I peer over the rim of the bifocals, regarding the man with a level gaze. He sits silently on the plush burgundy couch, watching me in turn. I offer him a warm, inviting smile.
“You should smile more,” I encourage him.
He nods, eager.
I sigh.
It means he’s not listening again. He never listens; that’s his problem. That’s why he’s here.
You never listen.
I lift the clipboard and continue my cat doodle, adding some whiskers.
The man on the couch continues to mutely count the seconds. His breathing is strained, anxious. I suspect he has something he needs to say.
Or maybe he just wants to leave.
I look over, and he’s still staring at me. I can feel my patience slipping, but I keep it in check.
“I get the impression you’re feeling anxious, Thaddeus.” My tone hits a little sharp note at the end. “I’d like to assure you that nothing you say will leave this room. Do you understand?”
Hesitation, then a nod.
“Good.” I smile, setting the bifocals on the arm of the overstuffed velvet chair. I can’t see out of the damn things, anyway. But they have an effect.
His eyes flit to the door, then back to me. He thinks I didn’t notice.
“We don’t have a lot of time left in our session today, Thaddeus.” I nod toward the clock. “I don’t feel like we made as much progress as we could have. What do you think?”
Nothing.
What, you got something to say? Spit it out.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to talk about?”
I wait, turning back to my clipboard to let him mull it over. I add a little tail to Mr. Whiskers, and a big ball of yarn. Do cats really play with yarn? The only companion I’d ever known — ever needed — was my instrument, though it too would howl or purr at my touch. Every note, every sound… my design.
Silence.
Time’s up, kiddo.
“You know, everyone’s always saying that to me. You should smile more.” I rise, circling around the coffee table with the stale mints and the ancient copies of National Geographic. A large knife rests on one side. I stand over him. “My daddy used to say it. Said it to me, said it to momma. Really liked to say it after he hit me.”
I bring a fist down hard onto the table. It rattles, and a few of the mints topple out of the bowl, clattering across the immaculately polished surface. The good doctor flinches, then retreats deeper into the plush embrace of the couch. The beat is set, the allegretto rhythm set by the thudding beat of his heart. The symphony is ready.
You should smile more.
I smile for him — wide, toothy.
Good girl.
I curl my fingers into Thaddeus’ slick black hair and wrench his head back. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, meet mine. I tug the gag, now sopping wet from his tears and saliva, out of his mouth. He shifts, straining against the ropes binding his arms.
“W-Wait!” His words are hoarse, choked with emotion. Weak. “Listen to me! You don’t have to do this!”
I sneer at him. “You had it coming, you little bitch.”
His eyes grow wide, and his face twists into a tableau of exquisite terror as I retrieve the knife from the table with my free hand. A flicker of recognition flutters across his features but is quickly drowned by the cacophony of his distress. I hold it up to the amber light, emanating through the pretentious Tiffany lampshade in the corner. The metal glimmers in the reflection of his pupils; a gash of radiance smiling back at me.
The conductor and her baton, the audience’s breath held in anticipation.
So powerful.
Little bitch. Had it coming.
In one quick motion, I drag the edge of the knife across his left cheek, blade slicing cleanly through flesh before tearing free as it meets his lips. His screams shake the room, delicious sounds of fear and agony reverberating through the massive mahogany shelves. Strands of hair are freed from his scalp as he tries in vain to pull away. I give him a sharp tug and drive his desperate wailing into a satisfying crescendo.
Stop squirming, you little shit.
My knife digs in again, hungry. It pulls and lurches as the chorus of suffering rings in my ears. Finally, its appetite is sated as it comes to rest against the other cheekbone. I release him.
Crimson stains the doctor’s starched white collar, running dark rivulets down his neck and pooling on his chest. His head is slumped forward, shoulders lifting in time with his wracking sobs.
“I’m talking to you.” I look down my nose at the pitiful creature, the patter of blood dripping off the knife like a metronome keeping time to his soulful lament.
Look at me when I’m talking to you.
Heavy breathing. Whimpering.
“Look at me!”
He lifts his head, slow. His eyes don’t even bother to meet mine, lost in their own pathetic misery.
That’s better.
Much better.
I breathe it in, savoring the glory of my work. The knife falls, with grace and intent, signaling the end of yet another perfect performance.
I smile, and he smiles back — his bloody rictus grin.
“You should smile more.”
