~~Elena~~
I sometimes think that I'm one of the few people who had the best life growing up. I had a childhood full of love, a mother who never let me feel alone, and a grandmother who showed me how to make even the ordinary moments feel beautiful. Everything I needed was there. I am one of the lucky ones.
Most of the children I have therapy sessions with aren't as lucky as me though.
The last patient I saw today was a fourteen-year-old boy whose parents are going through a divorce. The last three sessions with him had been quiet. Not unproductive, but slow. He used to sit stiffly on the couch, his answers short, his eyes fixed on the carpet as if looking anywhere else would cost him something.
Today he had at least opened up and that was the highest progress we had made since I got to first meet him.
He told me about the abuse that went on in his home. About how his father used to beat his mother. About how the shouting always came first. He said it like it was normal. Like it was routine.
Domestic violence does not only affect the parents. It settles into the children too. In his case, it has made him distant. Detached. When he talked about it, there was no emotion that I could spot in his eyes.
~~~~
I shake my head absently, trying to push the thoughts away. Today, being Friday. I had planned to clear out old files and reorganize the place before going to my boyfriend's house. He has been out of the state for three months, and I want to surprise him. The thought of seeing him tonight makes me smile despite everything.
I glance at the clock and sigh. It is a few minutes to six.
I start with my desk, finishing up my notes while the details are still fresh. Once done, I log out and shut the computer down. I move to the filing cabinet, separating inactive files from active ones, checking dates and signatures, setting aside papers that need shredding.
I arrange the remaining folders neatly and slide them back into place. I replace the tissue box near the couch, straighten the cushions, and fold the throw blanket properly. I wipe down my desk and the small table beside it.
The chairs are adjusted so they face each other at a comfortable angle.
I am halfway through reorganizing the bookshelf, humming softly to a song that has been stuck in my head since morning, when the door creaks open.
The sound pulls my attention immediately.
I step away from the cabinet and move behind my desk just as someone steps inside.
The person who has just stepped in is someone I have never met. I would have expected it to be someone who works in this building, or maybe a friend, but it isn't.
He's a guy, probably in his mid-twenties, and just looking at him makes my stomach tighten. He's tall, with a lean mascular build. His black dress shirt has the top two buttons undone, revealing tattoos that snake across his neck and chest.
My eyes lock with his brown ones that look wild, as if he is high on drugs and when I can't hold the intensity in them, I avert it to look at his messy black hair that carelessly falls on his forehead.
When he closes the door behind him, the soft click makes my chest tighten and my heart spike in fear.
~~~~~
"Is there something I can help you with?" I finally find my words, still rooted in place as he steps in and takes a seat across from me, the one my clients usually use.
My eyes land on the black tie he's twisting around his palm. He finally speaks.
"How much do you charge for therapy sessions?" His voice is calm, casual, but there's an edge in it that makes my skin prickle. He glances around my small, pristine office like he owns the place.
"My therapy sessions are for children. Is your kid with you here?" I ask, finally taking my own seat. Trying to act unaffected by his presence because, I swear to God, he's scaring me. He looks like a ticking bomb that's ready to explode at any moment.
He gives a small, dark chuckle before lifting his gaze to mine.
"No. I'm the patient."
I blink, stunned. How can someone have it all like this — this confidence, this… danger? My Ethan is handsome, but not like him. Not to mention his voice, the careless way he says things. The edge in him could draw you in and make you want to run at the same time.
"I'm really sorry, but I don't think I can help. I can recommend someone who works with adults," I say, scribbling down a contact. But he cuts me off before I finish.
"You know, I killed someone like an hour ago."
The words land softly, almost mundane, but my blood runs cold.
The statement is so flat, so devoid of remorse, that it feels like a physical weight dropping onto the desk between us. My hand, still holding the pen, goes numb.
"He was so fucking chirpy," he continues, his voice dropping into a low, conversational purr. He looks down at the black tie wrapped around his palm, tightening it until the silk creaks.
" I started with his hands. I took a pair of heavy-duty pliers and crushed the bones in his fingers, one by one. I wanted to hear the marrow snap. It has a very specific sound, Doctor. Like dry wood under a boot."
He leans forward, his muscular frame looming over the small, child-sized space of my office. The tattoos on his neck seem to writhe as he swallows, his pulse visible and frantic beneath the ink.
"But he still had too much fight in him. So, I strapped him down. I wanted to see what he was made of, literally. I took a bottle of industrial acid and dripped it. Slowly. One bead at a time onto his bare chest."
His pupils are so blown they swallow the brown of his irises entirely, leaving only a ring of amber fire.
"I watched his skin sizzle. The sound… it's like meat on a grill, but the smell is sweeter. More cloying. I watched the liquid smoke rise from his ribs as the acid dissolved the layers of him, bubbling and blackening until I could see the white of his sternum peek through the melted red. And the best part?"
He pauses, a ghost of a smile touching his lips—a look of pure, primal contentment that makes my blood run cold.
"The satisfaction of it. Feeling that surge of power as his screams turned into wet, gurgling pleas. I didn't just watch him die; I felt it. I stayed there, hand over his heart, absorbing the last jagged thumps until there was nothing left but the quiet. It was the only time today my head has felt... still"
He leans back, the leather of the chair groaning under his weight. He looks at me then, his gaze heavy and predatory, searching my face for a reaction—fear, disgust, or perhaps a reflection of his own madness.
"His death will probably be in the news tonight, or maybe tomorrow early in the morning." He pauses then adds, " there won't be enough of a face left for a closed-casket funeral. So," he whispers, the dark chuckle returning to his throat. "Do you still want to give me that referral? Or are we going to start our session?"