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Description
New York, 2007
It was undeniable that the blue-haired man in front of me was dangerous. Maybe when he was fifteen or sixteen he looked harmless; maybe even funny. However three piercing became twenty, no tattoos became many, one cigarette became a whole pack, crack became coke, and an occasional punch or two became murder. Or maybe I was speculating.
When he had walked into my office I was ready to hear the story of a white trash boy now regretting getting a girl pregnant. I had heard this story so many times before from his type, so I was fully prepared to sit back and nod sympathetically. When he had set the blinds half down, darkening the room dramatically and sending blades of late afternoon sunshine across the Berber carpet, I was instead ready to hear a lunatic’s story of monsters under the bed that only come out in the dark. However, when he locked the wooden office door and sat down, leather jacket chafing against leather chair, and the naked hilt of a gun was revealed, it was undeniable that he was very, very dangerous man. Or maybe I was speculating again.
Blue, bloodshot eyes flashed up at me and I expected that he would speak, but he didn’t. He simply looked at me. I could hear my own breathing, the buzzing of the water dispenser next to my desk, but nothing else. I wanted to speak, but I thought that if I did the windows may shatter at an erroneous word. What was this guy doing here? Was I supposed to initiate conversation of some sort? Should I let him speak the first words? Out of all the things that must be wrong with him, what did he want to confide in me about? Nervously, I coughed then folded my hands, placing them neatly in my lap. I then found myself speaking, “I’m Dr. Sebthen. I’m guessing that Lucille has had you fill out all the necessary paperwork seeing that you’re a new client?”
And my words did exactly what I had hoped they wouldn’t; they cut through the silence like a chisel noisily breaking ice. Smoothly, his voice then picked up the pieces and formed them into something else. Something unbelievable.
“I know who you are, Alice Sebthen. Lucy is gone for the rest of the day, so I can assure you its going to be just you and I until my story is finished.” His voice sounded raspy; the voice of a long time smoker. Raspy accompanied by a curt British accent. I wanted to say something, but I had a feeling that I really didn’t need to. I had already fallen down and now had to wait for him to pick me back up.
His hand went into his jean pocket and he pulled a lighter and cigarette out in one swift movement. Cigarette went between thrice-pierced lips, and a heavily ringed and tattooed hand brought the lighter up, sparking a fiery gem of light in the room. When he exhaled, smoke poured from his mouth demonically as he spoke his next words. “I knew a boy,” another drag on the cigarette, “and his name was Dameon Blackheart. He was a good boy for a while, yeah. Then he went bad, Alice. Real bad, do you know how that happened?”
“Listen, I don’t know who you are, but you really need to leave,” I began to complain, but I was cut off by his laughing.
“I take that as a no. You probably wouldn’t know him, most of his crimes took place in Santa Monica.” He tapped ash on my carpet and this induced my nervousness to a higher level. The tip of his tongue ran over his bottom lip and he smiled at me. “Beautiful place Santa Monica. But why, Miss Alice, am I here now, in your office, in New York? Funny story, really. It’ll only take a little bit of time and then you’ll be on your way.”
“I’m really quite serious, you need to leave,” I repeated, standing up and reaching for the phone on my desk. The man threw his feet up onto the desk, startling me. Before I could control myself, I yelped and jumped back. Casually, mockingly, he leaned back in his chair, blowing grey smoke from the corner of his mouth as a final mark of victory.
“Sit down.”
“Please, I don’t know—”
“I won’t ask again, love. Sit your ass down before I get up and make you.”
I sat back down, hands unsteadily gripping the armrests. I’d dealt with this before. Whatever this was, specifically, didn’t matter. It was simply the genre of psychopath that I knew. If he had already killed people, the only chance I stood was to sit there and listen to whatever he had to say. On the other hand, if this blue-haired freak just wanted a motherly ear to yap into, I would only be here for two, three hours before I could convince him to go back to his parent’s basement. Simple. It should have been simple.
“Good. Now that we’re on better terms, let’s start this over. My name is Dameon Blackheart,” he introduced, patting his hand against his chest, cigarette bobbing against his lips nonchalantly. Dameon gripped his smoke between middle finger and index, then rubbed his nose against the flats of his fingers, frantically back and forth. A druggie’s habit. He motioned to me.
I complied flatly. “I’m Dr. Alice Sebthen.”
“Good,” complimented the Brit. He blinked his bloodshot eyes a few times, then turned his head away from me. Emotion flashed across his face; sadness, confusion. Most of all, desperation. Just as my lips began to part, ready to ask him what was wrong, he spoke again.
“Alice, I am a very tired man. I’ve gotten myself into too many troubles to name. Too many addictions, too many money-sucking ventures that I can’t get out of. I’ve held my tongue and watched murderer after murder walk away.”
He looked at me expectantly. What was I supposed to say to that? I’m sorry that you’re delusional, here’s an antipsychotic medication?
“I’m tired of lying, sweets. I’m only twenty-seven and already I’m ready to sleep the big sleep.”
Taking the chance, the bold chance, I stepped into his world. Embracing whatever he had to tell me. Asking me why I decided to hear Dameon Blackheart’s story is a pointless question, because I honestly don’t know. “Why do you want to die? No lie can be so big that you want to die, Dameon.”
Deep laughter rumbled from his chest and he tossed his head back. Was I that funny? I didn’t think so, but apparently he did.
“Maybe lie isn’t the right word, eh? How about meaningless? I suppose I’ve realized that everything I’ve done has hurt someone somehow. How can I live with that? That’s what I can’t live with, babe. I can’t live with knowing I’m an awful person who has done awful things.”
I wanted to say, you’re rambling, but it didn’t seem polite. It seemed downright rude; after all, he was pulling out his deepest feelings and slapping them down onto my desk.
“Tell me what you’ve done wrong, then,” I suggested, going into shrink-mode. It’s where I felt the safest. When I was in the zone of a professional doctor, nothing appeared to be as bad.
“I can’t just tell you. Where would I start?”
“You said you were a good boy at one point. Start there. I’m sure it’ll all go to hell quick enough.”

Description
New York, 2007
It was undeniable that the blue-haired man in front of me was dangerous. Maybe when he was fifteen or sixteen he looked harmless; maybe even funny. However three piercing became twenty, no tattoos became many, one cigarette became a whole pack, crack became coke, and an occasional punch or two became murder. Or maybe I was speculating.
When he had walked into my office I was ready to hear the story of a white trash boy now regretting getting a girl pregnant. I had heard this story so many times before from his type, so I was fully prepared to sit back and nod sympathetically. When he had set the blinds half down, darkening the room dramatically and sending blades of late afternoon sunshine across the Berber carpet, I was instead ready to hear a lunatic’s story of monsters under the bed that only come out in the dark. However, when he locked the wooden office door and sat down, leather jacket chafing against leather chair, and the naked hilt of a gun was revealed, it was undeniable that he was very, very dangerous man. Or maybe I was speculating again.
Blue, bloodshot eyes flashed up at me and I expected that he would speak, but he didn’t. He simply looked at me. I could hear my own breathing, the buzzing of the water dispenser next to my desk, but nothing else. I wanted to speak, but I thought that if I did the windows may shatter at an erroneous word. What was this guy doing here? Was I supposed to initiate conversation of some sort? Should I let him speak the first words? Out of all the things that must be wrong with him, what did he want to confide in me about? Nervously, I coughed then folded my hands, placing them neatly in my lap. I then found myself speaking, “I’m Dr. Sebthen. I’m guessing that Lucille has had you fill out all the necessary paperwork seeing that you’re a new client?”
And my words did exactly what I had hoped they wouldn’t; they cut through the silence like a chisel noisily breaking ice. Smoothly, his voice then picked up the pieces and formed them into something else. Something unbelievable.
“I know who you are, Alice Sebthen. Lucy is gone for the rest of the day, so I can assure you its going to be just you and I until my story is finished.” His voice sounded raspy; the voice of a long time smoker. Raspy accompanied by a curt British accent. I wanted to say something, but I had a feeling that I really didn’t need to. I had already fallen down and now had to wait for him to pick me back up.
His hand went into his jean pocket and he pulled a lighter and cigarette out in one swift movement. Cigarette went between thrice-pierced lips, and a heavily ringed and tattooed hand brought the lighter up, sparking a fiery gem of light in the room. When he exhaled, smoke poured from his mouth demonically as he spoke his next words. “I knew a boy,” another drag on the cigarette, “and his name was Dameon Blackheart. He was a good boy for a while, yeah. Then he went bad, Alice. Real bad, do you know how that happened?”
“Listen, I don’t know who you are, but you really need to leave,” I began to complain, but I was cut off by his laughing.
“I take that as a no. You probably wouldn’t know him, most of his crimes took place in Santa Monica.” He tapped ash on my carpet and this induced my nervousness to a higher level. The tip of his tongue ran over his bottom lip and he smiled at me. “Beautiful place Santa Monica. But why, Miss Alice, am I here now, in your office, in New York? Funny story, really. It’ll only take a little bit of time and then you’ll be on your way.”
“I’m really quite serious, you need to leave,” I repeated, standing up and reaching for the phone on my desk. The man threw his feet up onto the desk, startling me. Before I could control myself, I yelped and jumped back. Casually, mockingly, he leaned back in his chair, blowing grey smoke from the corner of his mouth as a final mark of victory.
“Sit down.”
“Please, I don’t know—”
“I won’t ask again, love. Sit your ass down before I get up and make you.”
I sat back down, hands unsteadily gripping the armrests. I’d dealt with this before. Whatever this was, specifically, didn’t matter. It was simply the genre of psychopath that I knew. If he had already killed people, the only chance I stood was to sit there and listen to whatever he had to say. On the other hand, if this blue-haired freak just wanted a motherly ear to yap into, I would only be here for two, three hours before I could convince him to go back to his parent’s basement. Simple. It should have been simple.
“Good. Now that we’re on better terms, let’s start this over. My name is Dameon Blackheart,” he introduced, patting his hand against his chest, cigarette bobbing against his lips nonchalantly. Dameon gripped his smoke between middle finger and index, then rubbed his nose against the flats of his fingers, frantically back and forth. A druggie’s habit. He motioned to me.
I complied flatly. “I’m Dr. Alice Sebthen.”
“Good,” complimented the Brit. He blinked his bloodshot eyes a few times, then turned his head away from me. Emotion flashed across his face; sadness, confusion. Most of all, desperation. Just as my lips began to part, ready to ask him what was wrong, he spoke again.
“Alice, I am a very tired man. I’ve gotten myself into too many troubles to name. Too many addictions, too many money-sucking ventures that I can’t get out of. I’ve held my tongue and watched murderer after murder walk away.”
He looked at me expectantly. What was I supposed to say to that? I’m sorry that you’re delusional, here’s an antipsychotic medication?
“I’m tired of lying, sweets. I’m only twenty-seven and already I’m ready to sleep the big sleep.”
Taking the chance, the bold chance, I stepped into his world. Embracing whatever he had to tell me. Asking me why I decided to hear Dameon Blackheart’s story is a pointless question, because I honestly don’t know. “Why do you want to die? No lie can be so big that you want to die, Dameon.”
Deep laughter rumbled from his chest and he tossed his head back. Was I that funny? I didn’t think so, but apparently he did.
“Maybe lie isn’t the right word, eh? How about meaningless? I suppose I’ve realized that everything I’ve done has hurt someone somehow. How can I live with that? That’s what I can’t live with, babe. I can’t live with knowing I’m an awful person who has done awful things.”
I wanted to say, you’re rambling, but it didn’t seem polite. It seemed downright rude; after all, he was pulling out his deepest feelings and slapping them down onto my desk.
“Tell me what you’ve done wrong, then,” I suggested, going into shrink-mode. It’s where I felt the safest. When I was in the zone of a professional doctor, nothing appeared to be as bad.
“I can’t just tell you. Where would I start?”
“You said you were a good boy at one point. Start there. I’m sure it’ll all go to hell quick enough.”