The noir internal monologue of a dying breed of private detective/bounty hunter during a rare psychotherapy session.

I sit in the leather chair and take in the stereotypical psychiatrist’s office with the eyes of a stereotypical detective. Neutral wall and carpet colors. Large window with a view of the sun setting over the Mississippi river. Diplomas from several universities I’ve never heard of on the walls. Trinkets from places the doctor’s never been are scattered around the room in an attempt to make the place feel more comfortable. It doesn’t. The doctor himself isn’t anything special either. Lean build, beard, wire-rimmed glasses, tweed blazer. I can’t believe this is the guy that’s been causing such a stir. I’m used to being disappointed though. People are usually more potent as ideas than as realities. Hell, I’m a walking example of that.

I smirk in spite of myself and it catches the doctor’s attention. He adjusts his glasses and picks up a shiny silver pen, indicating he’s ready to begin the session. I look at the clock. Five past four, I’m the last appointment of the day. Something tells me the doctor is going to have to stay late.

The session starts the way they always do: with my parents. Easy enough. They’re both dead. Of course, that’s not good enough for the doctor. It never is. I decide there’s no harm in telling him more. My mom? She killed herself when I was six. This predictably peaks the doctor’s interest. I tell the doctor the truth, that I found the body, but I lie when he asks me if I remember it. Of course I fucking remember it. I remember every detail. I remember how red the water in the bath was. The steam that still covered the mirror and the lines made by the condensation too heavy to cling to the face of the mirror. I remember the slack, lifeless face that used to be so familiar and suddenly so alien. I stood there in the doorway of our bathroom for almost an hour before I could move so much as a toe. It was when a fly landed on the naked eyeball of what had once been my mother that I started to scream.

The doctor moves on to my father with a speed that indicates he believes me. No shock, I’m a hell of a liar. My dad died in the line of duty when I was sixteen. No, not a cop, an FBI agent. The doctor flips through his notebook and looks interested. Yes, that is why I decided to join the FBI. My father, his father, and his father before that were all FBI agents. Not one of them died a natural death. I don’t imagine I will either. It’s not fatalism, just a realistic observation. In my line of work, hardly anything happens ‘naturally’.

After my father died? My mother’s parents looked after me. I say “looked after” but I only actually saw them a handful of times after my mother’s death. They covered the bills and set up a trust fund to see me through college and the rest of my life. In return I let them pretend I don’t exist. Fair exchange as far as I’m concerned. I assume they’re still alive, but I really have no idea. All communication has been pretty much handled through attorneys for the past decade or so.

He asks me if I had any strong female influences in my life, and I’m damned if I can remember one. This is something I’ve given a lot of thought since every shrink I’ve ever talked to has asked. That’s me, the crazy woman with daddy issues. Clearly my entire life can be boiled down to that one thing. God damn, people actually pay these guys to come up with this crap?

As he scribbles in his notebook I sneak a look at the clock on the wall. It’s not quite four thirty yet. This is going to take forever.

When the doctor looks up for his next question, my attention is back on him. Relationships. My mind flips back through all of the partners I’ve had. I remember how each of them died. Sparky’s face floats to the forefront, his blonde hair and hopelessly young eyes staring up at me in blank confusion. I watched as all the blood in his body was pulled out faster than humanly possible into a thick pool around the two of us. He was dead before he hit the ground. Those cuts weren’t made by any ‘natural’ weapons. There have been others. Countless others. All equally young and optimistic. All equally dead. Christ, I’m too young to be this old.

Relationships… In my whole life the person I’ve been closest to was a man I hunted like a dog for five years. When we finally came face to face I ended up on top of him with my head on fire as I emptied a full clip into his back. I’m pretty sure he’s dead now. I doubt that’s what the doctor had in mind.

Sex? No. Not for….jesus, years. Hell I don’t even remember the last time I…Do I what? I barely find time to shower, sleep, and eat. Just when in the hell am I supposed to feel like doing that? The only time I get naked is to shower and my body is covered with scars. The worst are on my right arm, from two separate and unrelated dog attacks, and my legs are all torn up from a rotating saw psychically wielded by a zombie torso lashed to a hospital gurney. Yeah. I feel damned sexy on a regular basis.

Yes, I said psychic zombie torso. Look, we only have an hour here and I don’t think that’s nearly enough time to… Okay, so we’re glossing over the zombie torso.

…And we’re moving along to….getting fired. Yes. I would say getting fired from the FBI was a definite low point in my life. What I remember of the first few months wasn’t good at all. Yes, ‘not good’ is an understatement. What the hell do you want me to say? Do you know what it feels like when your life is suddenly devoid of meaning? When everything you’ve ever wanted, you’ve ever worked towards in your whole life is torn away through no fault of your own? When the one thing that makes you actually you is stripped away? That feeling is kind of hard to put into words. It leaves you empty. Hollow. And not in that pansy-ass literary “oh my wife left me and I’m so lost and hollow” crap. I mean you’re so numb it’s hard to tell if you’re still breathing. So empty you can’t tell if you’re still alive, or if you’ve died and decided to keep hanging around. I had to start my life over from scratch.

Now? My work mainly consists of a combination of skip tracing and private investigation. I’m licensed in five states. Hell yes, I’d rather still be in the FBI but there’s not much I can do about it now. Shit, they claim I never worked for them but that’s the price you pay for joining a secret bureau organization. When they say they’re gonna disavow all knowledge of your actions, they fucking mean it.

My eyes flicker to the clock. Ten after five. Time flies when you’re exploring your own psychoses.

I smile at the doctor and remind him that my time’s up. He protests. I knew he would. He’s an avatar of the Confessor, and he hasn’t even begun to scratch the surface of what I’ve got to tell. Too bad for him. I’m channeling the Hunter, and I’ve tracked the trail of ritualistically slaughtered bodies this asshole has left across three states. I know he’s turned from confessor to inquisitor. I know he has a thing for medieval torture devices. I also know that his receptionist leaves promptly every night at five past five.

I pretend to relent and ask him where I’d left off. Right. Secret organizations. Funny I should mention that. It seems I’ve come full circle. I’ve been recruited by another one. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The Underground is full of ‘em. You may have heard of this one though, Doc. I understand you got a warning once already. A warning that there’s a tiger out there that needs to stay asleep. You didn’t pay attention to that warning.

I watch understanding followed by creeping terror spread across the doctor’s face. He tries to stand up, but I pull out the ceramic nine millimeter I had hidden at the small of my back and quickly put one bullet in his head and the other in his chest. The silencer makes a whisper in the stuffy office and the doctor falls back down into the chair, jaw slack and eyes dimming. I wait until I’m sure he’s dead, then I position the chair looking out of the window towards the river dotted with small white lights in the hot Memphis night.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window and am momentarily shocked. I don’t look at myself often unless it’s to make sure I don’t look the same as I did while committing some transgression. It’s a strange feeling, seeing a stranger in your own reflection, and I turn away to gather the doctor’s notes. On the way out, I erase my appointment from the computer and lock the door.

As I get in my car to leave, I realize that I actually do feel a little better. Maybe there’s something to this psychotherapy crap after all.