Dirty Psychopath

by Celia Crown

  That only makes things worse.

  I grab a pile of linen and leave the laundry room; the area still haunts me after what happened there.

  I was contacted by the supervisor and pulled from my normal work area because they need help setting up a place for the new patient.

  That means I have to get the work done quickly if I want to see John at the group session. After the group therapy, we will have a one-on-one together without Doctor Carrey in the room.

  This approach keeps John comfortable, and she can observe us from the window.

  I get the sense that this practice isn’t normal, but making progress with the aloof man is too important to let her pride get in the way.

  I flinch when a blaring sound hits my ears. It’s similar to a fire alarm but more high-pitched than the earsplitting sound during fire drills.

  The noise hurts my ears, creating a buzzing sensation.

  I stand by the wall and wince when another series of noises blare in the empty hallway. A group of aides comes running down the hall, shouting at each other, and giving commands.

  One of them yells at me to move the patients back to their rooms because we’re going on lockdown.

  “What?” I think, “Why?”

  A nurse must have seen the dazed look on my face, so he screams, “Dangerous patient on the loose!”

  That statement alone shoots fear down my spine. It’s one thing if a patient is just lost somewhere; we can easily find them because there aren’t a lot of places to hide in the asylum.

  The fact that it’s a patient they consider dangerous on the loose means everyone is being subjected to the same level of risk.

  I worry about the patients who are a bit woozy every day. They’re not capable of defending themselves, and often don’t even know they have been hurt. That’s how out of touch they are with reality.

  I drop the towels and run after them. But they prove to be too fast and have already spread out in different directions. I help those who are wandering in the hall and put them in empty rooms. It’s not the time for orderliness when their safety is the priority.

  I recall that some of them are docile, so I put them all in a room together to save time.

  As I get to the room where the group session is usually held, I see that the chairs are scattered around. That means the patients have already been relocated.

  I want to make sure that John is alright, but I have no way of knowing where he is in the midst of all this chaos.

  The safest place would be his room, but I must rush past Doctor Carrey’s office to get there. Her door is a light brown color, so the disgraceful crimson blood by the door handle stands out.

  I halt skittishly and open her door. I’m concerned about her; she could be hurt. I search the office that is in complete disarray; the file cabinet knocked over, patient files scattered on the floor, the desk out of place, and blood splatters on the walls.

  I step over a pile of bloody papers and inch towards the desk. I thought Doctor Carrey might be hiding under her desk, but she isn't there.

  A crash in the hall resonates through the open door. Instinctively, I dive under the desk for cover. While waiting to hear if anyone is coming, a set of papers on the floor catches my attention.

  John’s picture is on the top, so it must be either his medical history or the doctor’s session notes.

  The curiosity is too strong, and I nudge the packet closer to me. The papers describe his psyche, based on Doctor Carrey’s observations. I don’t know how objective she is, but the notes don’t seem to be pointing in one direction.

  The main thing reflected in the notes is that “John Doe” feels zero remorse. The file mentions his court case many times, comparing his current condition to the days he was in court.

  The reason specified for his crimes is vague, but he acknowledged no interest in repentance.

  Five years is a long time to treat someone who has no intention of changing, according to Doctor Carrey.

  The crunching sound of footsteps approaching the desk makes my breathing hitch. My lungs ache as I hold my breath, remaining in place when a shadow looms over the desk.

  The shadow recedes silently, so I assume they are gone when the door clicks shut. Still, just to be safe, I stay hidden under the desk with my legs cramping up.

  I close my eyes and count to ten in my head, settling my frayed nerves before I open my eyes.

  My heart lurches when I discover Doctor Hancock smiling repulsively at me.

  “Jessie,” he croons.

  Shock overcomes me as I shake violently under the desk. He’s the last person I want to be alone with, and I am proven right when his hand viciously snags my hair.

  He drags me out and throws me against a chair that had been carelessly shoved aside. My face collides with the chair, taking the fight out of me when he slams my head to the ground.

  “We could’ve done this the easy way,” he chides when he flips me over on my back.

  The ceiling swirls from dizziness and lack of oxygen. Keeping his weight on my stomach, he yanks the white hospital uniform up to my ribs.

  “I was generous, but you stuck-up whores don’t appreciate what you have been given. How dare you consider yourselves better than me? Or think my generosity is a one-way street?”

  He pulls the shirt up past my bra and gropes my shoulders with his disgusting hands. I hit him and struggle to escape, but he weighs much more than I do.

  Another crack, dull and deafening, crashes into my ears. It’s not Hancock’s doing.

  He snaps his head towards the door with fear dawning on his face.

  “John,” he utters.

  Relief rushes over me as John’s massive frame comes into my peripheral vision. Blood is smeared on his hands, dark and congealed over the black ink on his skin.

  He looks down at me, eyes surveying my limp form as he steps closer with daunting composure. Hancock jumps up and scrambles off me, suddenly allowing me to breathe as I turn on my side.

  I curl towards John, instantly knowing he will protect me. He doesn’t say anything, but steps over my trembling body and advances towards the sleazy man spewing out excuses.

  He doesn’t understand John, and frankly, I don’t know how to read him either. What I do know is that Hancock has no idea just what kind of hell John can bring down on him.

  I use the desk to help me up as I gasp for air. It hurts to breathe, but I still want to see what John is about to do.

  His inky arm hauls the doctor up by his collar and slams him against the wall; the sound of bone colliding with concrete is anxiety-inducing.

  “G-get him off, Jessie!” the doctor pleads, but his words come off as a command to me.

  Maybe it’s resentment or the fact that he tried to do something bad to me, but I refuse to let my voice save him.

  I want him to suffer. He was going to hurt me and had no qualms about using violence. He can take that notion and shove it up his ass.

  “I’m a doctor!” he screeches, “You're a patient, John! You’re sick, you don’t know what you’re doing! You can't hurt me—”

  If he thinks John cares about the repercussions, he is in for one scary roller-coaster ride.

  John’s thick back muscles ripple as he knocks the doctor against the wall again and again. Every time the doctor hits the wall, I hear the sound of something else breaking in his body.

  He is a bloody mess as he slumps like a puppet being held up by John’s muscled arm.

  John delivers a bash to the doctor’s head, and blood with chunky bits of tissue splashes onto the wall.

  I slap a hand over my mouth, gagging and heaving when John swings the doctor to the side like a bag of trash. The limp man crashes into a clothing locker, knocking it over as another body falls out of its open door.

  Doctor Carrey is staring at me with cloudy eyes.

  She’s dead, I note silently.

  My head snaps toward John when he turns to me. The silent fury emanating from his heaving
shoulders sends me running from the office.

  I don’t want to be near him, I can’t be near him.

  He’s going to kill me too.

  Nothing is going to prevent his escape from this asylum.

  A voice in my head whispers, “He can’t feel remorse.”

  An inky muscular arm locks around my waist. He lifts me in the air and forces my body into his arms, using a silent threat when his fingers dig into my skin.

  “Why are you running away from me?”

  My legs wrap around his waist as he clutches my ass in a painful grip. His face has a blank expression, but the menacing glare in his obsidian eyes stops me from fighting him.

  I wouldn’t be running if he hadn’t just discarded Hancock like trash.

  He waltzes off with me in his arms. John ignores the surrounding chaos, flickers of red, voices coming from the vents, and stuff scattered on the floor.

  None of that matters to him when he stands in front of the door to his isolation room.

  Dread settles, and panic begins to awaken in me. “John?”

  He coldly gazes at me and says, “You can’t leave me.”

  He holds me steady with one arm and yanks the doors open. He throws me down on the padded floor, knocking the air from my lungs. The locks pop into place, and we are now secured inside the room.

  John regards me like a predator looking at its prey.

  I swallow and test the water. “Are you going to hurt me?”

  The faintest hint of manic glee glows in his darkened eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  John

  I consider this room my domain. Anything inside it is mine, and that includes my pretty little girl.

  She scurries away and presses her back against the wall. The white cushions are a nice contrast with her soft hair as she tucks herself in the corner. The more she explicitly shows her fear, the hotter my blood boils.

  She should realize by now that her fear is something I relish.

  I’m a man who keeps things bottled up: fists tightening, jaw clenching, and using silence as ammunition while I make my plan.

  When it comes to Jessie, I have found that the more facial expressions I display, the more she comes to me. Like a moth to the flame. It’s obvious her attraction to me has become more than infatuation.

  I know because I look at her the same way. I see myself in the reflection of her eyes, and our expressions mirror each other.

  “Are you going to kill me?” she cautiously asks.

  I did kill someone in front of her, but I consider that self-defense. I view Jessie as my possession. She is the dainty part of me that needs all the protection I can provide. I will do anything to keep her safe.

  When that bastard trapped my Jessie under him, he touched her in a way that never would have happened if I had been quicker to find her. I saw the brightest scarlet possible and wanted to snap his neck.

  He didn’t deserve a clean death. I wanted him to regret his choice to straddle my little girl, believing he had the right to touch her.

  Since time was of the essence, I thought being crushed to death at my hand would suffice.

  She wasn’t harmed too badly, just a few scrapes and bruises.

  She was more emotionally distraught than anything, especially after I tossed the dead man across the room and exposed the other doctor I had killed.

  I had been planning to kill her, and this lockdown provided the perfect opportunity. She was lucky that I made her death somewhat quick, but it was also very painful. I wanted to torture her for frivolously wasting my time for the past five years.

  I had to find my Jessie, so I limited the time I spent inflicting pain on the doctor.

  It’s really a shame.

  “You killed them,” Jessie points out with her quivering voice. “Are you going to hurt me too?”

  I cock my head as I approach her slowly. “Only if you don’t listen to me.”

  There it is again, that gorgeous fear for her life. Whether or not she believes me, there is no denying the sweet spark of lust in her pretty eyes. It’s a distinctive glimmer, the same one she had while keening my name as I had my big cock buried between her little pink pussy.

  I haven’t been able to get the taste of her off my tongue, and I certainly haven’t forgotten how wanton her moaning was. Music to my ears, haunting me when I can’t sleep.

  It’s her fault for being so damn delectable.

  Suffice it to say, my hand had not done a great job of extinguishing the fire of lust in my cock. It has stayed thick and hard in my pants, more of a hindrance now than ever.

  She’s right in front of me now, and the problem in my pants will go away if I use her. I know it’s morally wrong to pressure her, but I can’t bring myself to care about it too much.

  Something in my brain won’t let me, and I have learned to accept that I don’t have an ounce of sympathy in my genes.

  “John,” she whispers, scared.

  She knows what I want, but pride is blinding her, making her think this is wrong and that she doesn’t want me.

  “On your knees,” I command.

  Her teeth sink into her plush bottom lip with her big, doe eyes staring at me in utter confusion. She did confirm her virginity, but I didn’t think she would be this naïve about sex.

  That’s fine. I can’t imagine where I would store my anger if another man had touched her, took her untouched pussy, and stole her innocence from me.

  I run a hand over her hair and harshly grab a fistful at the back of her head. Unparalleled terror shoots across her face as she takes my wrist with her tiny hands and begs me in a broken voice.

  “No, please, I—”

  All lustful desire is gone from her eyes, only crippling fear remains. She has never looked at me like this, not even the first time we met.

  No, this is something entirely different. It’s too raw, too fresh to be stemming from an old traumatic event.

  “What happened, little girl?” I question, but not in a tone that suggests she has a choice.

  I loosen my grip, and she begins to breathe erratically. She does calm down a bit when the strands are no longer being used as leverage over her.

  “Before—” she chokes heavily as she tries again, “Before you came in, Doctor Hancock did the same thing.”

  I nearly freeze at the change in her tone. It’s stone-cold terror, the type of fear one would have when trapped with nowhere to go. She can’t fight because she doesn’t have red-hot anger. She has memories of being forced to submit to a higher power.

  That power was demonstrated by a stronger man who used her hair to make her surrender to him.

  While nothing had happened, the innate fear that women have of men did bloom in her heart.

  She’s scared, and that change is hurting what Jessie and I have.

  How dare that bastard do this to her?

  My back protests as I bend over to kiss her soft lips. I’m not big on gestures and their subliminal messages. This first-kiss nonsense serves no purpose in my mind.

  It does, however, make my heart quiver.

  It’s rather odd because it has never happened before.

  Her eyes widen at the uncharacteristically gentle touch as she breathes out a shudder against my lips. Thick lashes flutter, assessing her power in this situation as she leans just a centimeter closer to me.

  I still feel the slight pressure on my lips.

  She asks, so vulnerably soft, “Again?”

  The rhythm of my heart seems restless, determined to dominate the ambient sound of the padded room.

  “Yours, little girl,” I whisper against her lips when she leans in for a kiss. “I’m yours.”

  She whimpers and moans before her tiny hand cups the junction of my neck and shoulder. It’s a mindless act, but the call for guidance rings loudly in my ears.

  “Say ‘yes,’ Jessie,” I rumble deeply.

  “Yes?” she echoes, albeit disoriented.

  I lean back and square my
shoulders, the tension slowly leaving the base of my spine as I glance down at her. I keep her hand in mine, stroking the soft skin and appreciating the delicacy of her features.

  I have gotten a preview of her on her knees, lips parted, and my cock hanging over her.

  It was a stunning sight.

  I can’t deny myself that. Keeping my hand around hers, I pull down the waistband of my pants as my thumb snatches the boxer-briefs too. Everything comes down, hanging low on my hips as my fat cock springs out.

  Red, leaking, and painfully hard. I need to cum, and a whole night of rubbing did not make me cum once.

  It was infuriating, to say the least.

  “John,” she breathes with a hitched whine.

  A quiet, shaky growl slithers from my lips as I wrap a hand around my cock in a vise grip. My hand is too rough, too littered with pale scars to be comfortable. I bring her trembling hand up to replace mine as she protests but doesn’t actively push me away.

  Her body will always be honest.

  I did envision fucking her face, bending her over, and using her little pussy until my cock is content as her well-fucked hole drips with frothy cum.

  None of that did any good when it was my hand around my cock.

  I suffered enough last night with this unrelenting thickness.

  “Jessie,” I utter in a rough voice.

  I don’t need to say anything else; her little fingers curl more firmly around the throbbing shaft. She catches the drop of cum with her other hand, the clumsy fingers using feathery touches on the swollen head.

  She bites her lip, pure fascination glowing beautifully in her eyes as she flexes her grip. My cock jerks in response to her naughty little teasing.

  Her pink tongue runs over the tip, collecting the drop of cum into her mouth before wrapping her lips over the bulbous head for a soft suck.

  My stomach tightens, and the bottom of my spine aches as I restrain myself from shoving my fat cock down her throat. She would choke; it wouldn’t be fun for her.

  She swirls teasingly around the tip, exploring the heaviness with her tongue and humming prettily. After a greedy suck, she moves away and finds the prominent vein with a flick of her tongue.