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Chapter 2

I'm thinking about it…

I typed the message and sent it to Doctor Orson. I couldn't find anything on him. He had no social media footprint, no webpage, no fucking nothing. He was nonexistent and it was making my brain itch.

Add on to that he always insisted we meet at night in a building entirely empty—besides him and Katie, the receptionist who I hated. She had a digital footprint at least. I had a nice notebook with all her details written down in case they came in handy. Her social media names, her relationship status, her phone number, her address…

The info was very handy right this minute. I stared at the beige luxury apartment building. Her boyfriend wasn't over tonight because they'd taken a break.

My phone meowed and I looked at the screen.

Drinking blood?

What else?

Well… him I guess. Him and blood. I wasn't very creative or varied in my thoughts. I liked obsessing—latching on to something dangerous and never letting go. Blood and Doctor Orson. Doctor Orson and blood. What else was there to care about in life besides those two things? Everything else was unimportant, like shedding hair. You just pinch the strand off your clothes and let it flutter to the ground forgotten. Family, work, morals… pinch it off and let it flutter away.

Yes, blood.

With a sigh, I looked back at the building and walked across the parking lot in red platform heels. The straps around my ankles had golden chains. The wind blew right through my black chiffon mini-dress. Clothing and makeup were a distraction, not an obsession. I'd binge watch shows about werewolves and online shop when I had money.

Fuck, I shouldn't be doing this. Nerves were starting to kick in, reminding me that the last time I brought a weapon to a friendly little chat I'd ended up making an embarrassing failed attempt at murder. Which had left me with a migraine's worth of shit to deal with. Like jail time, parole, court-appointed therapy…

If I got caught this time there was going to be no leniency. Straight to jail, do not pass go. Goodbye, Bree Hamilton, have fun spending your young adulthood locked up. And yet I didn't stop walking across the parking lot. I just had to not get caught, how hard could that be? And maybe I wouldn't kill her. Maybe I wouldn't really try to taste her blood.

That's right, I just wanted to scare her. That's all this was, even if my mouth was watering to rip open one of her veins and indulge.

Never drink someone else's blood. Doctor Orson's words rattled around in my brain like shaken pennies in a mason jar. It was grating and headache inducing. I ground my teeth and pushed the memory aside. Was I really so pathetic to listen to my therapist's demands?

Katie was smaller than the first person I pulled a knife on. Still, she was bigger than me and I was running on two hours of sleep, a spoonful of peanut butter, and two highly caffeinated energy drinks burning holes in my intestines.

To put it simply, I was tired and starving. I was always starving but food just didn't feel right. The textures and tastes—ugh. There were only so many safe foods and let's be honest, I was shit at taking care of myself so sometimes I just skipped instead of bothering with a meal.

With a thick swallow, I thought of what it would feel like to have Katie's blood in my mouth. Thick and warm… god it would taste just right. I'd be satisfied , full even. When had I ever felt that way? I couldn't remember.

That fueled me forward. She lived on the first floor, unit 108. I had to walk past the stairs to find it. The white numbers were nailed to the dark gray door and the light above me hummed as I stood there. Cicadas screamed like dying yard sprinklers.

My phone meowed again.

I'm glad you messaged me.

I bit my bottom lip, gnawed on it really. The drip-fed drop of praise made me feel warm and gooey. I wanted more. I wanted him here. He'd come, wouldn't he? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe he'd just call the police but I was wildly hopeful he wouldn't.

Are you at home?

I'd test him. I had to. This mild obsession with him was irritating me. Honestly, I wanted to stop thinking about him and end whatever fascination I had with him as fast as possible.

I'd been in weekly sessions with him for two months now. I could imagine how his voice would sound speaking his texts aloud—a deep purr. I lifted the phone and snapped a picture of Katie's door before sending it to him.

I'm visiting our mutual friend.

He'd either call the cops and help kill this fixation or he'd show up here himself. Show up and see just how fucked up I was, scream at me, and say he wasn't going to be my therapist anymore. Or worst of all, show up and make it clear he was fucking his receptionist.

I had to test him. I couldn't keep this infatuation up. It was weird and disturbing and he didn't deserve my thoughts like this. Right? Little arguments sprouted up—about how hot he was, how understanding, how pleasing. He was like no one else I'd ever met. He made my senses purr and my mind numb. But he was my therapist and he was way older than me.

Would a man near forty even want to fuck around with an eighteen-year-old? Some would, for sure. Him though? I didn't know. Which was weird—women had a sixth sense for this shit and I couldn't get anything off him. He didn't feel entirely safe… but I couldn't figure out why. If he didn't want to fuck me then what did he want? What made him feel not entirely safe?

I pressed my ear against the door and listened to Katie's apartment, holding my breath. There was some banging around. I could smell the scent of pasta sauce.

Dinner time… maybe for me too. Shit, don't think that. But the thought had been here the whole time. All my shitty excuses of only wanting to scare her were sinking out of sight while the need inside me surged to the surface.

Plus, Orson knew where I was now. I was on limited time which motivated me to act fast and think later. Fuck, I bet she tasted so good. I bet she'd gush after a good cut to the side of her neck. It'd pump out and paint whatever off-white carpet her apartment had. It'd spill all over the place and I'd roll in it like a hot pig lost in mud.

The door swung open and Katie looked down at me. My eyes zeroed in on her neck and I swear I saw her pulse flutter. Blood, blood, gallons of the stuff… that MCR song was suddenly running through my head—an upbeat soundtrack to what I planned to do.

"Yes?" She asked. There was no recognition on her face. Which was weird. I knew she knew me. I saw her every week for the past eight weeks and I always made an impression.

"I was wondering if we could talk?" I asked. She looked perturbed. My hand slid into my pocket and I fingered the self defense weapon I planned to use on her. It was a pink kitten keychain. My fingers fit into the eyeholes and the ears were sharp, thick plastic points that could sink into someone's neck with the right effort.

"Talk about what?" She asked. Something was off with her. How did she not recognize me?

"Can I come in, Katie?"

"How do you know my name?" She asked defensively.

"It's written at your desk," I said, giving her attitude. Her mouth popped open in a perfect o and her confusion cleared up.

"You shouldn't be here. Look, if you need to reschedule an appointment— " she started to close the door and I shoved my foot in the opening.

"I don't need to reschedule anything. I just want to talk!" Christ, why was it so hard killing people? Admittedly my plans pretty much relied on people just letting me kill them. Wasn't really a plan.

"What the fuck!" She snapped, yanking the door back open. She stepped into my space and shoved me hard . I stumbled away and my back hit the wall. Cool, cool. This counted as self-defense now, right? Except in court, self-defense was only a good defense when someone used reasonable force. Pretty sure drinking the blood of my enemies would seem unreasonable to most people. Oh well.

I pulled my fist out. My pretty pink plastic keychain was ready to be christened with violence. A smile spread over my face and my mouth watered. Fuck, was I really doing this? It was like I couldn't accept this was truly reality, that I was really about to kill someone even though my arm was moving to do just that.

"Bree!" His voice was sharp. It felt like a physical force, a rubber band being snapped on my arm. Doctor Orson appeared from behind the staircase, coming out from the darkness like an apparition. It stopped me dead in my tracks.

How did he get here so fast? How did he know exactly where to go? He knew exactly where Katie lived is why. I ground my teeth and decided I wanted to kill her even more now. I lunged at her, swallowing a war cry of rage so the neighbors wouldn't come out and bear witness to the crime. Katie's eyes rounded to saucers as she saw me coming at her with something in my hand.

"Orson hissed a curse and then his hand wrapped around my wrist. I gasped at the connection. I couldn't move an inch. He was so fast and strong. He pushed his body between Katie and me. His back filled my vision, along with his smell.

"Go inside, lock the door, and forget this happened," I heard him tell Katie. A second later her door closed and the chain jingled as she slid it into place.

"Does she always listen to you so well?" I snapped. "Are you two fucking?" I spat rapid fire. Fuck me, make it obvious why don't you? Jealousy isn't attractive, Bree. Especially when you aren't even dating.

Doctor Orson sighed while he marched us to the parking lot, dragging me along by the wrist. I stared at where his hand touched me, marveling at our differences.

"You shouldn't kill my receptionist," he finally said. "An no, we aren't fucking." I tried to read the emotion in his voice. Was he angry? Frustrated? He didn't sound like any of those things. He didn't really sound like he cared at all. So maybe he was done with me. This was it, he was breaking up with me… as a therapist. That was going to make seeing him harder.

"Are you going to report me? Guess I'll go away for a year for the first offense and now this one…"

"Nothing happened," Orson said. He pulled me to my car and pressed me against it. The metal was hot on my back. His hands left me and my wrist felt empty.

"What?" I asked, looking up at him.

"Nothing happened, did it? As far as I saw the only thing that happened was she shoved you but that doesn't matter because neither one of you are going to report this. She'll forget all about it and you'll never do this again."

"She'll forget because you told her to?" I asked. He looked at me for a moment. I squirmed under his purple gaze. I'd never seen him outside his office before and I liked it. It felt like there was less between us—a desk for one. My eyes dipped down to his chest. There was just a few feet of air between us and my face felt hot. Always fucking blushing. I sighed in annoyance at myself.

"I'm glad you messaged me, Bree." His voice had softened. I liked it when his voice softened. Though, I wondered what it would sound like when angry. Maybe one day I'd find out and like it even better than his soft voice.

"What's going to happen now?"

"You're going to go home and sleep," he said. I scoffed and rolled my eyes but then it hit me. He came, he de-escalated, and he wasn't going to tell on me. My eyes went up to his, searching for reasons why.

"That's it?" I asked.

"That's it," he said with a small smile. "Maybe next time, give me a heads up a little sooner. I almost didn't make it in time."

"Shouldn't there not be a next time?" I asked with a smile. Were we flirting? Kinda weird to flirt about my attempts at homicide but perhaps that was our style.

"You can't help who you are," Orson said and I looked away sharply. God, why did he say these things? How could he just accept it like that? Shit, I liked him. I really fucking liked him.

"Go home and eat something rare. Maybe it'll help with that bloodlust of yours," he said teasingly.

"Stop that," I hissed, my face heating. I hated how easily he talked about my strange fetish for blood. He chuckled at my reaction.

"It's cute how ashamed you are," he said and my eyes bugged.

"You think I'm cute?"

"No," he said quickly, looking perturbed by himself. He grimaced before running his hand over his mouth. "Go home. You did good tonight, Bree. I'm proud of you for texting me. For letting me help you." The words soaked into my skin.

He turned around and walked back towards the apartment complex where his car was still running with the door still open. He'd raced here for me. To stop me, to help me. He didn't even go to check on Katie, just stood there by his car, waiting until I finally got into mine.

She could live another week I guess.

I slipped into my car and drove home. Then I flopped in bed, gripping my wrist where he'd touched it, and replayed the conversation again and again. Sleep never came easy for me, not any night. But at least tonight I had pleasant company. I imagined the shape of his mouth and the color of his eyes. I listened to his words replay in my head.

He had every opportunity to get rid of me tonight if he wanted to and he didn't. Instead, all he did was help stop me from ending up shit's creek. Then he complimented me, commended me… fuck. I really did like him a lot.

I wanted to see him again—right now. I wondered where he lived.

It was driving me even more crazy that I couldn't find anything about him. Really, the only place I'd seen his name written down was on my court papers. I needed to look through his stuff, find something, anything because he was too good to be true, wasn't he?

I liked shitty dudes and he appeared to be the opposite of my type so why him? Because he smiled and told me I did good when I opened up? Because he was off limits as an older man who was also my therapist?

Okay, yes because of that. And because of helping me out. What kind of therapist did what he did tonight? What kind of court-appointed therapist also has no website, no online presence, no nothing. And the whole Katie thing was weird to me. She really didn't seem to know who I was. Was she on drugs?

I rolled over in bed and unlocked my phone. Again I searched his name. Again it appeared to be a dead end. I kept at it for a while regardless, forever hopeful I'd find a little scrap of information. This was turning into an obsession. A bad one.

On a whim, I started to search all the psych offices in the area. The first thing that popped up shouldn't have been surprising. Verfallen Asylum was notorious. I tried not to think of it much because I'd always had the oddest sensation that one day I'd end up there. Everyone else was intrigued by it in the same way as a car wreck or a horror movie. They wanted to leer in and see just how bad it was—give themselves a fright. Verfallen wasn't a mental hospital, it was a prison—an archaic asylum for the criminally insane. People thought it was haunted and there were rumors the patients ate each other.

Nibbling my bottom lip I typed in Verfallen Asylum followed by Doctor Orson. I jolted up in bed, shocked when Google fed me a result right at the top.

Holy fuck.

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