In Pieces

(The following is a work of fiction, inspired by writing prompt #68 from here. It is mine, and copyright belongs to me.)

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"I thought I saw movement off to the right but when I turned in that direction, there was nothing," the girl said. She lay on the chaise lounge in the therapist’s office. The shades were drawn over the large windows and the atmosphere was dim. "I moved deeper into the tunnel. I was trying to be really quiet, almost tip-toeing, ya know?" The therapist grunted affirmation from somewhere behind her, so she continued. "I was listening as hard as I could, trying to identify every sound. I could hear the soft whip of the wind against the curved walls that surrounded me. I could even hear the trees outside the tunnel, their bare limbs rubbing together. I imagined that they were cold, just like me."

"What made you go out on such a cold night?"

"I've never really been bothered by the cold. I actually kind of like it. It makes me feel alive. After what I'd been through, I was glad to feel anything, really."

"But why that night? Why the park? Hadn't you been watching the news, been aware of what was going on out there?"

"Oh sure, I knew all about it. I don't watch the news much, but people talk, ya know?" When the affirmative grunt didn't come again, she continued. "Yeah, I knew all about it."

She slid further down on the chaise, until she had to bend her knees to keep her feet from dangling over the edge. She crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes.

"I knew being out there that late was just asking for trouble. But that's why I was there in the first place, I guess."

"To find trouble?" the therapist asked.

"To find some excitement in a life that had lost all color and meaning. I had nothing left. I guess I figured I had nothing left to lose."

"But it was dangerous, being out there. Weren't you afraid?"

"I'd been afraid my whole life. I got tired of being afraid, and decided to take my chances."

"What did you hope to find, other than the excitement you mentioned?"

"Well, nothing else. The excitement would have been enough. I mean, I'd heard about what was going on in the park at night, but I wanted to see it with my own eyes. I needed to see it happen. I couldn't imagine what it would feel like to watch while it happened, but I needed to." The girl's breathing quickened. Her eyes were still closed.

"Did you get what you wanted?" The therapist's pen scratched against the pages on his lap as he made notes.

The girl smiled in the gloom. "You know I did. Isn't that why I'm here?"

Again with the scritch-scratch of the pen. "How did it make you feel, to actually see it happening?"

"It felt like freedom." Her crossed arms lost their defensive form and hugged her body instead. She rocked a bit on the couch and the leather groaned in response.

"Why do you think witnessing a murder would give you a sense of freedom?"

"I don't know. I have no idea. You're supposed to be the expert here," she said, irritated.

"Do you remember our little chat yesterday? When we talked about Dissociative Disorder?"

"No." Her arms unwrapped themselves from her body and stretched out alongside it instead. Her nails scrabbled for purchase on the smooth leather of the chaise. "I don't want to talk about that. I don't know anything about that."

"But you do," the therapist said, leaning forward in his chair. "We've been at this for weeks now, and we've both agreed that until you start accepting the truth of your condition, you'll never be free of this institution."

She shook her head side-to-side, fanning her dirty blond hair, but did not speak.

"You know that you committed those murders, right? In a dissociative state you stalked those people in the park and committed brutal crimes against them."

"No," she whispered. She turned on her side, away from the therapist.

"Yes," the therapist countered. "You murdered four people before you were caught. And you were caught because you, the real you, were drawn to the situation. Chances are good you already suspected the truth. Don't you think?"

"No," she said again. Her legs curled up against her chest and her left thumb found its way to her mouth. "Stop saying that," she mumbled.

"I won't stop saying it until you start saying it. Recovery is only an option if you cooperate with your treatment. You can be healed. You can be whole again. We can even address the murderous impulses that were brought on by the break in your psyche so long ago, when your father –"

"NO!!" The girl let loose a blood-curdling scream and leaped from the couch in the direction of the therapist. "You're a liar! A goddamn liar!"

The therapist sat back in disgust at the girl's outburst but did not flee from her approach. Just before her hands reached his throat, an armed guard stepped out of the shadows and restrained her. She continued screaming and gibbering, becoming more and more incoherent with each word.

"Get her out of here," the therapist said, closing the folder in his lap. "We're done for today."