Asunder

Therapy Part 1

"I kill people. A lot of people. So many, in fact, I probably wouldn't be able to recall an exact number."

The psychiatrist's eyes stood wide open. His jaw hung slightly ajar, and his brow became slightly furrowed. Jack wasn't sure if the man believed what he was saying or if he thought he was just crazy. He kept talking anyways, casual and easy.

"There was this one girl last week. She'd been a waitress at this diner I usually go to for lunch, probably three or four times a week. Mizzoni's, I believe it's called. Very nice place, does an incredible caesar salad."

Still no reply. The therapist had gone rather white though. A small smile spread across Jack's face as he noticed it, but he repressed an outright smirk. He wanted the man to know he meant it. Dr. Webb, the one he had come to see.

The silence had begun to grow, leaving an almost palpable tension hanging in the air. He thought it would be in everyone's best interests to keep the conversation moving, and so he carried on.

"Her name was Marie. She'd seemed really nice. It was as if she truly understood me, at times. Every day I came I'd sit down at the same seat, and she'd come bring me a cup of coffee. She knew just how I liked it.

It started off normal, no talking or anything apart from the usual platitudes, but turned into something more. We started laughing more, getting to know each other. She really was splendid company. Every time she laughed she'd almost throw back her head. That always got me.

Fuck, she was gorgeous. I thought for sure that she was the one. So I asked her what she was doing after work, set up a date and offered to walk her home.

I killed her on that walk. Crushed her pretty little throat with my bear hands."

By this stage, David Webb had turned an awfully pale shade of yellow. His hands sat clammily on his lap, a notebook at his side. In his head he was unsure whether his new client was telling an unnervingly convincing lie or if he was completely insane. In all his years as a professional, he'd never encountered such a situation as he currently found himself in. The utter nonchalance of the client, one Mr. Jack H. Brewler, only exacerbated his fears.

Worry was not something a psychiatrist usually had to deal with in this capacity, and yet his shaking hands and profuse sweating made his feelings clear.

Jack, fidgeting with buttons on his shirt-cuff, stared at him, an air of expectancy in his eyes. He kept doing and undoing the button, several times, waiting, but no reply came. After several seconds, something had to be said.

"So, what's it like being a therapist?"