judgement. Maybe I need help after all. “I feel anxious just because I’m here. I’m nervous ‘cos I don’t know if I did what I needed.”
     “Why do you think that, Mark?” She smiles as she notes something on a paper. She’s writing about me, she’s judging my answers. But this is her job after all. She needs to write things down, she needs to reflect on my answers, she needs to make me reflect on them too. But why does she write it so soon? It’s too early to form an opinion.
      “Because I don’t think I should talk to someone about my problems. I never did. I always found a way to help myself.” I need to close my eyes, I don’t want to see her reaction. I feel more comfortable like this, I feel like I’m talking to myself, in a weird way. But her presence is still here, making me want to puke after every single words I’m saying.
      “Alright. Have you ever thought that this is your way to help yourself? By seeking help?” Maybe she’s right, maybe this is what I needed.
      “No.” I haven’t thought about it. I need to, but how am I going to find the answer if I’m not sure.
       “Then what is the problem from your point-of-view?” She’s supposed to figure out the problem, so I don’t have to know this.
       “What do you mean?” I sound like a jerk. “Aren’t you suppose to figure my problems out?” I’ve been eaten alive by guilt after finishing the question. She just tries to help me, and she needs help helping me. She’s actually supposed to help me help myself, but I’m realising too late. I already spoke.
       “Is this your expectation about the counselling?” She doesn’t sound hurt. Maybe I wasn’t so harsh after all. Or maybe I’m not the only one asking that question. She must be tired of always hearing the same things, and I’m boring her with my stupid questions. But when I look at her she seems interested and curious.
      “Not really.” My answers are too short. I need to speak my mind. “I’m sorry. I think that you will try to help me. And I don’t want to seem rude, I’m sorry. I don’t know what should I say about the problem. I know something is wrong, but I’m not sure exactly what. All I know is that I’m sleep deprived and it all started when the B-lind Killer kidnapped his first victim. At first I thought that maybe I’m just scared, or I’m not feeling safe, but something just seems off. Something doesn’t add and it feels wrong.”
      “Why are you sorry for?” She smiles.
      “Because I’m not really helpful.” I’m not, and that’s the truth. I’m breathing harder and harder with every word I say. I’m not used to it. It makes me sick. I can feel her writing everything I say, everything I do on her little notebook. Does she have to write everything there? I don’t think she does. She can simply note only things that are important. But why is she writing then?
     “You said you’re scared. What scares you?”
     “Myself. I’m scared of myself. I’m afraid I might do something that I don’t want to do.” I think that she needs to note that down, but she doesn’t. She just stays there, watching me. Maybe she waits for more. Maybe she thinks that’s more. And there might be, but I’m not sure. I think I upset her.
     “Would you like to play a game, Mark?” She’s not mad, or she’s just covering her feelings. But she must understand what it’s like, she must be patient and calm. But I’m not. Her last question is echoing in my head, and slowly changed its effect. Now it’s a male’s voice. I can hear it over and over again. She notices this sudden change in my attitude. I’m trying to count to ten, to calm myself down, but I can’t.
      “Would you like to play a game, Mark?” Says my big brother. I’m always looking up to him, but this time he seems different. He smiles in a very weird way, and he scares me. But he’s my big brother, he won’t hurt me. I always like playing with him, even though he doesn’t play with me so often. He might not like it, but I do.
        “Yes. What game are we playing?”
        “First of all.” He’s weird. He keeps coming closer to me, and he smiles in that weird way. He starts touching me, getting my T-shirt off. I trust him. “We have to get naked.” And he’s taking he’s shirt off too.
        “Are we going to play in the pool?” My mom makes me undress when we’re playing in the pool.
        “Yes. Right after we finish this here.” He starts touching my legs, getting my pants off. He’s never like this, but maybe it’s part of the game. He unzips his pants too, and in a moment we shall go to the pool. “Do you want to touch it?” He says as his underwear falls on the ground.
        “Not really. It looks weird.” I’m a little grossed out by the look of his thingy. “What are we playing?” I’m holding my tears. I’m not scared of my own brother.  I trust him.
        “We’re just playing, bro. Don’t be scared.” He grabs my arms with one hand while the other starts touching my underwear parts. I’m trying to back off. “Don’t you wanna help me? It’ll be fun.” And he’s trying to open my mouth. I’m trying to yell, because I’m scared. But he doesn’t want me to. “Come on, we’re just playing.” And he puts one of my hands on him. It feels weird.
       “I don’t want to play...”
     “It’s just a game.” He smiles at me.
      “Mark, are you okay?” I think I blacked out. I don’t know for how long. I’m looking at the watch on the wall. 2 minutes. That’s not that long. Her blonde hair is on my arm.
      “Yes sorry. It’s just... You said something my brother used to say. You reminded me of him.” I hate him. I’m like this because of him. All of this it’s on him. He still has control over me, after all this time. I’m so weak.
      “What happened to your brother?” She notes my scene, and I can hear the sounds of the pen writing on the paper. It’s relaxing. I’m still having a few flashbacks, but I’m alright. The most important part is over. I can relax.
       “He died a few years ago.” I hate that I’m missing him. After all he did, I still cared about him.
       “I’m sorry for your loss.”
       “Don’t be.” She looks curious, and I know what she’s about to ask, and I’m not ready to answer that. I know that if I tell her now, it’s going to be real. And I don’t want it to be even realer than it already is. “I think that’s all for today. The hour is up. I’ll see you next week, Doctor Lilith.” I’m getting up, and I’m leaving the room. I don’t think that I’ll come again. I’m not ready for her help, and she won’t be able to help me if I can’t talk. I’m useless. Useless. Useless. Pathetic. I’m used to this kind of thoughts, but they seem louder now, more powerful, more meaningful. I need to sleep because I’m scared of what I’m going to do if I won’t go to bed. My arm is already full of scars from when I was little. I don’t think this is the solution, not anymore.