Prologue
Is it wrong to say that I hate my psychologist?
Doctor-Effing-Vandemire thoughts and opinions on my life brought me to the conclusion from his body language that he finds me, without a doubt, completely and totally mental. Nuts, crazy, lost-my-marbles, mental. I despise my psychologist. In fact, every now and then, I have had the psychopathic thoughts of slaughtering him. But if I ever wanted him dead, (which is almost every single session I have with Dr. Stephen-idiot-Vandemire) I would just get my near-and-dear co-detective on the current case I am working on. Or I could just quit the sessions. Quick and simple.
"Listen here, buddy, I am absolutely tired of this psychobabble bullshit that you keep fucking giving me. I am letting—what are you doing?" I had stormed into the room, and now that I was standing close to the door—exactly in the middle of the door, I'm ready for the earthquake to come—I watched him intently as he sluggishly pulled himself off the couch, his eyes drooping, saliva hanging from the side of his mouth (disgusting son of a bitch), and that sleazy look in his grey eyes—that sleazy look that says: "Rape"—I was struggling to look at him in the eye, the stench of alcohol mixed in with rotten eggs, cigarettes and turpentine. His stench was the reason why my eyes were watering from the burning sensation pooling throughout my eyes.
"You know what? I'll talk to you later when you don't stink up the country. Hell, I'll call you, not that that might help." I was getting ready to back away, but somehow, the door was shut. I don't remember shutting it, but maybe that creepy secretary of his shut the door. I don't remember the door click either. He gave a seedy smile, tipping and continuing over and over towards me, refusing to give in to the drunkenness and just throw up and pass out already. "Miss Misora, what a," hiccup, "lovely surprise. You wanna drink?" He swung the bottle in the air, the clear liquid of tequila swishing around in there at a quarter height; he held it like he was taunting me. What a fucking idiot.
My hand reached behind me, touching the door with my fingertips to find the handle. He was coming closer to me, swishing around as much as the liquor, and I still could not find that handle. Where was it?
"Stay. Make yourself... Comfortable." He gave a wide, toothy grin before taking another drink from the bottle, wiping the remnants on his sleeve, which was stained with red and brown. Blood and dirt?
I found the handle—finally!—and gave him an identical, toothy smile. "I just came by to say that I won't be seeing you anymore you professional fuck-up. Try to get another five-thousand out of me, and I will sue your ass before you can say my name with the added benefit of colourful language." I turned the handle and stumbled slightly out of the door, closing it behind me swiftly, and then power-walking down the hall.
That was when I got the call. Another kill in Miami.
