Chapter Nine

                                    

                                          
Emma
This is our twentieth session together, and I can't help but notice how much Alex has changed. He's calmer now, more cooperative. He responds to my questions without his usual sarcasm, and he's even started taking his meds. It's like he's turned a corner, and I'm not sure what to make of it. I don't know if I can blame it on our... escape a few weeks ago, or if he's simply started tolerating me, realizing there's no escape from me. From this.
He's stopped touching me altogether, and that bothers me more than I want to admit. God, I know it's sick, but I miss his touch. I miss the way his fingers felt against my skin, the way he seemed to know exactly where to touch me to make me melt. I'm starting to think maybe I'm as sick as he is. Maybe the only difference between us is that I've never acted on those dark impulses, never taken things as far as he has. I'm falling for a criminal—a psychopath—and I don't seem to care. Maybe I should ask to share a cell with him.
I take a deep breath and push those thoughts aside as I watch him. He's no longer cuffed during our sessions, and he's been granted more privileges around the asylum, though he's still supervised at all times. Everyone's been talking about the improvement they've seen in him. I've been focusing all my time on him; he's my only patient now. After today's session, I plan to give him the good news about the changes in his privileges.
"Tell me about your last victim, Alex," I say, keeping my tone even, my eyes on him. "The girl."
"There's not much to say," he replies, a grin spreading across his face. That grin—so casual, so nonchalant. It's like we're talking about the weather, not a murder.
"You slashed her throat, Alex. I think there's something to say," I press, knowing I'll have to ask multiple times to get him to open up, to tell me the whole story.
He leans back in his chair, his grin widening. "She came home with me, willingly. She knew the shit I'm into, and she said she was into it too. I bound her to the bed, started playing with her. She seemed to enjoy it, until I took a blade out and cut her a bit under her breast. She started crying. I thought it was part of the act, so I licked her blood, then sucked her nipple. When I let go and saw her bloodied nipple, I asked her if she liked being my plaything."
I squirm in my chair, trying to keep my composure. I shouldn't find this erotic, but I do. His words paint vivid pictures in my mind, images I shouldn't be thinking about, shouldn't be fantasizing over. I'm sick in the head, for sure. What kind of psychiatrist is aroused by the fantasies of a psychopath? But there's something about the way he talks, the way he describes his actions with such detail, such passion, that it pulls me in, makes me want more.
"Okay," I say, trying to steady my voice. "How did you end up slashing her throat, Alex?" I jot down notes in my notebook, my hands trembling slightly. I hope he gives me more details about their... game. Not because I need them for my notes, but because I want to hear more, to see inside his beautiful, twisted mind, to imagine these scenes later when I'm alone in my bed.
He continues, his tone almost casual, as if discussing a mundane daily routine. "She started crying again. Ugly crying. She asked me to un-cuff her, to let her go. But I was just getting started, and I couldn't stop. So I slashed her skin some more. Not enough to kill her, just enough to make her bleed. I started playing with her pussy, using the blood as lubricant. She started shouting, and I don't like shouting, so I silenced her."
I feel a chill run down my spine. His words, his delivery—it's all so matter-of-fact, so detached. Yet, there's a dark excitement beneath his calm tone, a thrill that sends a shiver through me. "You silenced her by slashing her throat?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Exactly," he says, his grin returning, a dark glint in his eyes. He seems so at ease talking about this, like it's nothing more than a hobby, a pastime. I'm more than certain he's a psychopath. But then again, maybe I'm not so different. God, I sound so silly. I'm thirty years old, and I'm falling for my goddamn patient.
"And what happened afterward?" I ask, my voice a little steadier, though my heart is still pounding in my chest.
He leans back, stretching his arms over the back of the chair, his posture relaxed. "I called one of my friends. Told him I'd had enough. He tried to talk me down, said I needed to stop, that I'd gone too far. But I wasn't listening. So, I made him call the police. Turned myself in. Got the best lawyers in the state and pleaded insanity. I confessed to all my prior crimes, laid it all out there for them."
I blink, trying to process his words. "You... turned yourself in?" I repeat, feeling a mix of confusion and disbelief.
He nods, his expression almost thoughtful. "Yeah. Killing didn't bring me joy anymore. I was looking for something else. Something more. Someone who'd live for me. But I didn't want to keep killing people just because they couldn't see the beauty in it."
I watch him closely, my mind spinning. His confession is unexpected, to say the least. I've read his file dozens of times, poured over every detail, every assessment. There was nothing about him turning himself in, nothing about a desire to stop killing. This changes things. If he truly wants to change... "There's nowhere in your file that says you turned yourself in," I say softly, my eyes locked on his.
He shrugs. "Why would they put that in the file? I'm a criminal, right? That's all they see. That's all anyone sees."
"But this changes everything, Alex," I say, a flicker of hope in my voice. "If you turned yourself in, that means you wanted to stop. It means you want to get better."
He looks at me, his eyes searching mine. "I don't want to get better, Emma," he says quietly. "I want someone to see me, like you see me now. To accept me for who I am, not try to change me."
I feel a lump form in my throat. "I see you, Alex," I whisper. "I see who you are."
He leans in closer, his breath warm against my cheek. "And you're not afraid?"
I shake my head. "No, I'm not afraid. I want to help you."
A slow smile spreads across his face, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You can't help me, Emma. No one can. I don't want to be saved. I just want to be understood."
My heart aches at his words. I want to tell him he can change, that there's hope for him, but I know he won't listen. Not now, not yet. "But I'm here for you," I say softly, my hand reaching out to touch his. "And I'm not going anywhere."
He looks down at our hands, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles. "You're a strange one, Doc," he murmurs, his voice filled with something I can't quite place. "Maybe that's why I like you."
I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. "I'm here to help you, Alex. To understand you."
He nods, his gaze still on our hands. "Yeah. I know. But you're playing a dangerous game, Emma."
I nod, my heart racing. "I know. But I'm willing to play."
For a moment, we just sit there, the silence stretching between us, heavy and charged. Then he leans in, his lips just a breath away from mine. "You're going to regret this," he whispers.
"Maybe," I whisper back. "But I'm willing to take that risk."
He pulls back slightly, his eyes dark and intense. "We'll see about that."
And with that, the session ends. The guards step in, and he rises, casting one last look at me before turning to leave.I raise my hands to the bodyguards and they stop in their tracks. 
"Alex, you are now my only patient, we will have our meetings daily from now on" I say my tone firm, and I can see his smirk across his beautiful face.