"Test, test."
Click.
"Test, test."
Click. Rewind. Record.
"Okay, the tape recorder is working just fine. Wouldn't want anything happening to our conversation, now would we Ms. Talbot?"
"No."
"Good. Now, let's get started, shall we?" A shuffle of papers and a clicking of a pen followed the man's words. "Tell me, Ms. Talbot-"
"Myranda. My name is Myranda." The blonde woman glanced up from her bowed head, but her blue-green orbs flitted to the ground once more within seconds of meeting the psychiatrist's gaze. He was an older man, probably mid-50's with ashy black hair and a large mustache detailing his upper lip. He had slight roundness to his belly, and his cheeks and hands were chubbiest of all. She herself was hunched over, forearms resting uptop her knees and her hands anxiously fiddling with one another between her legs. She didn't look up when he spoke.
"Alright - Myranda. Are you comfortable?" At this inquiry, she looked up once again, her eyes taking a full, detailed scan of the room. Small and white. Diagonal from her right, a bookshelf stood behind his cream colored plush chair, filled with books about psychiatry and other mental health studies. To her left, a black chalkboard, scribbles of words neatly written within boxes, explaining 'pathways of success' and a 'treatment ladder' of some kind. Behind that, a large, curtained window that took up a little more than half the wall. Down below her feet, an obviously worn down, chocolate brown rug covered the kind of carpet one would see in a middle school; that dull mixture of blues, greys, greens and what have you. But, the paint on the rest of the room was just... white. The walls, the ceiling, even the door was a milky hue. And it was driving her crazy.
"Exceptionally." Lie.
"Oh, wonderful! I hoped you would be; I wouldn't want any of my patients feeling uncomfortable while in my presence." His voice held a tightly knit enthusiasm, almost sickeningly upbeat. The kind of tone that parents would use after their child just told them they used the toilet when the parent knew damn well there was no way for a kid of their size to get up there without help. "You're quite the lovely girl, you know. Very beautiful and very intelligent." She glanced back to him as he sifted through a paper or two using the tip of his thumb, before dodging his eyes as he lifted them to meet hers. She didn't respond.
"No worries. I understand some patients can be shy at first. Just few more questions, but I need you to be completely honest with me, okay? First question: are you sleeping well?"
"Yes." Lie.
"Very good. Are you eating normally? Drinking plenty of water and exercising?"
"Yes." Lie.
"Splendid. Are you..." He stopped mid-sentence, and watched her closely with intrigued eyes.
She had gasped, her eyes wide as they shot over to a shadow crossing by the large window. She was now sitting perfectly straight, at full attention while her fingers dug into her knees and her face draining to match the color of the room. A figure of a large man slid by, that much was obvious, but she had seen too much to not take caution. She didn't ease until the shadow fully passed and disappeared behind a brick wall. She allowed her shoulders to slump and a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding slowly escaped her mouth. She heard a pen scratching the surface of paper, and when her attention returned to the psychiatrist, she watched him write down a few notes on her file. She returned to her previous position: hunched over, and pretended nothing had just happened.
A clear of his throat continued the questionnaire. "Are you still having nightmares?"
"Ye...no. No." Almost gave it away. God damn it, Myranda. Keep it together.
"Myranda, are you being completely honest with me?" His tone was now stern, all enthusiasm extinguished in the fact that he had caught her stutter. "Myranda, look at me. I need to see your eyes, please."
Hesitantly, painfully slow, she lifted her gaze to his, and kept it there as she emphasized every letter of her answer. "Yes." Her face stayed flat, no emotion present to express anything other than the singular word she had just spoke. Lie. Lie. Lie.
They kept eye contact for what seemed like decades, but was merely a few seconds longer. Tension so thick it could be cut with a knife wavered in the air, and she was most definitely affected by it. So much so, she dropped her gaze first and allowed herself to watch her fingers dance anxiously amongst one another.
"Uh huh..." His voice was low, and thus a few more notes were written down. "Okay, I think we're fine to go on to the main reason why you're here with me right now." He flipped the paper over, and in the split second it took him to do so, she caught a glimpse of a wild-looking spider chart, with rectangular boxes and arrows pointing every which way. It was a mess.
"Myranda, can you state why you're here?"
"Why? You know why I'm here." Her tone was more defensive and direct now.
"I need you to personally state it for the tape. Please, Myranda."
A sigh expressed her dislike for having to answer the question at hand. "I was one of the four sole survivors of the Jason Voorhees attack at Camp Crystal Lake. June 12th through the 17th, 1998." Her voice was mildly rushed, yet had a hint of annoyance, almost as if she wanted to get it out of her as soon as possible.
"Thank you. Tell me, Myranda: what happened at Camp Crystal Lake, June 12th through the 17th of 1998?"
No response. Thirty seconds ticked by before he attempted the question again.
"Myranda, I need you to tell me what events occurred at Camp Crystal Lake, June 12th through the 17th of 1998."
No response. The psychiatrist was now visibly losing patience. Isn't it funny how that works? How a psych doctor would lose patience before his patient?
"Myranda, I am going to go ahead and ask you one last time before we take a break. All I need is one simple answer; no elaboration at the moment. Just one straight answer. What happened at Camp Crystal Lake, June 12th through the 17th of 1998?"
What happened at Camp Crystal Lake, June 12th through the 17th of 1998?
What happened at Camp Crystal Lake, June 12th through the 17th of 1998?
What happened at Camp Crystal Lake, June 12th through the 17th of 1998?
"What happened at Camp Crystal Lake, June 12th through the 17th of 1998?" She repeated his question a million times in her head, but only once verbally. She lifted her gaze, and he was visibly shocked at the now-burning hatred sparked underneath the grey embers of her emotionless facade.
"I stared death in the face. Right as he slit my best friend's throat."