by Amy Cross
Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. I turn and head through to the wards, making sure to check in each room. Fortunately, all the residents seem to be sleeping soundly, and eventually I get to room 111 on the red ward. This is where the new resident has been placed; I carefully open the door and peer into the darkness.
"Hello?" calls out a frail male voice.
"Hi," I say quietly, unable to make out anything more than a vague shape in the bed. "It's okay, I'm just checking on you. You can go back to sleep."
"I'm not tired," the voice replies.
"Do you want a sleeping pill?"
He pauses for a moment. "I suppose so."
"I'll be back in a minute," I say, pulling the door shut and hurrying through to the supply cupboard next to the rec room. The last thing I want tonight is to have some new guy wandering the halls, so I figure a sleeping pill won't cause too much harm. As I grab a glass of water to help him wash the pill down, it occurs to me that when I started at Crestview a few weeks ago I'd never have been able to just casually offer someone some medication. To be honest, I'm not even sure if I'm technically allowed to do this. I'm sure there are loads and loads of rules about such things, but I figure it can't hurt. I've got a kind of natural affinity for this job; for the first time in my life, I'm actually good at something.
"Here you go," I say as I return to the resident's room. "Do you want me to switch the light on?"
"If you want," he replies.
I flick the light switch and see that he's a thin old man with a thick head of gray-white hair. He smiles at me as he takes the pill and the glass, but as I wait for him to finish, I can't help thinking that I recognize him from somewhere.
"Didn't realize there was room service around here," he says, setting the glass down.
"I like to do everything I can to make sure you're comfortable," I reply. It suddenly occurs to me that whereas all the other residents were here when I arrived, and saw me when I was timidly following Lizzie around, this guy is meeting me for the first time; he probably thinks I'm some kind of professional. I have to admit, I feel a slight thrill of pride at the thought that someone would actually be impressed by me.
"So tell me," he continues, "if I can't sleep, am I allowed out of my room? Or do I have to stay in here and fester?"
"You're not really supposed to get up," I reply. "You can watch TV. Just make sure you keep the volume down."
"Forget about it," he says, lying back down. "I'll probably just nod off after a while."
"If you need anything, just hit this button here," I say, indicating a small button near the bed. "Anything at all, just go ahead and call for me, okay?"
Once I've left the room, I wander along the corridor on my way back to the office. I don't need to go and do more checks for a few hours, so I have a little time to spare. Unless I hear anyone getting up and shuffling about, I guess I'll just start going through some more of the facility's files. I need to build up a compelling case against Mr. Taylor, to prove that he's taking money from the budget and spending it on himself. While I'd like to just kill him and hide the body, I figure I need to take a more subtle approach if I'm ever going to have a chance of taking over. Once I'm in the office, I take a seat at the desk and pause for a moment. Picking up the new patient's file, I open it to the first page and see a photo of his smiling face. I glance over at the basic information and -
I freeze.
Reading the name over and over again, I try to tell myself that I'm making a mistake. It's not possible that it could be him, but at the same time the name is right there in front of me, in black and white. Looking back at the photo, I realize it's true. After all these years, fate has somehow conspired to bring us back together. Eleven years ago, I was Dr. Stephen Larson's patient; now he's my patient.
Chapter Two
Eleven years ago
"Hi!" says the receptionist brightly, looking pleased to see me. "You're here for eleven o'clock, right?"
I nod cautiously. Although Dr. Larson's receptionist seems nice enough, I still don't trust her. To be honest, I don't trust anyone here. It's almost as if they're part of some elaborate conspiracy to get into my mind and change things around. I wish they'd all just understand that I don't want to be changed. I'm fine as I am.
"Dr. Larson's running a little late," the receptionist explains. "If you can just wait out here for a little while, he'll be with you shortly." She looks over at the door. "Isn't your father with you today?"
I shake my head. My father had to work, so he dropped me off outside and he's going to pick me up in an hour.
"Well, just take a seat, Dr. Larson will see you soon. Can I get you a drink while you wait?"
I shake my head, before walking over to a seat at the other end of the room and sitting down. It's weird, waiting for something that I hate; I'd rather be anywhere else right now, but at least the lateness means the session should be reduced a little. I'm dreading today, because I know we'll have to talk about Samantha. He'll ask all these stupid questions about why I bit her and what I thought I'd achieve. It's going to be useless and boring.
"Would you like a biscuit?" the receptionist calls out.
I turn and stare at her. Why does she keep trying to be nice to me? All she has to do is sit there, answer calls and occasionally let people know if things are running late. "No," I say. "Thanks."
Turning to look out the window, I find myself wondering how many more times I have to come to see Dr. Larson. The first time was kind of fun in a way, because it was new and I wanted to see how it'd work, but since then I've started to hate these sessions. Dr. Larson is always so focused and searching, and my attempts to outwit him have mostly come to nothing. I've tried various different strategies, but he's managed to anticipate them all. I've never met someone before who is so completely able to avoid being manipulated. When I started coming to see him, there was a part of me that thought it might be a fun game; these days, I dread every visit.
After a few minutes, there's some noise over by one of the doors and I see a woman emerge from Dr. Larson's office, along with a young girl. About my age, the girl has red, puffy eyes, as if she's been crying, and she's wearing a bright blue dress. Her mother gestures to a nearby seat, and the girl sits down. While her mother is busy talking to the receptionist and paying for the session, the girl sits obediently. She stares down at her feet, but I can tell she wants to look over at me. Eventually, she turns her head a little and glances at me; as soon as she sees I'm returning her gaze, she looks away.
Once her mother has finished talking to the receptionist, the girl gets up and heads out of the room. As she reaches the door, she looks back at me one final time. For a moment, I can't shake the feeling that there's some connection between us, as if she might be the one person in the whole world who could come close to understanding what it's like to be me. I watch as she heads outside and gets into her mother's car, and a moment later she's driven away. Taking a deep breath, I realize that I'll never see her again. That was my one and only chance to ever meet someone like me, and it's over. I can't help but feel a little sad.
"He'll just be a few more minutes," the receptionist says.
I turn to her.
"Just hold tight," she adds with a smile. It's almost as if she thinks I should be looking forward to the session. I guess she doesn't know what Dr. Larson's really like. She just sits out here and deals with his patients as they arrive and leave, but she doesn't ever go into the treatment room and find out what really happens. I'd kind of like to find some way of dragging her through with me. She seems pretty nice, and I can't help wondering if she'd help me if only she knew the truth about Dr. Larson's methods. Then again, maybe she knows all about me? Maybe she's read my file, and listened in at the door when I'm with Dr. Larson? If that's the case, she probably knows that I'm evil, and she's just pretending to smile at me.
"You can't hide it, you know," says the voice of the imaginary normal guy. I've been hearing her for quite a while now; s
ometimes I choose what she says, but lately she's been starting to force her way into my head a little more often. "You used to be able to hide it, but it's getting harder. You want to know why it's getting harder? Because of people like Dr. Larson. He's going to do something today that'll hurt you. You need to be very careful, Juliet."
After a moment, the intercom buzzes and the receptionist looks over at me. "Juliet? You can go in now."
I stare at her. I feel like my legs won't work; it's as if my body is rebelling and refusing to go in to see Dr. Larson.
"Juliet?" She stares at me, waiting for me to get up and go to the door.
I take a deep breath. I can't just sit here. I have to get up and go through. If I don't -
Suddenly the door opens and Dr. Larson comes out into the waiting room. "Hi, Juliet," he says calmly. "Are you ready for our little chat?"
Getting up from the chair, I walk slowly across the room. Glancing in the other direction, I see the door that leads outside. That's where I want to go. More than anything, I want to turn and run and never, ever come back. I know everyone would start looking for me, and they'd probably find me eventually, but at least I wouldn't have to see Dr. Larson today. Still, I know this isn't an option. Walking past Dr. Larson, I head into his office. Finally, I stop by the large leather sofa and glance back; just as Dr. Larson pulls the door shut, I spot the receptionist still smiling at me. Maybe I'm reading too much into the expression on her face, but as the door closes, I can't help thinking that she looks as if she feels a little sorry for me.
Chapter Three
Today
"So what's the problem?" Jennifer Mathis asks as we sit in the rec room of the abandoned ward. "You know the guy from some time in the past. Big deal."
Sitting with my head in my hands, I stare down at the carpet. She doesn't understand. Until this point, she's understood everything, but this is something that's my problem and mine alone. Just the thought of Dr. Larson being anywhere near me is enough to make my skin crawl. I've spent the past eleven years putting him out of my mind, and pretending that he's gone forever; now, finally, he comes back into my life just as I think everything is going to work out.
"He's an old man," she continues. "He's in a wheelchair. You barely even have to -"
"You don't get it," I say, turning to her. "He's the one! He's the one who made me..." My voice trails off; there's no point trying to explain everything to her. The whole mess with Dr. Larson is so insane, I'd just come across as some kind of crazy person. I pause for a moment, and everything becomes clear. "I have to kill him," I say. "It's simple. I'll go there right now and I'll kill him, and then we'll -"
"Is that your answer for everything these days?" she asks.
"It's my answer for this," I reply, with mounting confidence. "All I have to do is go to his room, kill him somehow, and bring his body here. It's perfect. It might even turn out to be a good thing."
"And where are we going to put him? This place is filling up fast, Juliet."
"There's room for one more."
"And one more after that? And one more?"
"This'll be the last one," I say. "It's symbolic."
"What about Charles Taylor?"
I stare at her.
"Don't act all innocent, Juliet," she continues. "I know you've already started to think of ways to get rid of Charles Taylor so you can take over. We both know the only way you can remove him from the equation is to kill him and bring his body here, to me, so I can get rid of it."
"Can't you?" I ask, starting to feel a little annoyed by her tone. Why can't she just support me?
"When you killed Lizzie, it was self-defense. When you killed Piotr Cymbalista, it was... misguided, maybe, but you still claimed it was because you wanted to protect other people. And now you want to kill Stephen Larson because... because you don't like him? Because he makes you feel a little weird? Because you want revenge?"
"You weren't there," I say, trying to stay calm. "You don't have a clue what it was like when I used to go and see him."
"So tell me."
"I can't even begin," I reply. "I can't explain it all. He was the psychiatrist I was sent to when things got difficult. He and my father, between them, were pretty much the biggest problem in my entire life!"
"And is your father going to be next?" She smiles. "After Lizzie McGuigan, and Piotr Cymbalista, and now maybe Stephen Larson... Is this all leading up to the most obvious target, Juliet? Are you going to try to kill your father?"
I take a deep breath. "This is about Dr. Larson," I say firmly. "It's not just about me. I'm sure he screwed up a whole lot of patients. There are probably hundreds of girls out there whose minds got fucked with because that bastard thought he'd try out some new theories."
"And you're going to get revenge for all of them?"
I sigh, realizing how crazy I must sound.
"If you want to kill him," she continues, "then that's your choice. But don't act like you're some kind of vigilante, righting wrongs from the past. Admit that you're doing it because of what he did to you, not what he did to anyone else. Admit that it's your anger that's fueling this rage."
I stare at her. She used to be my ally, my friend, but now she seems to be deliberately causing me problems. It's as if she doesn't want me to kill him, but I know deep down that she thrives on this sort of thing. I guess it's just not in her nature to sit back and say nothing; she gets some kind of kick out of playing devil's advocate. What matters, though, is that I get the job done. Already, the thought of snuffing out Dr. Larson's life, after all these years, is filling me with a kind of intense, nervous energy. It's all I want. In fact, looking down at my trembling hands, I'm starting to think that I need to take a more direct role this time. I killed Lizzie by hitting her in the head with a fire extinguisher, and I killed Piotr Cymbalista with a pair of scissors; Dr. Larson, however, needs to be killed slowly, and I need to feel the life leave his body, and that means only one thing: I have to use my bare hands. I have to wrap them around his neck and squeeze the life out of him.
"Are you sure about this?" Jennifer asks.
I nod.
"And you think you can do it?"
I nod again.
"Then I can't stop you."
"But you don't think it's a good idea?"
"Who knows?"
Standing up, I walk away without looking back at her. There's something a little 'off' with her tonight, as if something's bothering her, but I don't have time to sit around trying to get to the root of the problem. I have my own issues to deal with, and I won't feel calm until Dr. Larson is dead. I thought I'd managed to get over the events of eleven years ago, but now it's clear that I need to take action if I'm going to have peace. If he'd stayed away from me forever, none of this would have been necessary. I don't know if there's a God, but if there is, it's his fault for turning the wheel of fate in such a way as to bring Dr. Larson back to me. If I don't kill him, I'll have to spend months or even years helping to look after him. Really, I have no choice about any of this.
When I reach room 111, I pause for a moment outside the door. It occurs to me that I should go and find some kind of rope, or something else to use when I kill him, but at the same time I feel I should definitely do this with my bare hands. I try to imagine what it will be like to squeeze his neck as he struggles; to watch the fear in his eyes as the life leaves his body; to finally let go and feel him fall limp onto the bed. The most important thing is that he knows, in his final moments, the kind of fear that I felt all those years ago.
Opening the door, I peer into the room. At first, I assume he's asleep; there's no sound coming from the bed, and the lights are off. As I step inside and push the door shut, however, I hear movement under the sheets.
"Hello?" he says.
I open my mouth to reply, but I don't know what to say. Should I tell him who I am? Should I wait to see if he recognizes me? Surely, after what he did to me, he won't have too much trouble realizing who I am? Then again,
maybe he had so many patients, it's hard to remember them all. Besides, his memory might not be so sharp these days. Is it possible that he won't remember me?
"Hello?" he says again.
"Hi," I reply. My heart is racing, and I'm tempted to turn and leave, but I force myself to stay.
"Is that you?" he asks.
"Who?"
"The girl from earlier?" I hear his hand reaching out, trying to find the light switch.
"Yeah," I say, forcing myself to stay calm. "It's me. The girl from earlier."
"Is something wrong?" Still, he searches for that damn switch. "I was almost asleep. Are you going to keep coming in all the time?"
"No," I say. "This is the last time."
"I can't find the light switch," he says.
I pause. Maybe this would be easier with the light off. Then again, I guess my main aim isn't to make this easy. I need to see his face as he dies, and I need him to see mine. I need us to be look each other in the eye at the precise moment that his life is squeezed from his body.
"Here," I say, reaching over and hitting the switch. As the light comes on, I see him looking frail and old in his bed. It's weird, but I remember him being a fairly large, imposing man. I guess the years have taken a toll.
"I'm quite alright," he says, staring up at me. "I don't need anything."
"You don't?"
He shakes his head. There's an awkward pause. "I'm sorry, is there something you want?"
"I..." My voice trails off. Damn it, I should have planned this better. I should have come up with some kind of eloquent speech. Instead, it's almost as if my mind is going completely blank. "I just came to..." I pause again. Why is this so difficult? Why don't I just tell him who I am, remind him how we first met, and then get on with what I need to do to him? Every second I wait is a second wasted.