Page 21 of Judas
A grin replacing the scowl. Might end up having some fun with him today if he keeps this up.
Lawrence and I went on a long walk through Sortiger—exercise time for the day—until I was dropped haphazardly down on one of the metal benches outside of the psychologist’s office.
Oh goody. Not exercising today, an exorcism instead.
Did I mention I was sentenced to mandatory appointments with a psychologist every other week? By far the worst thing to come out of the relocation and my part in ripping Darkwater to pieces. Didn’t like talking about my feelings when I was a child, don’t like doing it now either. But, yay for me, it’s part of myconditional guilty plea. What plea, you ask? Well, they had to put something on someone. Since the cameras caught me roaming around Darkwater like I owned the place, they put a chunk of it on me. When I say a chunk, I mean all of it.
Good ol’ Nadia played her part like a professional, I must say. She gave Whitlock the ammunition he needed to yank Clark out of his boots and toss him into county jail—like a rare steak before a pack of wild dogs. Word through the inmate grapevine is that he didn’t last very long. Supposed suicide; the details don’t add up though. It takes one strong individual to crush their own skull in, usually someone off their rocker, but even self-inflicted wounds are to the front of the head. Not the back.
Poor shmuck got his cranium caved in.
I shouldn’t have laughed, but I did.
During my new sentencing, I was too busy picking the flesh away from my cuticles—the tiny pieces of skin smarting and stinging on every finger—to pay attention to what was going on. Before I knew it, the bailiff was pulling me up after the judge delivered the parameters. It wasn’t until we were snuggled up in the car like old pals that I learned I practically got a slap on the wrist. To some, a few consecutive life sentences would be debilitating, I couldn’t care less.
So, here I sit. My shrink’s about to waltz out of her cute little overly pink, ‘it soothes you,’ office to beckon me in. The place looks like someone sprayed the whole office with Pepto. The obnoxious hue isn’t even part of the color wheel, it’s a tint. Though it is a shade of red, red is known for passion and love, yet it’s also directly tied to anger, danger, and warning. Why does that matter? Cause I’m angry as fuck, and being in her little pink hidey-hole makes it worse. Makes me want to see how close the color of her office matches her entrails.
“Let’s go, Bardot. Mavis is ready for you.”
Mavis… Mavis, Mavis, Mavis. Fucking die.
Grunting, the officer yanks me up and I’m led into her office then strapped down to a green chaise. That’s more like it; maybe if I’m a good boy she will let me roll over and suffocate myself in the cooler tone. It’s difficult to breathe through velvet, and I’m ready to test that theory.
“Lucien,” her overly sweet voice croons. Wearing her creams and pastels, gold hexagon-shaped wire glasses sitting at the bridge of her sniffer.
“Yes, overlord? What do you command of your humble servant?”
She groans. I bet she’d sound better choking on blood.
“Can we have a peaceful visit today, Lucien? I’m not really feeling your vibe, and that’s saying quite a bit for a psychologist.” Mavis lifts her right hand, pushing the golden spectacles up her button-shaped nose and stares passively at me through them.
You know, for all her stifling and airy presence, her dark-colored eyes just don’t fit. They’re like pools of obsidian surrounded by something that yearns to be ethereal, godlike, angelic. Consuming the light that pours into them rather than reflecting it like blue or gray eyes do. Hers… they scream turmoil, torture, and treachery. Just my type—except the rest. She’s not damaged enough.
“Aren’t I always peaceful, Mavis?” I ask, shifting on the lounge.
Just a little further and I can, you know, shove my face in the green velvet wrapped around the chaise cushion, and just stop breathing.
“Hardly. You’re about as peaceful as the Taliban. Now, get settled and be still. We have a long hour ahead of us and I want to get this done as soon as possible.”
Awe, she’s ready to be rid of me. Breaks my non-existent heart.
“You of all people know I don’t conform to much of anything, let alone timelines.”
“Pretend you do. I have a new client in two hours and don’t have time to waste on a shit like you.”
It takes all of my strength to resist the urge to roll my eyes at her, and to be honest, laugh. It is my mission to make this little bubble gum-popsicle girl—because that’s exactly what she is, a girl—as annoyed and pissed off as I can.
“Professional as always, Mavis. Tell me about your client,” I coax.
I know she won’t, I just like poking and prodding. Sometimes she gets so flustered, you can see the freckles across the bridge of her nose darken before the skin flushes pink. Like tiny mood rings embedded into her fair complexion.
She’s on a very long list of women who are conventionally attractive; women who stoke sexual arousal from the male species. They’re weak, Neanderthal-like creatures who need validation of their animalistic needs to provide and procreate. While a piece of me doesn’t believe that Miss Mavis is a pushover in any sense of the word, the only thing I’d ever be interested in doing to her is squeezing her throat until the freckles fade in color and she ceases to breathe.
“Lucien—“ Mavis prompts, pulling me from my reverie of picturing her socially plastic face turning cold and lifeless under me. Her dark pupils swell until they swallow the white sclera of her eyes and she resembles the demons rummaging around in my head.
“My apologies, Mavis. Where were we?”
“We’re talking about your father today,” she answers.
