::CHAPTER 3::

Waterfalls and glass. Mock skies and sunlight. Ice sculptures sitting on an emerald, faux lawn glinting translucent. The view outside was a deathly cold room designed to look like the outdoors. The inside was as well designed. Three thousand dollar couches and Peruvian carpets with great, antique lamps mounted on walls of white and gold.

And even with all of this they can’t seem to find an answer to my problem.

“Sorry I’m late,” a balding man in slacks and a soft, button down walked in, “I hope it’s fine, but I went to make a call.”

“As long as you know that you’re going to make up that lost time.”

“Yes yes.”

“Have a seat,” I pointed to the couch that he was usually perched in whenever I walked in.

He raised a brow but took his seat. “You would think that it wasn’t my office the way you talked to me,” he said. I sat back to place one ankle on the knee of a well pressed pair of pants.

“You would think that it wasn’t my deceased father’s money being spent the way you had me waiting.”

“I apologized.”

“And was arrogant enough to assume you were forgiven too.”

“You don’t forgive easily, do you Alejo?” he frowned. My eyes trailed after him as he pulled out a book and a pen.

“Forgiveness is condoning. You forgive a man once and he thinks he can get away with the same offence again.”

“Interesting take,” he began to write, “We both know that your father brought you hear against your will. Now that he’s gone, why do you still come? I was surprised at your call.”

“You don’t give refunds and my father paid for a lot of sessions with you. I’ll be damned if all that money goes to waste. I’ve seen the bill. You’re not getting that cash without doing something for it.”

“Fair enough. So do you want to talk about what happened with your family?” he asked leaning forward, “I haven’t seen you since the incident.”

“I don’t want to talk about it but I see that you want to. They were murdered, I know who did it and I plan to make sure he doesn’t do the same to me.”

“That’s not what I meant. I was talking about you and how you feel about their passing.”

“Oh.”

I stared at him. I blinked. There was nothing to talk about. I wasn’t affected in the slightest. I knew that and he knew that. Why he still acted like I should feel something was beyond me.

“I don’t understand. I thought we already established that I have no emotional bond with anyone.”

“No. I said that you may never have any true emotional bond with anyone. I hoped that the loss would awaken…something. Anything.”

“Nothing,” I ran my fingers over the almost silken couch arm.

“Not even a small longing? Regret? A need for vengeance?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I said.

“What about Samuel? If your priest died, think of the possibility and tell me your reaction,” the psychiatrist scribbled into his book, “Close your eyes and think of a world without your advisor.”

Leaning back in the couch, I shut both eyes and sighed. My mind ran on the persistent priest. I thought about him and our time together over the years. He was the closest thing I had to a friend but we both knew better.

“Eyes opened. How do you feel?”

“The same way I did before. I suppose it would be a hassle to find an advisor that I trust but other than that, his passing would not affect me.”

“And is there any new romantic interest in your life?” he asked.

“You’re not serious.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” he wrote again, “These questions may seem pointless to you now, but the answers say a lot when you put them together.”

“How so? Because I think these sessions are wastes of time.”

“You have an Anti-Social Disorder—.”

“As we’ve said over a month ago. Just like the files of all of my old psychiatrists said. Give me something new.”

“The point is, as much as they classed you as a possible sociopath you may not be one,” he said.

This got my attention. I sat up and put down my foot. “What do you mean? The other doctors were wrong?”

“Not necessarily wrong, but mislead. I see symptoms of sociopathic behavior in you, there’s no doubt about that, but I also see some psychopathic behavior. You appear to be some sort of mix of the two. People tend to be one or the other. The other doctors latched on to the traits that you have that also match a sociopathic profile.”

“Meaning…”

“Meaning your – er – killings. They often aren’t premeditated. They’re spontaneous. But your personality is controlled, calm, calculating. It as if you switch between the two.”

“Is it something common? To have both.”

“No not that I have seen. There’s no true name for what you are. And your past can be a factor too. Studies show that psychopaths tend to have a defect in the brain that makes it hard to do things like trigger empathy. Sociopaths have rough and abusive childhoods. Scarring things.”

“I can’t remember much of my life as a human. I can’t tell you about my childhood.”

“So let me guess, the medication hasn’t been working.”

“It’s useless,” I dipped into my pocket to reveal the box of prescription pills and pass it over.

“The urges haven’t slowed even a fraction?” he asked, “That’s a problem. I was sure that it would at least help a little. I guessed that it wouldn’t completely cure the compulsion.”

“Well you were right on that count. So what now? If I can’t be cured there’s no use in me coming back, is there?”

“No we still aren’t completely sure about how to classify you. One of the best ways to do that is to observe the actions in the heat of violence.”

“It isn’t violence,” I plucked at the couch, “They wanted it. All of them wanted it. They like the first few cuts. The venom numbs the pain.”

He stared at me. The other immortal was void of any expression. “You…they enjoy it?” he asked. I nodded and folded my hands in my lap.

“Of course they enjoy it. I’m good to them. Give them what they want. I’m always a good host that way. Some of them beg me to do what I do.”

“When last did you – uh – do what you do?” he asked.

“Last night. It’s an interesting story. Do you want me to tell you about it?” I asked.

He flipped to a new page. “Yes. Please, go ahead.”

Lying back on the couch, I stretched my limbs and closed my eyes. I could remember it all clearly. I opened my mouth and spoke, relaying everything as I remembered.

Back hunched, dirt caking my fingernails, eyes bright. The crunch of a shovel cutting into the earth repeating itself filled the silent night. I pushed the hair out of my eyes and dug the hole even deeper. The night air blew around me and I grabbed the body wrapped in sheets of blue satin. Only blue satin for my darlings.

A lock of dark hair fell out of the wrapping. With careful hands I tucked it in where it belonged and covered the head better with the sheet and then covered that with the more practical outer layer. On bended knee I placed her inside. I sat for a while and looked at the mound. It didn’t move an inch. Wishing Well Girl had been sweet. It was a shame she—.

“Hey you! Whatcha doin’ o’er there?” a voice rang out behind me.

“Not much,” I replied as he ambled over and muttered under my breath, “Burying a friend.”

“We close at eight. I’m the caretaker of this here graveyard and I don’t need no busybodies gettin’ into no trouble here. You had better clear out right now.”

Standing up from the hole, I dusted the seat of my pants. He came nearer and I went to grab the wooden handle. I scooped a shovel full of dirt and tossed it into the hole. He came over and peered inside, clutching his chest. “Sweet Mary and Joseph! Is that what I think it is?” he pointed at the bundle.

“Yes sir. This is a hole,” I joked.

“There’s a body in there. How did it get in?”

“Well obviously I put her there.”

“That there’s a madam?” he gasped, “Did you…”

“Kill her? Yes sir. I’d let you help, but I prefer to do my burying on my own.”

“You have a habit of doing this of’en?”

“No no no,” I continued to shovel at a speed too quick for a human, “It’s more of a hobby than a habit.”

The caretaker looked scandalized. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to be reportin’ you, young man.” I finished filling the hole and patted the top. Behind me, I heard a cell phone flipping open. Placing three smooth stones at the head of the mound, I turned to the caretaker who was now dialing a number and putting the phone to his ear.

“Now now. Don’t ruin everything. Give me that,” I plucked the phone from his grasp, “That’s a good man.” He stepped back and started to retreat.

“I’m trying to be friendly, sir. You aren’t going to go find someone to complain to, are you?”I asked.

“You killed someone. A lady much less. There are some evils that should not be done.”

“To some, there is beauty in evil.”The look in my eyes was neutral but he seemed to see something else.

He  took a few stumbling steps before turning on his heel. Running away, he took off through a pair of tombstones. I sighed. Plucking the shovel from the ground, I put it to rest on a shoulder and began walking. The caretaker was a human in his sixties. There was no reason to run to catch up to him. Just as I thought. He was doubled over and panting halfway through the graveyard. Glancing back, he saw me approaching. Gasping one last gulp of air he straightened his back and made to run again.

I was already in front of him.

With a yell he fell back onto the ground. People go around looking for trouble sometimes. Swinging the shovel down in a single arc, the metal curve sliced into his throat. The following sounds would have made the weak-hearted faint; the crack of bone, the squelch of broken skin, the wet swish of liquid against metal. Fractured bone would have looked back at me if it weren’t for the gurgling of blood spouting from the wound. Even in his dying breath he tried to scream. Eyes wide, his lifeless body stared back at me.

I took the scarf from around my wrist. It had been tied around Wishing Well Girl’s pony tail earlier. With the gentlest touch, I wrapped it around his neck to ease the flow of crimson. Swinging the shovel back onto my shoulder, I dragged the body through the cemetery by the scruff of his shirt. “A cup o’ rum from the barmaid, so pretty and plump with curves. A slice of pie the drunkard said, with a wink and a charming of words,” I sang, “A smack to the ass, the drunkard he dared, as he did every night at Pirate’s Beard. That barmaid with such sass, sauntered over at last wielding a knife to his head.”

Whistling I made it to the car and tossed the body in the trunk. I took out my pocket hankie and wiped at my fingers. I never drank from my kills. There were some things that were too wrong to do. I had some decency.

Driving through the city, I passed a policeman that I knew well enough. “Hi Alejo. I haven’t seen you in a while,” he said, “Want to go out for a drink?” I smiled up at the other immortal as he sat astride a police motorcycle.

“Not today. Rain check?” I asked. The officer gave a salute and sped away. I drove to the castle and into the secure garage. Grabbing the caretaker out of the trunk, I took him underground of the garage.

The place was cool and dark. I flipped on the light and put him to slump on the wall. Washing my own hands, I got a clean cloth from the drawer and wet it. “You are a really difficult man, Mr. Caretaker sir. We could have avoided all of this if you’d only walked away,” I murmured, “Oh well. Now we have a second chance to get to know each other.” His head wobbled precariously on his semi-severed neck. “Glad you agree.”

I cleaned the dirt and blood from his skin. It took a while but you had to be careful with humans. They were fragile creatures. His clothes were soaked with blood by now. I discarded them and cleaned him up. “Good as new. You know, I think you look even better now if I do say so myself,” I said, “No offence but you were a bit on the grubby side.”

I took him to the stainless steel table. Leaning on my elbows, chin cupped in my palms I winked at him, “See? What did I tell you? So much better, right? You had smudges on your cheeks making you look like a dirty schoolboy.” His head rolled to the side. “Okay okay. I apologize. But you know I’m right.” Just above the table was a full length mirror.

Shrugging into the lab coat, I came back to him. “How do I get your heart, Mr. Caretaker sir? That’s the question,” I tapped my chin. On shelves surrounding the room were jars of hearts of my past kills. They were all gorgeous…some more than others. I stroked a finger along the glass of one.

 No two kills were ever entirely alike. I prided myself on creativity…as well as consistency. “Well since you were ended with a shovel, I’m thinking something shovel like. What do you think?” I asked. He didn’t move. “Someone’s rather quiet. Am I getting the silent treatment?” I chuckled, “Never mind. Let me go find something. Stay put.”

Searching the cabinets and drawers I frowned. Going over to the section with the more unorthodox, less medical tools, I sifted through. “Jackpot, Mr. Caretaker! I found you something. Oh my you’re going to love it,” I grabbed the gardening tool and brought it over. “Look. It’s like a miniature shovel. Aren’t I clever?” I beamed when his head rolled again. “Let me just sterilize this for you. I’ll be back in a minute,” I left to put the tool into a metallic machine and then went on to adjust some of the jars. I got a new one for Mr. Caretaker and put his name on a label. The whirring sound from the machine stopped and I went over to get the miniature shovel.

By now, I could find a person’s heart with my eyes closed. I used a marker to line off where I would cut. Placing metal against skin I took a breath. The need to stab, tear, maul, slice, rip, and savage the body rushed in an inferno of feeling. My grip tightened. I had to swallow. The impact caused me to sway on the spot. Hand trembling I straightened. Another wave crashed onto my senses. I staggered. Pressing the tip, the squelch reached my ears. Another swallow. My hand raised and plunged over and over in flawless precision. A rough circle. I used a pair of tiny scissors to cut the edges that deviated from my otherwise faultless work. Snip! Snip! Click! Snip!

 I dug the heart from his chest.

“Mr. Caretaker. This is a beautiful heart you have. You must be a loving man,” I ran tender strokes over the still flesh. It was not as smooth as it appeared. All veins and blood and tissue. I gave it a kiss and a pat before the organ was placed into a jar.

The psychiatrist was scribbling away. “On the bright side, it wasn’t as bad as two weeks ago,” he said. I plucked the lint off my jacket. “This is the problem that I keep having with you. Your kills are sometimes the kind of a sociopath or the kind that a psychopath would do. There are few differences between the two. Medication is a shaky thing. I don’t want to give you something that will make matters worse,” he said, “A sociopath doesn’t have the control that you have. The ability to complete tasks the way you do. They can’t maintain valid relationships.”

“Valid?”

“Yes. They are nice and friendly to people when they need them. When they stop being useful, those so-called friends are discarded. Like Samuel. He probably thinks that you two are friends on some level and he’s wrong,” he said, “Now if you are classed under the psychopath profile, then your kills wouldn’t be so impulsive and so without reason.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe the medication isn’t strong enough for an immortal body?”

“I have, but there’s no way to measure how much you would need. You are not a person that I’d feel comfortable experimenting on. Especially since your kills don’t fall under any characteristics. It’s not as if there’s an age group, or gender, or physical attribute that draws you in. It’s almost at random. No way to predict it,” he sighed, “Meet me again in a week. I need to get some other opinions on this.”

“Strictly confidential?”

“Of course. Nothing less.”

“Good,” I nodded.

“And you need to work on some kind of control. The last thing that you need is to get caught,” he said and tossed a bottle of blood at me.

“Thanks. You’re an intelligent man. I respect your take on these things—.”

“That probably works on other people but I’ve been studying you for too long to fall for that.”

“Fall for what? You don’t think that’s true?”

“Your flattery is always shallow. Based on lies that help to further get what you need. You never compliment unless there’s a motive.”

“I’m hurt.”

“You’re never hurt. Not emotionally. And your motive is to get out of my suggestion of using restraint. Samuel may fall for your innocent smiles and flowery words but I know your psyche too well to get into that.”

“Impressive,” I smiled, “Truly impressive. Someone as skilled as yourself in things like this would be hard to fool.”

“Exactly.”

“So you should see right through me if I come next week with more blood tallied into my statistics.”

“I should.”

Shaking his hand, I allowed the curve to my lips. His grip got slack in my hand. “We’ll test that theory next week,” I murmured, “Have a good day.”

I left the office and wrapped the black scarf over my nose and mouth. Sliding the shades onto my face, I let my eyes adjust. Pulling out the umbrella, I then walked outside. Sunlight everywhere. I flinched as a ray brushed my wrist. I pulled the sleeve lower and tucked myself under full cover of the wide umbrella. The shiny red bruise glared at me. The car park suddenly seemed too far.

Sliding into the impossibly dark tinted car I let out a breath. I rubbed the burn and winced. It would take a while to heal. I went back to the castle and to the safety of the sunless rooms. Samuel was waiting for me in my office.

“You’re back. How did it go today?”

“The usual incompetence,” I pulled off my jacket, “Usual cluelessness. Usual ability to be inept at everything relating to helping me. Not that I’m complaining. I’m not against what I do. These sessions are wastes of time.”

“They won’t be when they finally find a way to get you to stop murdering innocents. You shouldn’t even be using humans for food. It’s illegal. There are Blood Markets for what you need.”

“I prefer my meals fresh. If it’s illegal to get my preferences then I guess I have a problem.”

“That’s not your only problem. Trust me,” Sam grumbled.

******************************************** 

So yeah. I have to be careful of what I write or Wattpad will either take me down or change the rating. This version of Alejo is a lot lot lot more tame than the one in my head because of that. But it's all good. I think I put just enough of his violence to paint a picture and get the point across...which is there's nothing nice or tame or forgiving about him. No conscience. 

Anywhoo pic of Alejo to the side. Shame how the people I create are nothing like people you see in real life. I have to settle with the people who give the same vibe as the character when I cast lol tough.