"You wouldn't get it."
The chuckle ceased. The forty-something female psychiatrist slowly looked up. My soft and piercing eyes wryly stared at her.
Her heart speeded up, as if he had been able to catch up decades of life gone up in smoke in an instant - an instant, that was enough for the monster to ram a sharp piece of iron into her jugular, slicing the vocal cords.
She collapsed in a puddle of blood, reduced to the state of a rag, to the state of an inert toy, for the criminal, towering over her to his full height. He could have just tear off her limbs one by one if he wanted to.
Although, on second thought, she could no longer even claim the title of toy: she had already fulfilled this role, during all our sessions, while she had listened impassively to my tearful testimonies.
"You wouldn't get it! ..."
She got it now. I had played with her, with such ease ...The clown she saw was foolish and pitiful. The toy she had been was silly and pitiful.
I was now striding away, my shoes sticky with her blood.
I wanted to dance.