“Why, Doctor, is something wrong? You’re looking kind of pale.”

The corners of her mouth pull back in a way that looks like it must hurt.

An old-fashioned clock with Roman numerals sitting on her desk ticks softly. I hate clocks that tick. It’s like they’re taunting you through every second you chance to listen to them, sometimes tell you to get on with whatever you’re doing because you’ve been procrastinating for too long, sometimes making you realise you’ve been doing something for too long and it’s time to move on to something else, sometimes tell you…

The minute hand quivers and changes, and she speaks.

“I’m… fine, Drew. Thank you for asking.”

“Anytime. So, aren’t you going to ask me how my week’s been?”

“Of course,” she says, and coughs carefully into the palm of her hand. Her nails are painted cherry red, and there’s a glistening diamond ring on the third finger that I’ve never noticed before. “How’s your week been…Drew?”

“Well, Monday I went to a casting call, and I’m feeling pretty good about that. The director said I was a natural and even liked my Dr. Phil impression. I’m supposed to get a call back sometime next week. Proud?”

“Very.”

“All thanks to you. Rest of the week wasn’t so exciting. See, I haven’t been sleeping a lot lately. Last night I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling until well past one. I tried meditation, but that didn’t work, because I kept thinking about the meaning of life and how I’m probably the only thing that’s even real in this world, and everything else is just threads of fantasy, you know what I mean. That’s sort of a disturbing thought, when you get right down to it. Then I got to thinking about all the different religions, and I just realised how ridiculous they all are, and I got to wondering how people can put so much faith into a god that’s only ever been put into words, and hearsay. I thought to myself that they’re even more pathetic than I am.
“Then I just got up and walked around the block in my robe, came back, and tried to jack off looking at a picture of Evangeline Lily’s face posted on a naked Playboy slut’s body, but I couldn’t make myself come and eventually gave up. I turned on the Cooking Network and learned how to make several fast-and-easy meals, and then at around six, I passed out watching old Star Trek reruns. When I woke up, I thought about mixing Prozac and vodka and seeing what it would do, but I only had enough Smirnoff left for a shot and doubted six pills would do anything for me anyway. Driving here, I was alone on the road with a semi and I was going to drive in front of it, but I missed my chance thinking about my life insurance policy and how my vehicle has a top-score rating in head-on collisions, and if I’d be thrown out through the windshield, even with my seatbelt on. Then I got here… and that was my day. How’s yours been?”

She listens but doesn’t write anything down, and her back isn’t straight in the chair like it normally is, and this is because, she tells me, she was raised in a rich-and-powerful family in Boston, a family where little girls wear knee-high skirts year-round and never wear shirts that are too low or are too tight in public. I can tell she resents that kind of background, and yet she can’t release it fully, and I wonder if she notices it too. I wonder, if when the nights grow quiet and she is alone, if she turns her analytical skills on herself, looks in the mirror, and picks apart what she sees.

But I think she’s probably too afraid.

“My…day?” she asks breathily, seeming as though she’d shut me out for the better part of my speech. “It’s been just peachy.” She says that when she’s stressed, or agitated. Peachy…. Peachy.

“Really? Who’s your three o’clock?” I ask her, watching the time out of my peripheral vision. Normally we don’t discuss other patients because of policy, of course. I ask from time to time, but she keeps the cork on. Today though, I’m feeling lucky.

“…A teenager. His sister caught him in the bathroom cutting his wrists with a shaving razor and tattled to his parents.”

“Have you had a session with him before? What’s his name? What do you think of him?”

“Alex…. His name is Alex. It’s our third session. I think he’s struggling with his homosexuality.”

“Did he tell you that, or are you just assuming he’s a fag?”

“He told me.”

“Right off the bat, just like that? Or did you have the coax it out of him with your psychobabble?”

Again, she coughs, and this time, doesn’t reply. I don’t push it.

“That ring on your finger, is it new?” I ask her.

“Yes.”

“How new?”

“He proposed to me last Wednesday.”

“Who’s he?”

“Quinn.”

“Quinn…. That’s an interesting name. What nationality?”

“I don’t know.” Cough.

“And what does Quinn do? Is he an older man, younger? Rich, poor? Handsome… not so?”

“We’re the same age. He practices law at Benson & Parker. I find him very attractive.”

“But is he a good lawyer? Does he make money? That ring looks pricey; I bet it cost a lot. Bet he’s got a real thriving bank account…. Do you care?”

“I’m not a gold digger, Drew. He’s a fine attorney.” There’s a bit of bite in her voice now, yes there is.

A tick from the clock as the minute hand marks another sixty seconds. I glance at it for a moment, but find myself uninterested.    

“All right. Next question. How did Quinn propose? Did he take you somewhere nice for the occasion?”

“We were… in bed. He said he was going to ask me when he got back from Denver next week, but he just couldn’t wait.”

Her eyes flicker dully. Those beautiful, beautiful sea green eyes with the golden flecks and silver slivers. I’ve seen them in my dreams before, clear as day. Only once, but I’ll never forget that dream, that one night…

“In bed? After you fucked him, I’m sure…. Does Quinn go to Denver often, on business, maybe?”

“His firm regularly attends conferences there…. He represents them.”

“Do you think he sleeps with other women while he’s there? Or do you think he watches them pass by, speaks with them, and simply covets, but keeps his nose clean? Hm?”   

“I think he….” And she coughs – a loud, wet, hacking sound in her chest. “…think he…”

“Would you like some water?” I ask her, humbly.

“…think it’s probably best that I don’t….”

“Suit yourself. Answer my question. Is Quinn really in love with you? What do your shrink powers tell you, when you peer into his eyes? Are they filled with passion and desire every time you look into them… or is it only while you’re giving him head?”  

“…Shut up, Drew.” If the room wasn’t so quiet, I wouldn’t be able to hear her voice.

“How about this: If you caught him eating out another woman, what would you do? I wonder a lot about human motivation, ever since I met you, you know…. Have you ever thought about it though? Would you be mad, would you be betrayed? Would you deal with it quietly in your head or become infuriated and explode upon him? Would you… be mad enough to kill him?”

She speaks no more than the inanimate walls around her and she slumps in her chair even more.

“Doctor, talk to me. Please, I have… issues to resolve.” But I’m smiling.

Tick, tick, tick…

“…Believe me, I know.”

“Have you ever wanted to kill someone before? Have you ever really…considered it?”

“…Never.”

“I’ve always wanted to know what it feels like. I’ve watched all the crime shows, all of that Hollywood bullshit, and I’ve wanted to know what blood really looks like when it’s spurting out of a gouged artery… what burnt flesh smells like, how it looks when it’s attached to severed bone. Have you ever wondered about that…Doctor?”

“No.”

“Has a patient of yours ever killed anyone, and confided in you about it, like a sinner spills himself to a priest in confession? Have you ever been on the receiving end of a criminal confession? Do you have any black spots in your little daily planner?”

“No.”

“You have no trouble saying that, do you, Doc? You’ve got it all planned out, thinking you’re a saint. Is that what you’re telling yourself now, that you’re a saint? That you’ve done nothing in your life that you regret, that you wish you could take back but never can? Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Drew…”

“What’s motivating you to keep still now? What’s motivating you to put up with all this shit?”

“Drew… you don’t have to…” Cough. “You don’t have to do this.”

And I feel my cheeks pull back even more. “There’s something about that line. We’ve all heard it, so many times… but it’s always just that effective. Really pulls a heartstring on the audience. Because it reminds us who we are, and that we supposedly have choices. Isn’t that right, Doc? Is that why you said it?”

“I said it because it’s true. Maybe you’ve forgotten.”

I shut her out. “Think about when you first met me. What did you think of me then? Be honest. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“I thought… Oh Jesus, I don’t know…. I thought you were like every other overly obsessive, lonely twenty-something I treat.”

“But I’m not, am I?”

“You aren’t… but that doesn’t make you special, either,” she says sharply as the last of the colour in her knuckles drains.

“Did you think I was making progress? Did you think you were helping?”

“I did the best I could do.”

“Are you going to try anymore of that psychobabble on me now? I almost hope you do. I love hearing the sound of your voice,” I tell her, and just to oppose that, she doesn’t respond. I’m not surprised.

“What do you think I want with you? Are you thinking that right now, somewhere along the lines of ‘Why me’?”

Tick, tick…

“…something like that.”  

“Do you think, when you’re weak, that I’m going to rape you? What if I do? What will you think then?”

Tick…

It’s awhile before she says anything, and another minute passes by, and she recovers from a coughing fit. She grimaces.

“What do you expect me to say, Drew?” as she tries to get a grip on her breathing. “That I’d enjoy it or something? Drew, there are other ways that you can manage this kind of… built-up anger.”

“What, punching bags? Shooting range? I’ve already tried that, thanks. This is what works…. How do you think Quinn will react when he gets the news? Do you think he’ll be irate, mournful? Or possibly just numb, all over? Is he the kind of man who is overt with his emotions? Or is he a rock?”

She doesn’t want to think about him. Ohh, she doesn’t want to think about him…

Tick, tick, tick…

“…He’ll deal with it in his own way.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. I don’t hear any of that crooked optimism clutching at your tongue anymore. Is that because you’ve already given up? Have you accepted your fate?”

“Please, Drew…”

“Do you find me sadistic…? That’s a direct quote, you know. From Kill Bill. I’ll never forget that line…. Answer it.”

She doesn’t. Not directly, anyway.

She says, “I don’t know what or who you’re angry at, Drew, and I want to think I can… help, but… even I know it’s too late for that now.”

“Oh, that’s it then,” I say, leaning back on the couch on which so many others have lain, ranting about the miseries in their own lives, wiping tears. “You think I’m a lost cause.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“…You’re tired, aren’t you? You’re beginning to give in. I know it.”

Feebly, she looks away. Tick, tick… Right at the clock.

“Your hour is almost up, Drew.” And I’m surprised to hear the dry humour in her tone, beyond the exhausted overtones.

“In what, ten minutes? I have time. Or are you just that excited to see Alex?”

“…Thrilled.”

I lean back, rubbing the stubble on my cheek thoughtfully. “Do you think I should put in a call to your secretary out there? Or should I just… stay here, lock your door, and quietly slip out later on when everyone’s freaking out?”   

“You know, Drew, I honestly couldn’t care less…”

“I judge by the tone of your voice that you probably couldn’t stand, much less run, if I let you.”

“You probably judge right. But just for kicks, why don’t we test that theory out?” she asks through a bubbling hack in her throat.

“Because I don’t want you to get your hopes up, Doc. That’s why.”

What hopes? She coughs then, again, and for the first time, rather than mixed mucus and spittle, the fluid on her hand is stringy and red. I don’t think she has enough fight in her left for a reaction.

Today she’s wearing a dark coppery-maroon sweater and black slacks with her customary golden chain – on which is a heart-shaped locket with a photo of her late mother on the inside. The blood that’s slowly leaked out through the folds on the right side of her chest over the past almost-hour is barely noticeable due to the dark colours. I deliberately shot her with a small calibre bullet in a place I knew would be fatal eventually, though far from instant. I needed to make the most of my hour, after all.

The gun in question is on my lap, underneath my resting left hand, a Colt revolver with a homemade silencer. She never saw it coming.

Tick, tick, tick…

“How much longer now?” I ask.

“Six minutes until the end of your… session.”

“I meant for you.”

She doesn’t reply.

My foot taps the floor anxiously, but I’m otherwise still, enjoying this moment. I’m proud of what I’ve done – very proud. She should be too. It’s a real breakthrough for me, one more step ahead. I’m no longer afraid of what might happen. Instead I look forward to it.    

“So,” she says, “is this what we’re just going to do now…? Wait for me to die, is that it? I… thought you would have wanted to have a little more fun in these last minutes, Drew.”

“You say that as if we’re screwing.”

“Are you…bored?”

Thinking for a second, I shake my head. “No, I’m not bored. I’m savouring it.”

“You’re finally… going to get your kill. …Yeah….That sounds like a moment to be remembered, all right.”

“It is. A saint like you wouldn’t understand.”

“You only think you’re misunderstood… You’re no different than Alex, or any other of my patients. You aren’t unique. You aren’t special.” The strength in her voice is shocking, though her skin is more bleached and bland than paper.   

“No, but at least I’ll make a medical book or two.”

“So it’s about fame…? And what next? When you get arrested…”

“I won’t get caught.”

“And what makes you… say that? Your name is everywhere; there’re a thousand witnesses. You won’t last a day… on the run.”

No talking now. Just watching, captivated. Smiling.

Tick… Tick… Tick…

“Four minutes, Drew.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. We should be wrapping up soon.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” she says.

“I ask the questions, Doc. I ask, and you answer. Not the other way around.”

“I don’t think you know the answer though… I don’t think you’ve thought far enough ahead. Maybe it’s because you thought it would be like… the semi… thought you’d probably over think and… miss your opportunity, and you… just didn’t get around to the consequences. It’s too late now. You reacted exactly how you dreamt you would… and now that you have… you don’t know what your next move is.”

Tick… Tick…

“Shut your trap, Doc. Maybe you’ll live a little longer.”   

“Three minutes, Drew.”

The steel of the pistol beneath my hand feels cold to me, and my palm is wet. I locate the trigger slot and slip my finger through once more. The strength returns to my fingers while they’ve found their way back around the grip. And all the while, she’s watching my hand.

“Do you think you’re going to… get off on insanity…? I seriously doubt any of my notes are going to… help you on that one.”

We don’t talk in this lifeless cell she calls her office, not anymore. We sit quietly and wait, and we wait, and the clock tells us we should get our act together, but we wait… until the perfect moment. And she frowns to herself because she dislikes the anticipation and yet I find it amusing.

“Drew… just know that I tried, all right? Please…? If you get away with this, just… remember that.”

“That’s cute. Maybe I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Thank you.”

“…Two minutes.” This time I say it, watching the minute hand tremble out of the corner of my gaze.

“…Are you waiting for something to happen on the turn of the hour, Drew? I’m not going to… die that quickly.”

“You’d be better off,” I tell her, and lift the gun, propping my cheek up against the hammer and pulling it back, though I’m careful not to pressure the trigger as I do so.

“Going to shoot me again, put me out of my misery…?”

I don’t say anything, just… wait. Neither of us speaks for the lapse of an entire minute, and I wonder dimly if she’s counting down the seconds in her mind as we both watch the face of the old clock. I know I am.    

“Mind if I play shrink this one last time?” she asks suddenly, as the second hand dwindles away our time together, and my mind is fully relaxed and at bay.

“Shoot,” I tell her. Pun fully intended.

She smiles a ghost of a grin. “How does this all make you feel, sitting… waiting for me to die? What do you believe you’ve… accomplished?”

Forty-eight seconds. Tick… Tick…

“I feel… great. I’m in my own little epiphany right now, maybe you don’t know it, but, I am. I’ve done a lot of things in my life and this has pretty much topped the list. Doc.”

“Mm….”

“Do you want to know why it had to be you? Do you care anymore?”

Tick…

She shakes her head and her words are more and more separated, like she’s beginning to forget what she wants to say in the middle of her sentences. Not long now. “I don’t think I… ever really did. It happened so… it happened. I don’t… honestly think you have a… reason for it anyway.”

“Think you’re right about that one.”

“…Twenty… seconds.” I don’t know what she thinks she’s crossing her fingers for.

Her eyelids have begun to get lazy and droopy; there’s more blood than before, every time she coughs. I know she isn’t going to last much longer, just as well as she does. The beige material of the chair she sits on, the one she always sits on, is sticky and matted with dark blood. The smell to me is sweet.

“What does it feel like?” I ask her, quickly, quickly.

“Dying…?” She knows it. “It’s…” Those stunning sea green eyes close as she chokes up a bit of blood, and shivers. “It’s cold…”

“Does it hurt? Can you still feel the pain?”

“…all numb…” And she slowly shakes her head and it drops to her collar, and she is then unable to lift it.

Quiet for a couple seconds, then, I ask lightly, “Doc…?”

Her body quivers a bit beneath the skin, but she does not move or visibly breathe.

I think I am alone.

And I look to the clock for answers on it can give me, smiling almost sadly to myself, my face still pressed against my gun as I count down softly.

“Ten… nine… eight…”

She doesn’t move. I know she isn’t going to move ever again.

Alex the cutter is probably waiting out in the hallway right at the moment, murmuring regrets under his breath, and pointless nothings about how he loathes his family for what they’ve allegedly done, sending him here, sending him to a psychiatrist because they believe he’s unstable, and his parents will just as soon realise that their son’s mental stability is nothing, compared to what it could be.

Quinn the attorney will go home tonight to find the police at his doorstep and will ask what the problem is in a polite, well-mannered tone, and he will question his own position with the law before he even thinks of his fiancée; in response, the police will tell him that an incident has occurred at the office, and that she came off on the wrong end. They’ll ask him to come with them to identify the body, and to work out legal agreements and arrangements concerning the will. They will offer their false sympathy to him, and he will take it for granted, and feel numb to the core, just as his fiancée felt, in her final dying moments. All numb…

“Two,” I mutter, moving the Colt away from my face, and slipping my finger back over the trigger, my pulse filled with abnormal adrenaline now, every muscle in my all-powerful fingers quaking beneath the flesh, knuckles pale. A bead of sweat rolls down from my brow and onto the collar of my shirt, which is already pasted to my soaked chest and back. My foot on the floor stops its incessant tap.

And while I watch her still out of my peripheral vision, my main attention is directly to the clock, to the hour hand that is shaking and wanting to break out of its spot behind the three, to the minute hand that is struggling in its lock, to the second hand, steadily vibrating...

And not breathing anymore, I close my eyes and listen to the final tick of the abhorred clock, and pull the trigger.

Fin