Kill Or Be Killed // McHarrison

One

I sat there, in the sterile room, gently tapping my pencil on the edge of my clipboard. I couldn't be nervous anymore. I had dealt with enough people to know how to react. I had dealt with enough asylums, murderers, rapists, psych wards and rooms exactly like this one, to know that this was it. Eight-teen successful investigations, nine executions, seven life sentences, two fraud, and I was done. Five months from now Id be in America, finally living a semi-normal life.

I pull my coat tighter around my chest and shiver. The room was completely white, every wall and inch of surface, which made me feel colourful in my black suit. I sat in one chair, and apart from the other chair opposite me, a meter or so away, there was nothing else in the room.

My eyes lazily scan, once again, over the file.

Name: George Harrison

Sex: Male

Age: 23

Born: Feb 25, 1943, Liverpool, England

Height: 5′ 10″

Crime/s: 16 murders

Mental state: Unknown

I stretch out my arms and continue to look at the bland piece of paper.

Unknown

That was my job. This guy, George whatever, was scheduled to be executed in a three months, and I was the only one who could plead him insanity or let it carry out. And frankly, I didn't want to do either. If he was a murderer, then he should suffer the consequences, but yet again, he was also a human being and I didn't like feeling responsible for his death.

From the other side of the large, white room, the door finally opens to reveal three men. Two of which were guards, dressed in a formal uniform. And the other man, was the prisoner; Mr. Harrison. As they walk closer, their footsteps echoing in the massive space, I finally get a look at Harrison.

He looked.......well, he looked freakishly normal. Most of my patients had something terribly wrong with them, a scar, a missing finger, and they generally looked terrifying. But this man looked more normal than normal people did. He had high cheek bones that framed his cool, torpid brown eyes. He had a mane of brown hair, messy around his face and hiding his ears. His face was emotionless as he approached, flanked by the two guards, but once he finally was close enough to see me, his eyebrow lifted a little in amusement. He looked a little anxious though, his hands fidgeting in their cuffs as he walks.

I stand as he nears and offer my hand out to him. "ello, 'm Paul McCartney, yer new psychologist." I say blandly and he looks at my hand then back up at me with a weird glance, but shakes it anyway.

"Yer from Liverpool." He states randomly, his thick accent similar to mine. My eyebrow raises and I nod, sitting down and gesturing for him to do so too in the chair opposite me. He does and the two guards back off, walking back over to the door and standing either side of it. George looks at me expectantly, his skinny knee bouncing nervously.

Glancing back down at his file, I start to initiate the dreaded conversation. "16 murders." I mention, getting straight to the point. His brown orbs turn downward as he doesn't meet my eyes.

"That's a way to start a conversation." He mutters quietly, picking at the chains around his hands.

"Fine. If yer want to talk properly then; tell me a few things about yerself, George." I sigh. This boy was excruciatingly different from my other patients, I really didn't know how to act. He wasn't psychotic, at least from what I'd seen so far, and I was waiting for him to snap and turn out a maniac. But he looked nervous which was unheard of, and he looked like an average lad.