The October Series

October 2nd: Murder at the Psychiatrist

I laid down on that soft cushion as my psychiatrist rambled on about whatever he thought was wrong with my sick, diseased brain. It was the late 70s, in the winter, and I was what you would classify as a sick neurotic. At that point, the tiniest things would bug me, and everyone urged me to visit a psychiatrist. I didn't care for my psychiatrist. He seemed like an odd man. He was optimistic, and was always convinced I could, 'improve', or 'do better'. Always fabricating lies. I never listened to him. I never understood what he was saying. I never bought into any of his schemes. I got bored at his sessions and decided to simply nod whenever he said anything, while silently questioning why the hell I was wasting good money on this man. I began counting the

seconds until our meetings ended. I always did this. Schedule and order are the most important things in the world to me. I hate being late, I hate when people say they will end the meeting at 8:10, and I end up leaving at 8:15. It fills me with such an indescribable rage, that I feel goes beyond being neurotic. I think they are the traits of a psychopath, which is why I've kept them to myself, not wanting to make an irreversible mistake.
One day, I was sitting down on this couch the doctor had. He talked and talked about what I could do, exercises I could start doing daily to manage my neurosis. All of a sudden, 4:00 struck, and he did not stop talking. I told myself to relax. I couldn't bear to listen to

another word of his nonsense, but it was simply a minute, what could go wrong?
He kept me there for another ten minutes, and I was disturbed.
This imbecile! I thought to myself, We agreed to 4:00 on the dot, and he thinks he can simply modify the schedule!
I stood up to leave and felt a grasp on my arm.
"Where are you going?", he asked in the most innocent voice.
"Have you not noticed that our meeting ended ten minutes ago?", I asked with a hint of annoyance.

"Well, let's experiment", he said, "How about we stay here for another ten minutes?"
"Why on earth would we do that?", I asked with outrage.
"Well, to challenge your neurosis, let's see what would happen if instead of 4:00, we end at 4:20. Doesn't that sound fun?", he asked.
I sat down, silently, not listening to him or what he was saying. For so long, I had feared this psychotic human within me. I had had him. He had a thirst for death. All of a sudden, it came clear. I didn't have to hide him, I had to embrace him.
What do you want to do? I asked myself.

I want to tear him to shreds. I want to harm him. I want to slowly and painfully pull him apart, limb by limb, watching his arteries bleed, and I want to hit him. I want to destroy him. I want him to die. I want to watch him bleed from every part of his body imaginable.
And I did exactly that. I don't know how, but somehow I killed him. I made him bleed to his mouth and eyes, and he choked on his blood. He screamed and yelled, but we were the only two in the building at that time. As I saw him painfully take his last breath, I felt a sense of satisfaction.