“Mr Johnston, it says here that you have schizophrenia with severe violent tendencies.” The psychiatrist murmured checking his notes, his reading glasses resting on his nose.
“Sharing with me won’t reduce your prison sentence,” he continued, “But it may go someway to clear your conscience, you understand?”
“So, where would you like to start?”
“The voices,” I said, staring at the artexed ceiling.
“Voices, hmmm; are they threatening?”
“Do they make you angry?”
“You could say that.”
“Do you hear them now?”
The psychiatrist sighed, I winced at the cracking of his wicker chair as he sunk into it.
*How much longer do I have with this criminal piece of shit?*
“Around thirty-five minutes doc,” I responded gritting my teeth.
Startled, he replied, “I’m sorry?”
“You have to talk to this *criminal piece of shit* for thirty-five, hang on, thirty-four more minutes.”
“I… I… don’t understand?”
*Can he hear my thoughts?*
“Yes I can.”
“Oh, uh, how unique. Can you hear everything I am thinking about, son?”
“Oh my God,” he said panicking, “I… I… think you should leave!”
“But what about my conscience?” I said in a sarcastic tone.
He scrambled to his feet and ran to the door; he opened it and closed his eyes tight, pointing the way to my exit, “Please leave!”
I pushed myself off the couch and made my way to the door.
*Don’t think about your daughter, don’t think about what you do to her.*
I stopped and turned, “I’m sorry? What do you do to your daughter?”
I grimaced, and put my hands around his neck, “You sick fuck!”