I think my therapist is a fraud.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic


Tell me why you feel overwhelmed. What’s weighing on your mind?

I’ll tell him, all right. I look at him with his smug expression, pretending he asked deep, profound questions. He’s just killing time.

He looks so much like a psychologist he might as well be a caricature. Button-up shirt with a sweater on top. Trimmed beard hiding pursed lips. Glasses one size too big for his face. Khakis. Oxfords. The works.

He looks like he belongs on TV. Everything is a little TOO perfect, like someone pointed to a stock photo and said “I want THAT”. He’s holding a pen and paper, but hasn’t written a word.

I sit uncomfortably in his office, a dark, dimly-lit wood-paneled room with various books on various shelves wrapped around the walls. The carpet matches his personality - extra beige. The chairs we’re sitting in are dark green, fake leather, and a little too puffy. The clock on the wall broadcasts how much time has passed.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The heavy wooden door behind him is slightly ajar, and light from the other room spills in through the open slit.

A pool of blood, just barely visible, grows slowly behind it.

The look in his eyes suggests he thinks I haven’t seen it yet, but I detect a hint of questioning in them. I know he’s not my therapist. The real one is behind that door, likely dead. The dance we do with our eyes says more in a second than words ever could.

My thoughts race, still working on a plan to handle the situation. I’ve scanned him head to toe, nothing suggests he’s about to make a move. He sits with his pen to his mouth, faking deep thought.

That’s why I decided to move first.

The “therapist” wasn’t nearly as prepared as me. In less than two seconds I had successfully immobilized him and wrapped my arm firmly around his neck. His struggles only tightened my grip in the way fighting an anaconda wrapped around you only speeds up your demise. His breath became shallower and his strength drained. It was over in less than a minute.

It was much harder tracking down the patient and taking his place. This guy barely put up a fight.

I dragged his body to the other room and cleaned up the pool of blood, making sure to close the door behind me. It was way too messy and amateurish.

I took his clothes. Have to look the part, after all. Half an hour passed before I called in the next patient.

I think my therapist was a fraud.

I’ll do a much better job.


Submitted: March 25, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Mister Skulk. All rights reserved.

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