The Voices of Evil
The room was slightly boring with beige colored walls and grey carpeting. It had the cliché leather chair and couch directly in the room's center, facing the window, whose shades were drawn. The dark leather couch was not empty—it was occupied by an extremely filthy little boy with red hair that was partially covered by a tattered, but once extraordinary, black cap.
"Jack," said the psychologist, in a soft but clear voice, "Don't you think that it's time you took off the cap? Why do you refuse to take it off?" The boy squirmed, the leather squeaking slightly underneath him as he did so, and mumbled incoherently. Why did he always have to bring it up? It was boring and uncomfortable-- he didn't take it off because he simply didn't want to.
"Jack, are you listening? Why do you refuse--"
"I heard you the first time," the boy snapped, annoyed at the man's stubborn inability to shut up. These uncomfortable questions made him want to rush at the psychologist, just to stop the sounds from coming out of his ever-flapping lips. The Shrink sighed deeply and said, "Well Jack, I hope you know you can confide in me if—"
"I want to talk about the hunt," he said abruptly. The boy's cheeks grew ruddy as the anticipation pervaded throughout him at the prospect of getting what he wanted.
"Again? Well, I suppose—" The psychologist quickly changed tactics at the angry and impatient look on the redheaded boy's face. He wanted to talk about the hunt and no one would stop him, especially not this blithering idiot, who was as soft as…as…. Who was as soft as Piggy. The boy smiled as he thought of the death of that wimp—blood, brains…. He just managed to hold back his laughter at the image.
"Alright," said the man, rudely penetrating these amusing thoughts, "If that is what you want to talk about. What about this, er, hunt, Jack?"
The boy licked his lips, "There's this, this power, this amazing feeling you get when you chase your prey," started the boy, a strange glint in his eye that always slightly unnerved his shrink whenever they talked about the hunt, which was a very common occurrence. "And it's not just you that's hunting. All the while you can feel its eyes on you. You hunt you kill," he said, bearing his teeth, "or be killed, be the prey, instead of the hunter."
"Do you feel hunted Jack? Do you feel--"
"And then the blood, the blood…" He trailed off. Faint images filled his mind and he clenched and unclenched his fists as though trying to feel if there was a weapon between them.
The psychologist waited for him to go on, pen poised, but he didn't. His mind, which was just filled with the beautiful images, went completely blank. The boy tried to summon up those memories of the hunt that always made him smile, but his tenacious mind still remained devoid of all feeling or thought. The little boy lay there, staring at the ceiling, not a thing going through his head while the man waited for him to say something.
"Jack," said the psychologist abruptly, breaking the thick silence, "Your parents are paying good money for this session. That's what I'm here for, to talk." The boy remained silent.
The shrink sighed. "Okay, Jack, lets try something new. I want you to close your eyes, and I want you to tighten all the muscles in your body. I want you to slowly relax all your muscles, one by one." Slightly intrigued by this new approach, the boy listens, for once. "I want you to let go of all feeling, and slowly close your eyes as you get more and more tired. Let them close naturally, don't try to force them, just relax." This was new for Jack, and he liked it, no, loved it. He slowly felt himself getting more and more relaxed. Very odd feelings slowly came to surface; he felt as though he was in a waking sleep.
"Start slipping further and deeper into yourself. Now Jack, I want you to imagine yourself in the most beautiful garden you've ever seen. You are on a terrace and in front of you is a long patch of grass on every side."
However, different images flooded into Jack's mind, clearer than ever before. He felt the rough wood of a stick in his hands, the cool rain splattering onto his face. He heard the distant roar of thunder, felt the hot air, thick with eagerness. Jack's breath started to quicken, as he heard the soft voices whisper into his ear, the chanting, the familiar chanting, "Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!" Faster and faster, "Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood." He felt his fists clench tightly around his weapon, his tool of death. He wanted, no he needed, to plunge it deep into the heart of the prey, the heart of the beast. It became louder and louder, until the voices were screaming, screaming in his head, "Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!"
"Now Jack, I want you to tell me what you are experiencing. Tell me what you see," said the psychologist. The boy could hear someone in the room, but yet the words were lost, and could not begin to penetrate through the excitement, the flesh, the blood and the endless chanting.
And as abruptly as it began, it stopped. The little redheaded boy finally opened his eyes, suddenly aware of his surroundings. He was in a slightly dull room with beige colored walls and grey carpeting. He shook his head, trying to clear it—he felt a bit lightheaded and dizzy.
The man was looking at him with a small smile on his face. "Well, it looks like our time is up. I'll see you next week Jack. That was a very productive session." The boy didn't even look at him as he exited the room, feeling empty, somewhat dazed, and vaguely worried that the man had seen what he saw, felt what he felt, and heard the voices of corruption, the mindless chanting.