Author's Notes
I mean absolutely no offence to anyone with Dyslexia.
The Dyslexic Therapist
WARNING: Religious Disbelief, Gore, Rape (NSFW)
It was your average Sunday. The holy day they call it. A day where the rich, the poor, the old, and the young would all gather and pray. "Pray for what?" you might ask. Well, I'm not entirely sure. Some pray for health and happiness, others pray for greed. Some for what they want, others for what they need. Personally, I pray for humanity to realize there really is no god but I suppose in order for my prayers to be answered, I would have to believe. What a joke. Everyone will be attending church this morning except me, of course. I will be seeing my own version of God. My therapist.
She was a skinny little thing. Fragile, blonde, delicate and oddly desirable. She was the perfect woman or would be if she didn't suffer from dyslexia. Nevertheless, she was sure a sight to see. Often, as I laid in that chaise longue tuning out her opinion on my life, I would find myself mentally decimating her; tearing her clothes right off her body, tying her hands to her bed's wrought iron headboard, taking my Zhen Damascus steel knife and repeatedly stabbing her in the belly which would elicit the most horrendous screams from her thin lips each time my blade pierced through her pale skin. And then I'd fuck her; each thrust spilling blood out of the many holes I had created in her tummy. It was like watching a twisted game of whack-a-mole except instead of the happy little mole popping up from its hole, it was a rather large gush of blood. I couldn't help myself but finger one of the deeper wounds. It felt hot and wet much like a vagina except occasionally my fingers would find themselves jabbing into an intestine. It wouldn't be long before I would have to cum but just like clockwork, our session would be over before I could relieve myself.
Today, my therapist seemed rather off. Perhaps she had a lot on her mind. I decided not to ask. After all, the reason I was even visiting her was to help me with my problems. I laid in the chair for some time before she finally spoke. "Help?" she asked me. I could only reply to the best of my ability. It was hard speaking with someone who was dyslexic. "Why, yes. I do believe our little sessions help me. I tell you about my problems and you try to help me fix them." Another long pause. "Please?" she asked again. "Am I pleased with your work? Yes, most certainly. I have never felt better." A smile creeps up from behind my mask. Unfortunately, she can't see it.
"Why?"
"Because if I didn't visit you consistently I would be a total nut-case. You help guide me in the right direction!"
I am patient for her as I understand how hard it can be to get words out when your mouth is completely sealed off with duct tape. Eventually, she mumbles, "Spare me." A low chuckle vibrates in my throat. My legs are comfortably crossed, left over right, as I slide my thumb against the blade's tip, careful not to cut myself. "Spare you? I suppose that depends," I say.
"Do you believe in God?"