I WANTED TO JUST WRITE A QUICK THING BUT IT TURNED OUT REALLY LONG OMG
but it has two OCs i never talk about anymore aka mihail who is my baby and also a telepathic/ telekinetic and sociopathic psychiatrist that works with the criminally insane-- or rather he tracks down the ones that have managed to fake it to get an easy pass and then systematically destroys their mind with telepathy so that they'll never get out on the streets again. and then chris who is another nutjob of mine who is a surgeon that has hemokinesis and its dumb AND REALLY LONG BUT ILL LOVE YOU FOREVER IF YOU READ IT
DERP DERP DUM SHIT
Four twenty-seven pm. I watch the clock before me as I sit in the waiting room for my appointment due to start in exactly two minutes and thirty-two seconds’ time—Not that I was keeping track, of course. Well, perhaps I was a little. I’d never been the most patient man, nor would I deny this fact.
This was, in fact, the third time in my life I’d been sat in a psychiatrist’s waiting room—Not the third time I’d seen one, but the third time I’d been sat waiting for one. The first two times were both relevant to my father’s sudden step over the line of sane and insane… But I suppose a better metaphor would be if the line were the edge of a cliff and he’d been grasping to the edge desperately for some semblance of normality before dropping down into the waters of criminal insanity and taking several people with him .It hadn’t exactly been the most pleasant thing to witness, even for someone as cold and unfeeling as myself and needless to say at this point that my father is no longer alive.
My meetings with psychiatrists before this had all been concerning this event. They had mostly been to check up on me, after all, no thirteen year old should witness that sort of thing—but I could also tell that they wanted to make sure I wasn’t like my father. They had found a few things wrong with me, but put it down to being due to the trauma and some sort of emotional detachment I’d developed from spending time with him or something. I didn’t really care, being more of a doctor of the body than of the mind.
A sudden movement catches my eye. The turning of a door handle and the sound of voices I’d not heard over my own thoughts and, upon further inspection, weren’t English. Clearly he was talking to whoever his prior appointment was. At this point the only concern in my mind was that he’d not know what I was saying. I was here, this third time, because my so-called fiancé had told me to after a string of bad dreams to talk to someone about it and, much to my displeasure, she had already booked me an appointment without asking my consent. The man was an apparent friend of a friend’s therapist and she’d heard nothing but shining reviews about him from her friends. It was easier to just go along with it than to have to deal with her whine and complain about my mental wellbeing, but it seemed as though she’d forgotten that he didn’t speak her mother tongue.
I watched as the door slowly creaked open, the man and his patient finally emerging and saying their goodbyes, and perhaps ‘see you next weeks’. I wouldn’t know; the only word I understood from the conversation was ‘Do svidaniya’. The woman that had just left him looked content enough as she trotted off down the hall in a fur coat that looked like it had taken several dozen bears to make.
“Ah, you must be Mr Beaumont?” He asked, drawing my attention back to him with a polite smile.
“Doctor Beaumont,” I correct him almost instantly as I stood up. It had taken me far too long to earn the right to be called as such and I wasn’t about to accept anything less than that. Taking his hand in mine we shook them, I tend to habitually try to be the firmer of the two in the handshakes, it gives me a sort of feeling of dominance in the meeting that I enjoy. He didn’t seem to put up much of a fight against it, but I wasn’t going to complain. It was no doubt some psychiatrists’ trick to make me trust him more. But it wouldn’t work. Not on me.
“My apologies,” he said, shooting a look at his secretary who had been sat on the other side of the room, but he sounded sincere enough about the mistake. I’d let him off for now, I supposed. “May I ask what you’re a doctor of?” He continued, holding the door open for me to walk inside first. The more he spoke the more obvious his accent became—it sounded almost British, but with several undoubtedly Russian traits that Natasha also had when she spoke.
“I’m a surgeon…You have a very peculiar accent,” I told him, watching him smile at me and laugh lightly. “Where are you from?”
“I get told that a lot,” he retorted, offering me a seat as he sat in the seat opposite me, “I’m from Saint Petersburg—Russia, originally, but I spent most of my time studying in London and picked up the accent there.”
I sat down, glancing around the room briefly. Overall it had a rather homely feel to it, not that I could say why it felt like that, but I put it down to some sort of feng shui nonsense, but the fire was certainly an amusing novelty.
“Now then, Dr Beaumont—May I call you Christopher?” I drew my eyes back to him from the fire as he spoke, nodding in affirmative to him, “According to your fiancé you’ve been having troubling dreams that often wake you up in the night? Could you describe what happens in them to me and if they’re different or the same?”
He certainly wasn’t wasting any time. But I suppose since I was paying for this it was out of politeness that he wasn’t wasting any of my money. I paused for a second, glancing into the fire.
“Well, there’s almost always a lot of blood in them, and when I see myself in them I’m young—around fourteen, maybe thirteen, and when I look down I’m covered in blood,” I can feel my hand raising to loosen the collar of my shirt a little. This whole thing was a lie, but I had to make it convincing for this guy. I had to admit there was a certain thrill in fooling someone that was meant to be an expert in their career. “And then I feel someone’s hand take my arm and put a blade in my hand—it’s my father. I never see his face, but I know it’s him. He turns me around while staying behind me and there’s a body there—I think it’d my mother, but… I’m not sure.” By this point I’m gesticulating, making the movements the same way I apparently did in my dream.
“I’ve not seen her since I was small. He pushes me over to her and then forces my hand with the weapon in it to stab her. Right in the throat, then she grabs me by the collar and screams in my face and I wake up screaming.” This was the sort of thing that these people had field days over. Blood, childhood trauma and murdered women, “M-may I have some water?”
“Of course, Christopher,” He nodded to me with another small smile, standing up and taking the clipboard with him as he moved back over to his desk. I noted that he didn’t seem to be very reactive, something that might prove a little bit of a problem when lying to him, “If you don’t mind me asking,” he started as he picked up the jug of water from the table and poured it into the glass for me, not continuing until he began to walk back and handed the glass to me, “You are the son of James Beaumont, are you not? I imagine that that would have been rather traumatic for you. Could you describe your relationship before the incident?”
Of course—the stereotypical question about the relationship with my father. Ha. I’d been asked this question more times than I could count.
“It was no different than any other father son relationship, as everyone knows, he was a butcher and often had a lot of raw meat laying around the house and we had a large freezer storage in our basement that I’d sometimes get shut in for an hour or so if I misbehaved,” I explained, this was true, unlike the dream. And I thought it best to leave out the gallons of blood lying around my house which I suppose is where my obsession with the stuff came from. “And before you ask; no, he didn’t ‘abuse’ me or ‘touch me in my special place’,” I sneered viciously. Another thing they liked to ask me, sure, my father had been a complete scumbag, but he’d never hit me.
“You realise that abuse is not always physical, don’t you, Christopher?” I stopped for a moment. For some reason I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d heard me thinking about that. But that was impossible. He must get people thinking that a lot, I decide, listening to him as he continued. “There’s also emotional or psychological abuse—Did you father ever make you question your self-worth or do anything that would force your dependency on him, that sort of thing?” I stopped for a minute, staring at him before looking back at the fire. Had my father actually been abusing me after all—Manipulating me into staying with him and that I was in the wrong all those times? Bastard.
This whole thing was starting to make me feel uneasy. I could feel a cold sweat dripping down the back of my neck. I didn’t know how I felt anymore, I just knew I wanted to get out of there at this new found realisation.
“Have you ever killed anyone, Christopher?”
I was taken aback by the suddenness and bluntness of the question. It was true I had intentionally killed people before; and I’d enjoyed it. It was the true reason I’d chosen to become a surgeon. Constant access to my favourite thing in the blood and there was nothing greater than that feeling of power you had—knowing that that person, laying on the operating table, was completely helpless and that their life was entirely in your hands. There was no other feeling like that. “…Excuse me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” He followed up quickly, scrawling down some notes on his clipboard as he went, “I just meant that as a surgeon you must have lost a patient or two. I’d imagine that wouldn’t sit well with someone of your profession.”
“Uh, yeah, a couple,” I’d managed to calm myself again, but I still felt uneasy, the air in the room seemed to have gotten heavier and it felt like there was something physically digging around in his skull at this point.
“Couple it be that the person holding your arm in your dream isn’t your father—But an adult version of you? You could just be repressing the guilt from those people you killed,” I’d started paying more attention to his choice of words at this point. He was still saying that I killed them, rather than ‘couldn’t save’ like most people did. Did he… Did I know that I’d killed them on purpose…? I was far too good a surgeon to let someone die by accident. Not to mention my ability to control what it was I was so obsessed with. The patients were unable to bleed out if I stopped the blood flow and stopping internal bleeding was a synch at this point… So why did he seem to think I’d done it on purpose.
“I suppose that might be it…” I respond, now trying to hide how cautious I was being around my words. There was no way he’d gotten that from my words—Could the dream I’d made up really have implied that unintentionally? But it was my turn to ask the questions, at least for now, “Then what about my mother, what is she doing in my dream?”
“As far as I see it,” I watched him closely, unable to pick up anything from his expression, “Either that’s not your mother that you killed in your dream; or you’re lying about it. But, it must be the first, since why would you lie to a psychiatrist like that?” He his face turned into a smile again as I felt my eyes narrowing at him, “Perhaps one of the patients you killed—And then due to the lack of a mother figure in your life, your subconscious just tells you it’s your mother.”
I stared him dead in the eyes as he spoke, something buzzing in the back of my head about the colour of his eyes. Blue, the same as mine, but I couldn’t help but shake the colour pink from my mind. Perhaps I was just angry—No, you saw red when you were angry. As quickly as I broke eye contact the feeling was gone.
But I still really wanted—No, needed to leave. Now.
I could hardly breathe anymore. No-one had ever been onto him so quickly. But there was no way he could really be onto me, right? I’d said nothing more than the norm and his body language had damn well not suggested he was an actual murderer, had it?
No. I need to calm down. Yeah. Leaving now would look suspicious and I must l just be acting paranoid. But still the questions kept coming. I wasn’t ready for them , I needed a few more minutes to compose myself but I sure as hell wasn’t going to get those few minutes.
“Would you say you have a repressed fondness for blood—Perhaps even a denied fetish?” He asked, voice unchanging—How was I meant to decide if he knew or not when his reactions never changed! Not his face, not his body language, not even his tone of voice—
“Of course not! If anything I’m afraid of it,” I snapped in response before realising what I’d said. I watched as he raised a brow at me. Shit. I thought a reaction would calm me down a little, but no, it had had the complete opposite effect.
“I mean—I’m not afraid of it, no? Yes, maybe a little? I don’t know! I’m just used to it, you know?” I had to at least try and salvage this train wreck of a response, “I’m a surgeon and my dad let me watch him butcher the animals and there would obviously have been a lot of blood there.”
“So you wanted to see? Did you get any sort of enjoyment from it?”
“Maybe, I was curious about it-- Not really—”
This was starting to feel more like an interrogation than therapy. I didn’t like it. At all. I didn’t like any of this. Not the weird air in the room. Not this guy’s stupid goddamn accent. And especially not the stupid fucking fire—
“Oh, it looks like your hour is up, Dr Beaumont.” How could this bastard still look so calm after trying to lay into me with those questions—He was no doubt trying to prove I was like my father—
Wait. That was it. That was why he assumed I killed those people on purpose. I had him—And I had to let him know.
“I’m not my father, you know—”
“Of course you’re not. You’re nothing like your father.” Again, he was totally sincere about it. Wh-what, then why did he. I don’t get it. I really don’t like this guy. I found myself standing to my feet as he did without even realising it, shaking his hand—only this time it wasn’t me that had the firmer grip. It almost felt like he was mocking me as he did it with a look in his eyes that screamed ‘I know what you did’ and brought back the same feeling as last time.
But how could he—I, I must have just been imagining it.
“I trust we’ll be seeing each other again, Dr.” The goddamn smile was on his face again—It just made me want to cut it off—I’m sure he’d be a lot more tolerable with his face bleeding from every available orifice. He seemed taken aback for a moment, as if he’d heard me thinking again…. I was definitely imagining it.
“I don’t think so,” I laughed coldly, noting the look of disappointment on his face. Had this just been some sort of game to him; because he certainly looked like someone had just taken a new toy from him. “I’m a busy guy and I’m only here because my girlfriend doesn’t know how to keep her fucking nose out of my business.”
I could feel myself shaking as I nodded to him, half storming out of the door. I just wanted to be outside and away from that guy.