My Link With Satan
“Wait, you claim to be the devil’s advocate?” says Vince Taylor’s psychiatrist, who gives a questionable look while reaching for the mug on the coffee table.
Vince couldn’t help but eyeing the woman’s breasts as if too much skin was being exposed; the doctor buttoned her white blouse only halfway to the chest, leaving a better view, if not completely, of her boobs for him to see. She also wore a black skirt and a transparent pantyhose; Vince thought she wasn’t the type to comply with the dress code, which every professional doctor should follow.
The psychiatrist swallows a mouthful of cappuccino and crosses her legs. She continues.
“Now, Mr. Taylor, tell me why you would think you’re associated with the devil?”
“I believe the devil has chosen me to carry out half of his work.”
“Half of his work?”
“To spread evil and bring about hatred among humans.”
Vince knew it wasn’t prudent to see a psychiatrist for the eightieth time; he tried all his best to convince the doctors that he was insane and evil, a dangerous force that must be stopped before it’s too late. Vince admits he’d killed seventy-two innocent people across the state of Boston, without ever leaving a trace that could have hinted the local police of his involvement. Even though he was, in fact, aware of his actions he still couldn’t act upon his will; he believed the devil chose him for a purpose, even before birth.
“Why would Satan choose you to carry out his bidding, Mr. Taylor?” the psychiatrist goes on with the trivial questions.
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” says the fallen man.
“Why do you think it’s the right thing to d—“
“Look, ma’am,” Vince finally interrupts her, “I know psychology and how psychiatry works. Right now I don’t need any of that bullshit, you hear me! I need help before I do something bad tonight, after midnight.”
The psychiatrist sets her cup on the coffee table and leans her chest forward.
“Mr. Taylor, I’m trying to help you, but in order for me to do that I need to know what’s wrong with you.”
Vince covers his face, wishing he hadn’t come in the first place and finally move on with his life while killing people.
The psychiatrist stands up and walks toward him, resting her hand on his shoulder.
“We’re going to try this again, Mr. Taylor. I promise you I’ll do whatever I can to help you, but before that, would you like a glass of water?
Vince nods and watches the woman going over the table on which lies a bucket of ice cubes and water. Moments later she returns with a glass of water and handed to him.
“Now, Mr. Taylor, have you been sleeping well these past few days?”
“I don’t sleep. The devil made me not to sleep. The reason being, I do most of his biddings during the dark hours.”
“What do you do during the night?
“I kill someone in particular; someone with a heavy heart.”
“Yes. A person with a heavy heart carries too much darkness and is also an opportunity to kill it as a way to spread it. But those with a light heart are protected by God.”
Vince’s claims bewildered the psychiatrist that she couldn’t fathom any of them. This compelled her to think before continuing on.
“How can a person be judged as good or bad based upon the weight of his or her heart? And how could killing the bad help spread darkness?”
“Demons and other dark forces of Satan’s, including myself, are able to sense the amount of darkness carried by the host’s heart. The most powerful weapon that makes a human unique is emotion. Having a stable emotion guides you to the right path, but manipulating it until one can no longer be guided will eventually go astray. This is where we take the opportunity.”
The psychiatrist swirls a black ballpoint pen between fingers, pondering where to proceed from there.
“Earlier you said you were going to do something after midnight, something terrible. Are you planning to a kill someone with a ‘heavy’ heart?”
“How many have you killed, Mr. Taylor?”
“Seventy-two. I believe I’ll be seventy-three after midnight.”
With that the woman stands up from the chair and goes behind her office desk. On it she scans through a pile of files and finally brings one with her. She sits and examines the papers contained within the files.
“Mr. Taylor, according to your background check, you seem to have no criminal record.”
Vince says not a word but listens to the sounds made by the pigeons flapping their wings.
The psychiatrist takes a moment to wrap things up as she writes down something on a notepad.
“Mr. Vince,” she finally speaks, “our session will resume tomorrow at the same time. Dr. Timothy Saunders will be joining, who’s a well-known neurologist across the globe. He and I will discuss with you to figure out how we can help you cope with what you’re experiencing now. As of now, I’ll prescribe you Lexapro, which is an anti-depressant, as well as something that would help you sleep. I’ll be right back.”
The psychiatrist stands up and immediately leaves the office. Vance had foreseen this, but even so he decided to come not because he wanted to but because of the little hope he has left.
The man stands up from his chair and goes over to the doctor’s desk. He opens one of the drawers and pulls out a folder. Inside are personal documents of the psychiatrist, including home address, bank account information, and license for her practice. With no particular reason in mind, Vince memorized the home address “2318 Easterwood” and makes his way back to the chair.
Moments later the psychiatrist comes in the room, inspects nothing unusual.
“This are your prescriptions,” she says as she gives them to him. “Take one each tonight. And call my assistant if something goes wrong.”
After that the man thanks her and opens the door.
“Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Taylor,” she approaches him. “Stay home tonight, after midnight.”
Vince smiles with sincerity and closes the door on his way out.
It was after eight in the evening when Vince entered his apartment. After a quick shower he made spaghetti with tomato sauce and meatballs. After nine he laid himself on the sofa in the living room while reading a section of the bible. After ten he took his prescribed medications and resumed to his reading. Before the clock could hit eleven the man has finally fallen to sleep.
At 11:30pm, Vince rose from the sofa and went to the kitchen. He pulled out a kitchen knife and put it in his jacket pocket. The man took a cab and asked to be dropped off at 2318 Easterwood. Standing right before a small house, Vince walked toward the door and gave two gentle knocks. It was already 12:25am when the psychiatrist opened the door, following a shocking look on her face.
“Mr. Taylor, what are you doing here? How did you know my address?” Lisa Candy, her real name, was in a nightgown.
“You have a heavy heart,” said Vince as he plunged the kitchen knife through her abdomen countless times, until she was no longer alive. But her teary eyes seemed to have witnessed the event as it stared directly at Vince Taylor. The man was perhaps Satan’s advocate.