The Dark OblivionMature

Lightning could be seen in the dark oblivion, just outside the window of the small office. This room was normally meant to calm the mind and relax the body. There were two chairs, facing each other, with a coffee table in between, and a small file cabinet shoved in the corner. With its neutral, color coordinated paint and carpet, the black and white prints hung on the walls, and the potted plant so neatly placed on the table, anyone could feel at home in this room which contained so much confusion and despair. The chair on the right contained a different patient almost every hour of the day. In the chair on the left, always remained the same person, the same therapist, listening, analyzing every word spoken by the bizarre, mentally disturbed subjects. The men and women, boys and girls that so desperately looked to her for help, poured out their every thought and emotion to her in their last attempt at sanity. And, as the doctor listened, so did the room, subject to every last element ever expressed by each patient. From the angry rants of the control freak, to the ex-convict’s darkest secret. The walls absorbed these things, and held them there, until most personality of the patient had been sucked dry, and thoughts had become rational and uniform, what the majority of society likes to consider normal. And, until a heavy fog of thoughts and feelings hung over the room, so thick that a person could sense it as soon as they stepped through the door. Over the years, the fog had become thicker, restricting sight, movement, even inhaling became a task, when in the office. The confusion, fear, sorrow, regret, and sick, vile thoughts could all be felt, even by the magnificent doctor herself.

 

This un-ignorable, yet implausible characteristic of the room had been troubling the doctor more so than usual in the past few days. Which did not help on that eerie, stormy night, just when Dr. Chenica was about to put on her jacket and go home, when Jeremy, one of her patients, arrived. He swung the door open with great force and stood in the doorway, unmoving, staring directly at his therapist. Dr. Chenica turned and gasped at the sight.

 

“Jeremy, are you alright? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

 

Jeremy said nothing. The doctor looked over the dark silhouette in the doorway. His fists were clenched and, although she could not see it, she knew he was glaring directly into her eyes.

           

“Jeremy, tell me what’s wrong,” she repeated.

 

He took a step closer.

 

“You told me that every life has a purpose,” the faint mumble was barely audible.

“What are you talking about?” The therapist, now in fear, asked.

“In our session, don’t you remember?” Came the voice through gritted teeth.

 

Dr. Chenica now recalled saying this several weeks ago, when her patient was questioning the meaning of life.

He spoke again, “I’ve found that meaning.” Another step closer, “It was right in front of me the entire time. I don’t know how…I couldn’t see it.” His hoarse whisper became louder as he took several steps closer. Dr. Chenica tried to step back, but the wall confined her, she was trapped. Slowly, Jeremy pulled up the stained sleeve of the hooded jacket he wore. His arm was dripping with dark liquid.

 

More lighting flashed through the window, and, in the split second of light, the doctor saw the word “DEATH” carved into the man’s arm. Her hand flew up, covering her mouth.

 

“That’s why we’re here,” he said, his face not inches from hers, his blue eyes staring intently, “to kill and be killed.” With this, he laughed, the most sinister laugh the doctor had ever heard, in all her years of dealing with the mentally ill.

 

“Thank you, doctor.”

 

His hand moved to the top of his pants, and removed a large knife. He smiled, and, before Dr. Chenica could run, stabbed her directly in the chest. She let out a slight scream, as blood leaked out on to her shirt. Jeremy removed the knife, and the red liquid erupted, spurting out and spraying him in the face, and pouring down the woman’s body. As she began to sink to her feet, again he attacked her, this time slashing her throat. More blood emerged and the doctor feel to the floor, her eyes closed. As she lay, unmoving, the patient stabbed her countless times. First, the stomach, then the head, and the limbs came last. When he was finished, bits of organ and bone could be seen through the endless flow of blood and heaps of deformed skin. The face was unrecognizable.

 

He stood, admiring his work and nodding. He used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the blood from his face. “Thank you,” he said once again, and promptly left the stingy office filled with despair, returning to the dark oblivion.

The End

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