Disclaimer: Othello is property of William Shakespeare. I am simply using his characters. Anything you don't recognise is my own.

Authors Note: This is a simple one shot. It was written three years ago whilst I was studying Othello for my English GCSE. It's just meant to be a bit of fun, Shakespeare was never my strong point so if I have any facts wrong, I'm sorry.

Please read and review.

Have fun.

Name: Iago

Age: 30

Occupation: Soldier

Issues: Othello and Michael Cassio

A new client has just walked into my life. Upon seeing him I realise this could be a very difficult patient to cure. I am a psychiatrist, if you had not gathered, and the man that has just entered the waiting room could be my most difficult patient yet.

He is a liar and a very clever man – liars, in my experience, are some of the cleverest men in our society, if they are good at it that is. In the course of my career I have come across two types of liar, one liar lies for good and another for bad. To become a liar of the second type, one needs a motive. This is my job, to find out his motive.

My first glimpse of him is through the plain, panelled window of my office. He is pacing around outside like a caged animal ready to be set upon for sport. He keeps looking through the glass, a sign of nervousness, yet there is also suspicion in his gaze. I put him out of his pain and invite him in. On first impressions he seems to be an honourable and trustworthy man, yet his report file at my side says otherwise. I look into his eyes and see deep into his soul and realise that this man is not all what he is cracked up to be.

I shake his hand and sit down behind my desk gesturing to the leather backed seat opposite. He sits, perched on the edge with his arms crossed in front of him and fiddles with the cuffs of his coat. Clearing my throat he looks up and I look at him more closely.

His eyes are dark and sunken in, reflecting my image like a lake of darkness. His forehead is full of deep meaningful valleys of worry and hate.

Will I be found out?

What am I doing here?

Will he tell anyone?

Can I trust him?

Can I trust anyone?

Can I trust myself?

These are the thoughts that I predict are going through his head at this moment. I believe the last one is the most important to these consultations; I want him to think about it and dwell over it. This man can be read like a book. Can he trust me? Well, that is the question.

To determine why he has all this hate bottled up inside him, I look back in his mind nearly twenty five years to when he was at the innocent age of six. I start by asking him a few questions;

"Iago, do not fear me. I want you to relax; these consultations are meant to be a joint effort. I am going to ask you a few questions." I say, and hide a smile as I watch him flinch at the noise. "What was your family life like?"

Good question to start with and it obviously struck a chord in him, much like when you play a flat note on an organ. His face cleared of all expression and he looked at me blankly, giving nothing away. A clever man. I ask again.

"What was your family life like?"

"Adequate." He said simply.

This man was smart, he knew what he was doing, yet I was smarter. I did not want to bring up any past demons, but for the sake of the two people he hated the most I knew I had to. "What was your mother like?"

"She was beautiful in every way and cared a lot about me and my …"

"For you and who?" I ask gently, all ready knowing the answer.

"Father." He said this with no emotion and stared straight past me and out of the window. He acted brave and as though nothing had happened, but by the stumble on that one question he had given me all the information I needed.

"What happened to your father?" I carefully questioned.

"He was fine." He replied but a blind man could see this was not the full story.

"Was? How is he now?"

"No." He said flatly.

Treading on fragile ground I rephrase my question; "Iago I need you to work with me. What happened to your father?"

Upon hearing my question his shoulders slumped and he dropped his head into his hands in defeat. It had been a long time since I had seen such a strong and dominate figure broken down into such a small mouse. Or as some people would call him; Rat.

"He … he died." He finally said, speaking to the ground between his legs for he had yet to look back up.

"How?" I ask in my kindest manner. One, I have to say, does not suit me greatly.

He looked up at me and frowned. "He was stabbed by a man far more terrible than me."

At last I was getting somewhere. This man I now knew must be truly hateful if he is worse than the Rat I see before me. I did not remark on how Iago had described himself, as much as I wanted to, it was not professional.

I now had a motive for why the Rat was so full of hate, but I still needed to know who destroyed the Rat's life. I decided to gently question the Rat.

"Who killed your father?"

He snarled, more to himself I think, than me. I can tell he is annoyed.

"Joseph Cassio."

I knew from this point on that Cassio had turned the Rat into a man more full of hate than the devil himself. Yet I still needed answers. "Why did he kill your father?"

"My father got him drunk and he had a poor and unhappy brain for drinking – much like his son. Michael Cassio and I started mock fighting with the wooden swords our fathers had made for us earlier in the day. I pretended to stab Michael Cassio and father thought I was trying to kill him. Joseph Cassio lunged at me with his dagger; my father jumped before me and took the blow himself. He died in my mother's arms a half hour later."

He had said this speech with hardly a breath or thought. He had obviously had this bottled up inside him for decades. So for it finally to be revealed to me must have been a huge weight off his shoulders.

To have a family member die is bad enough but to witness it must be torturous. Even worse it must have torn this young boy apart knowing he was partly responsible for his father's death.

To hate one of your best friends is one of the hardest things to do, but now I understood.

I had solved the case on why he hated Cassio so much, a long and unforgotten grudge. Why did a person such as Iago hate a man of freedom and strength, why was Othello next on his wanted list?

"What happened after your father died?" I questioned.

"My mother killed herself." He mumbled after a pause.

A suicide, not well favoured among the classes, seen as weak way out. No wonder he only mumbled it, he was ashamed. "And next; what happened?"

"I was sent to live with Othello and his parents." He said without even glancing at me.

I knew he was hurting deep down inside; I just had to dive down a bit deeper into this lake of hate.

"Well that was good, was it not?" I knew before I had asked the question that it was not, but to get to the bottom of the lake I needed to ask some questions that would make him think.

"It was terrible." He said flatly, bringing his eyes to mine.

"Why was it so bad? They must have treated you well."

"They treated me fine, I got fed and watered, but I was not loved." He said looking straight at me.

His cold eyes starting to show emotion; sorrow, regret and anger. Interesting; love, something every young child needs in a time of hardship.

"They gave it to Othello, their darling Moor. They could not even spare me a kiss when I fell over and grazed my knee or a hug when the Moor's horse kicked me. They did not even notice my scarlet red blood turning black against them."

"It cannot have been all that bad." At last I finally knew where all the hate and rage had come from. He was deprived of love when he needed it the most. This alone turned him into the bitter Rat that he is today.

"They loved their little Moor, on his sixteenth birthday they bought him a beautiful black stallion. Their skins were the same colour and so was their blood, a brilliant shining red, like mine used to be before he turned it black."

I decided that my client had had enough for one day; he came into my office a man full of meaning and lies. I have brought up his past and realise there is a lot more to him that what first appears. "That is enough for today Iago. I will see you the same time next week if you wish."

As he stands up and walks to the door I watch his back, he is going to stop.

He stops and turns around. "I hate them." He says as he opens the door and walks out. There is still one of my questions in his head however. 'Can I trust myself?'

I did not tell him how to be a better man. I did not tell him to stop his wrong doings and lying, I was not intending to. My job is to make people see why they are the way they are and hopefully face up to their fears and demons. I am not sure if he did realise why he is the way he is, but I know he will now be thinking. That thinking is good as it is what will bring him back again.

He will come back here again next week, just like I said. You can always tell when a person believes you and wants more advice and someone to talk to. I will string off another load of lies, just like I do with all the rest. The difference between my lying and the Rats lying is that I get paid to lie.

His lying will eventually backfire on him and he will be found out. I, on the other hand, will never be found out. For everyone believes and trusts me, they come to me for help; they pay me to ask them what happened in their lives. As long as they keep coming I will keep lying. I am, as I call it, a liar of the first type. A good liar.

Iago will be back, that is for sure. The question will stay in the back of his mind until it wants to burst out. At that point he will back through that door and into this office, and be put though all the pain again.

I smile as I pick up my coffee and take a sip. I love my job.