The sun was just beginning to bead its way through Venetian Blinds, casting illuminated stripes across the hardwood floor of the office. The you could see all of the dust small floral pattern rug, and somewhere off in the distance of the building there was the pecking sounds of fingers on a keyboard.

The doctor walks into the room, coffee in hand, steam wafting out of the top of the cup. The chair squeaked as she sat down, spinning to face the uncomfortable leather couch upon which he laid.

"It has been a little while, I was beginning to think you didn't need me anymore."

She took a sip of her coffee, smiling as she brought it to her lips.

"Never needed ya, Doc, it's court ordered, remember?"

The smile was returned.

Fidgeting with the top drawer of the desk, she pulled out a folder with a bunch of paperwork.

"You actually going to tell me anything this time? We were just getting somewhere before you stormed out last time........hence why I thought you weren't coming back." She thumbed through the paperwork in the folder, sipping her coffee on every other page.

"I may, I may not".

"Hey, its your money."

This dynamic was appreciated. She was like a sister. He hated when those professional therapists, the holier-than-thou therapists who thought they were better than you because they had a framed piece of paper on the wall that had their name written on it.

"I see we were getting into your father, last time......"

He sighed.

"I just fail to see how this is relevant to anything."

She found a particular piece of paper, and set her coffee down, adjusting her glasses. Her mouth was agape.....

She ran her fingers over what looked like smeared lipstick on the paper.....

Blood

The words on the page concerned her as well.

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”

She hadn't put this paper in here.....in fact, as she thumbed through the file, she hadn't added any of these.

His entire folder had been modified........and every single one of them had a bloody kiss mark.

"Umm......" she turned towards him, a look of concern on her face, as as soon as she looked over, he was now sitting up, hands together....his head down and his face covered by his long dirty-blonde hair.

Our dad used to “spank” us every night and make us call the woman who abused us growing up “mom.” He was a genuine prick and he even carved a thick wooden paddle--like what you’d see at a frat house but scarier and full of holes--which we were terrified of. We got beat with that thing for the most minor infractions and several times a day.

"Mmmhmmm," the therapist said. "Keep going"

"No one knows this but he just had me--the only one of his nine children that even bothers to speak to him--become his power of attorney because his health is declining."

"This is a new development."

She listened to his words......but her breath came in shorter and shorts spurts. Every single one of these pages had blood on them.

Every.

Single.

One.

The scene replayed in his his head.


"Goddamnit!" the voice bellowed through the thin-walled trailer. "I can't get a little piece and quiet around this house!" He slammed his fists down on the kitchen counter. The empty and half empty liquor bottles shook.

"You fucking kids are going to be the death of me!"

They knew to be quiet, always be quiet. Never say anything back. It's better to be quiet and get beaten than talk back and get beaten.

"They haven't said shit, you're just drunk. What the fuck else is new."

Their mother would always come to their defense.....if it benefited her. She had a dog in this race, so she opened her mouth. If she didn't, well, fuck kids, you're on your own.

She appeared in the doorway, cigarette in hand, as she was just coming in from the back porch.

"Leave them alone, Charles, you're always on some shit about them."

He took a bottle off the shelf, throwing it at her head. She ducked it and it shattered against the wall.

"Shut the fuck up!"

She then attacked him, out of nowhere, charging like a bull who just saw the red towel.

He took her, anticipating her movement, even in his drunken state, and threw her into the wall. A big hole opened in the dry wall. He takes a swig of the bottle that wasn't empty on the counter, and took a few steps towards her. Picking her up by the hair he slapped her a few times before tossing her across the room, knocking over a table as she rolled in the now shattered glass.

Standing over the top of her, he kicked her in the gut when she tried to get up.

"I am sick of being dis-fucking-respected in this house! I am the only reason you all aren't out on the fucking street."

He wasn't wrong, but was still a shitty thing to say.

"And all I want when I come home is a little fucking silence....and respect!"

Wobbling back to the counter, he grabbed the last bottle with anything in it and finished it. With a burp he tossed it against the wall.


I have replayed this scene in my head over and over: he’s old, dying and alone in his bed. He is so frail he can’t move and he’s realized all his mistakes he’s made since he has no one by his side and nothing to show for his wasteful life. I walk in with a solemn but calm demeanor and I take a replica of that paddle out and I hang it above his bed so that he has to stare at it in fear every moment before he finally kicks the bucket. I’ll tell him it’s not so nice to pick on people who can’t defend themselves, eh? And it’ll be the last goddamn thing he sees before he dies.

"It isn't healthy to hold on to those things. Sometimes you need to find healthy and creative ways to get those feelings out."

He sat there, his head still down, hair still around his face. The therapist looked nervously at the clock. He was one of the only patients where she was actually looking forward for the time to be up for the session. She just got vibes from him sometimes.....

....but weirdly, she felt herself getting moist from it. Biting her lip, she went back to the folder with the blood covered paperwork.

Kiss mark after kiss mark.

All bloody lips.

Then I’ll put it in a hit screenplay and it’ll make me rich and win me an Oscar. What were we talking about?

Oh insults, I’d hurl this at him “so pop, since there’s really no one left on earth that loves you, can I just save money on the funeral and obituary-we can put you in this coffee tin?”

It’s my greatest fear in life to not have anyone around who truly loves me. Shudder.

The therapist stopped again looking at a piece of paper inside the folder this time it has a Target on it she couldn't make out what was underneath the target but the target was also Written in Blood.

She gets up and walks over to the door and locks it.

" I have the endurance, the skills, and the drive to win a match like this I have so many things in my life that I've happened to me that I am perfect for a match like this. I am pretty sure that I am immune to pain at this point. Doctor you've really helped me, last year I would have cared a lot more about a win loss record but, this year I just want to hurt Robbie oh, I want to make him suffer, I want to make him scream and beg. I'm going to show him that his endurance is not where it needs to be despite what he says. He's has nothing to say about me except for the same tired insults every single year every single day every single time. I'm going to make Robbie Bourbon rue the day. I am going to hurt him and hurt him badly.

She couldn't explain what it was but she looked back at the man and saw the fire in his eyes. Biting her lip she unbuttoned her blouse.

I want you to hurt me like you are going hurt Robbie."

The man raises and eyebrow.

"We have 15 minutes left.[/color]