#ipromiseiminquarantine

{28} The Psychologist

by  @i_am_little_bo_peep on IG (3157 words)

The first time Marsden met the Psychologist, he decided he was going to kill him. He didn't know when he would do it, how he would do it, or even why he would do it, but he had a distinct jab in his gut which always came when he identified a future victim. The Psychologist was a young man, the kind of man who could have easily found a better job than the one he'd ended up with, and he spoke with a kind of actor's accent which made him sound much cleverer than Marsden thought he was.

"How are you feeling, Leeroy?"

Not in the mood to answer questions, especially from a man who referred to him by his unfortunate first name, said nothing.

"Right." There was a scribbling sound as the Psychologist made a note. "Had any dreams recently?"

"Every night."

"What kind of dreams?"

"The good kind."

"What classifies as the good kind of dream?"

"The kind where I don't have to talk to you."

The Psychologist chuckled. "I understand you had a good relationship with my predecessor, is that correct?"

"I suppose so. A better relationship than with anyone else in this place."

"What's your name?"

"My name?"

"Your name."

"You know my name."

"I know your surname and your title. That's not your name."

The Psychologist made another note and said, "Henry."

"Where are you from, Henry?"

"Leeroy, this isn't the point of our session."

"If you don't answer, I'll give you the same treatment."

More scribbling. "I'm from Edinborough."

"You're a long way from home. What are you doing here?"

"It's my turn to ask the questions again."

"Fair. It's your job, after all."

"Quite right."

And the questions were asked. Sometimes Marsden didn't answer, sometimes he did. None of the questions interested him in the slightest, and he didn't like the Psychologist, which only gave him more incentive to kill him.

"What have you dreamt of?"

"You're awfully interested in my dreams, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I guess you're expecting some symbolic answer, something like freedom. Is that what you want me to say, that I've dreamt of freedom? Well I haven't. That'd make sense. Dreams don't make sense, and they never have. I dream of the same things I've always dreamt of. Last night I had one where I was with Jason in a train, and we jumped off and went swimming, and there was bookshop, or maybe a hardware store, on the banks, so we went in and bought ourselves a box of toy trains each, which we set up on the edge of the railway, because the river was gone now. I think that by that point it wasn't Jason anymore, it was Terry. But I couldn't say."

"Terry was your old cellmate?"

"One of them."

"The one who died."

"Correct-a-mundo."

"What happened?"

"They didn't tell you?"