"No, I still don't know why I did it. I promise you, it completely escapes me. I mean, when I really think about it, I guess I could think of some silly little feelings I get sometimes... But I couldn't tell you them. It would sound stupid. They're just afterthoughts. They're insignificant," I insisted. I had sugar coated my voice with false exasperation, my mother's tinkling voice in my head ,saying, A little bit of truth is the secret to an excellent lie!
"And I know this must be hard for you," I pressed on, my listener’s weariness becoming more and more evident as I rambled, "and I know it's your job trying to understand how I feel. But I don't know, okay? I wish I could be of more help to you." I placed a delicate palm on his knee, hoping to instill a sense of assurance in him. He reacted as if my hand was ice--flinching in a startling display of unprofessionalism and appeared otherwise unmoved, though I doubted he was as unwavering as he hoped to present himself. Inwardly I scoffed at the thought of him desperately hammering away at the towering façade that was myself. I wouldn’t have doubted if the notes he took on me during our sessions were pages longer than his other patient’s records when I thought of how much more simple minded they must be. Hell, had these sessions not been court mandated I would have spat upon any person I saw set foot in this dump. Of all the things I could finally get caught for it’s arson. Embarrassing, really. Child’s play.
"That's all for today then," he huffed resignedly. My hour was over and he had sunk into languid apathy with ease. Absolutely pitiful.
My lips tightened themselves across my face, and I stood slowly, digging my manicured nails into the leather of my purse, popping it open and reluctantly flipping through hundreds. I was always half offended when people like him didn't drop to their knees in praise when I stood before them. I learned early in life that imbeciles hardly ever appreciate real beauty when they see it. I stood before this chubby, middle-aged bratwurst with a definitively mustard-colored wardrobe to be what? Disregarded?! Too many hours had I put in to weekly brazilian blowouts and waxes and manicures to remain unappreciated. Sometimes, ordinary people’s lack of hygiene disgusted me. That is if I even let myself think about it. I mean, why think about them when I could look at myself? A silky, vibrant brunette of twenty-three, with a 27 inch waist, 38 inch bust, size seven feet adorned in fresh pink polish; and I could go on all day about the work I’d gotten done, really, but a woman should never tell. I’d always admired myself for the shocking resemblance to my mother. After all, she was Mrs. Pennsylvania 1967. Beautiful woman. It’s really too bad her mind went to s***. All she’s good for now was paying my bills, hmm?
I gushed artificial thank yous. The contempt for the man taking my money weighed heavily in the back of my ribcage and I had to silence the desire to snatch my money back from his sausagey, undeserving fingers.
I realized that he had forgotten to write me a prescription for my new medicine we spoke about earlier.
Remind him! countered my my mother’s voice. You need your medicine and you know it! it cried.
Shut your damn trap, I hissed at the pissant. Shut the hell up. It’s her damn fault I was here in the first place.
The drive to be very far away from him very fast overpowered the other voice in my head and my heart thumped a little harder every second that passed without the words "prescription" or "pharmacy" or "pills"  being mentioned; giddiness shook inside me while I grew closer to freedom from the hellish (heavenly my inner narration squeaked) spell that the antipsychotics cast over me. I stomped out his further attempts at completing a sentence with a cacophony of excuses, gratitude, and eager yeses and of courses. Every time I cut him off another vein popped in his ugly forehead. Scurrying around him and out of his office, I crossed the carpeted hallways, which muffled my anxious gait.
"Anna!" he boomed from the doorway, his voiced laced with anger. I swiveled around and resumed my act seamlessly.
"I really do need to get going Dr. W--"
"Your medicine, Anna," Dr. Wilkes asserted, stepping towards me and dangling a prescription in front of my face rudely. I clenched my teeth together, unable to refrain. This time I really did snatch the paper from his ugly little sausage fingers. When I felt my nails of my ring and index fingers sink into the soft skin of his palm I did not apologize but rather turned sharply down the hall, offering him no more of the, ahem, bullshit. His parting gift burned in my clenched fist. It was holy water and I was Mr. Lucifer himself.
Anger pulsed in my skull; I tried to forget about the paper that sizzled between my thumb and forefinger. What the f*** does he know? He has no idea what these pills turn me into. A monster, that’s what. What does he think I am, a psycho? No. I’m staying just the way I am. Perfectly fine. That good-for-nothing s***-eater's words ticked rhythmically in my subconscious: “Don't let anger become habitual. What is your angry meter, Anna? Don't be afraid to take a time out.” Flouncing through the long hall, I slowly allowed my mind to drift to less important things.
My exuberance contrasted with startling starkness to the dingy, unloved hallways. I could never decide if this was a typical psychotherapist office or something that looked like a set design for a horror movie. Instead of cheesy photocopies in cheap frames the walls displayed poorly plastered holes with mismatched paint, the majority of them clustered near the marriage counseling room, where I supposed spouses had been slammed and pushed in bouts of anger. There was in fact generic "soothing music" being played through the intercoms, but overpowering the intercoms were sad hymns of drug addicts and battered housewives and schizophrenics (oh my!). The careful cadences of the therapists and psychiatrists and whoever the hell else practiced here could be heard offering their shallow condolences.
How did those imbeciles convince themselves that these money suckers gave a rat's a** about them? I didn't understand. I doubted I ever would. Ignorance is bliss, I supposed. But I was a different story. So many ridiculous issues some people had just never seemed to apply to me. I had no problem displaying a facade of admiration and awe to even the most subhuman of people, especially when I paid the scumbag to pass (shallow and unbacked) judgement upon me. In fact I would even call these little shows I put on for various audiences something of a hobby. Human minds are very malleable, some more than others. Slap the gray matter onto the pottery wheel and prod it and poke it until it's exactly the way you want it.  This image often played itself in the back of my mind when I found I had carried out a particularly successful execution.
"See you on the 15th of next month, sweetheart!" the receptionist wheezed.
"See you then! You have a lovely day," I chirped. The door shut behind me. "Disgusting washed up hag. Have a s*** day, wallowing in your diabetes and obesity," I murmured to myself, letting the grimace that had been away from it's home for too long settle onto my features. I trotted across the gravel parking lot to my car which I had purposely isolated from the rest. I clicked the button unlocking the car, opened the door, and slid in. The leather was refreshing, but the rancid dead body smell I could do without. A buzz tickled my ear. A fly.