Blood Loss    

         “Hey honey, come here real quick,” calls my husband from the kitchen.

         I put down my hair straightener and step into the kitchen.  Early morning light streams through the windows of our apartment and outside New York City is already bustling.  My husband is sitting at the table coffee in one hand, a fork with ego waffle in the other, and the newspaper sprawled out in front of him.  If you’d asked me, say, ten years ago if my future husband would eat ego waffles I would have laughed, but here I am, married to a man whose ego waffles are as integral to his morning ritual as the coffee and newspaper. 

         “Have you seen the paper yet?” he asks, voice quavering just a tiny bit.

         “Nope, anything interesting?” I reply, a little impatient as I was already running late.

         “Serial Killer Strikes Again: Third Psychiatrist Killed.  In a case that has NYPD looking fairly bad a third female psychiatrist was murdered yesterday.  Despite having surveillance footage of the culprit, the police have been unable to track him down.  He is described as being a white male of average height in his late thirties to early forties who has started balding.  Head of the New York Police Department.....Well you get the jist.”

         “Balding white male of average height, that only describes a couple hundred thousand people in New York.  I’m not so sure what we pay these cops for though, they don’t seem to be much good at their job.”

         “I’m sure its harder than we might imagine it to be.  Regardless, I’m worried about you,” he says with genuine concern in his voice.

         “Sam, I’ll be fine.  How many psychiatrists are there in New York?  Really what are the chances he tries to kill me.  Plus if he just struck yesterday he’ll probably be laying low for a while anyways.  You worry too much.”

         “Hmm..well just be careful okay?”

         “Of course, of course.”

         I arrive at work late, but its a slow day anyways.  The reception area is typical to most psychiatrist offices.  A pretty girl in her twenties sits behind the desk smiling all day long while the rest of the room is covered in an assortment of fake plants and “art.” Plush, red seated chairs surround a coffee table with magazines sprawled across it and a clock with hands, not digital, is mounted on the pale, but warm, yellow wall nearest the table.  I smile at Cathy, the receptionist, as I swing towards my room, which is opposite my partner’s.  The door is a rich mahogany, as is most of the furniture, and the walls are a deep, dark red.  A lot of my stuff is red, it’s been my favorite color since I was a little girl.  I throw my bag down behind my desk and glance at the picture of my husband and I.  I wish he wouldn’t worry so much. 

         Exiting my office I find my associate, James, and Cathy in a fairly lively discussion.  Cathy’s leaning over the desk in such a manner as to expose the maximum amount of cleavage.  I roll my eyes, but proceed over to the pair.

         “...I heard that he comes in just like any other patient.  Sets up an appointment and everything.” Cathy’s eyes show fear as she speaks, but she hides it and turns to me.  “You’ve got a nine o’clock with a Mr. Barksdale.  Better hope its not him!” She laughs as she says the last words and hands me a clipboard with basic patient information.

         “Thanks Cathy,” I say, choosing to ignore the comment.

         “Nasty business really,” interjects James. “I’ve heard that he brings a full set of kitchen knives with him, sharpener and everything.  That he doesn’t just kill them, he carves them up.”

         “ Lovely image there James, but something tells me that story may have been exaggerated as it made its way down the grapevine.” As I speak I turn and walk back to my office.  He’s such a fool sometimes.  Honestly, who would believe that?  It sounds like something out of a bad horror movie.  Although, I guess you never really do know.  There are some crazy people out there.  What if it is true?  I shake the image out of my head, refusing to let my imagination get the better of me.  After all I’d be a bit of a hypocrite if I worried about it.  I turn my attention to the crisp sheet of paper attached to the clipboard which Cathy handed me.  He seems pretty bland.  Girlfriend left him and he’s having a hard time coping; not exactly an original story.  Today, it seems, will be rather formulaic.  He’ll come in and talk about how he doesn’t know how to go on without her.  I’ll zone in and out while he believes he has my undivided attention.  I’ll feed him some lines about how its related to his mother and his childhood, or about how its all going to be okay.  A prescription and a “good luck” and he’ll be on his way, only to be back within a few weeks to renew his prescription.  Not exactly the inspiring job I pictured myself having when I was disillusioned and in college, but hey, it pays the bills. 

         I’m reaching for the shot glass in my bottom desk drawer when there’s a knock on my office door.  The big hand is on the nine and the little one is on the twelve when I look to my watch.  He’s punctual at least. 

         “Ms. Porter, Mr. Barksdale is here to see you.”

         “Yes, send him on in. Lets get this over with.” The last words come out practically as a sigh.

         Through the door comes a man who is about as remarkable physically as his reason for coming, that is to say not in the least.  A faded t-shirt that once celebrated a now illegible superbowl, twenty something, hangs loose over his protruding belly and hair is peaking out from the top of the shirt.  Grey sweatpants, notably not protruding, and tennis shoes finish out his outfit.  It’s a wonder his girlfriend left him.  I stand up, professional demeanor fixed tightly to my face, and glide over to shake his hand, repulsing though the thought is.  His hands are clammy and I attempt to conceal my wiping my own hands off.

         “Welcome Mr. Barksdale, please have a seat over there,” I instruct as a I point to the typical leather, partially reclined psychiatrist’s couch. 

         “Mmm,” he mumbles.

         How I wish I’d had that shot.  I settle back into my chair and pick a notebook and pencil off the desk before turning to face him, one leg over the other and elbows resting on my knee.

         “So shall we start this Mr. Barksdale?”

         “Uhm, how exactly do we go about this?” Timidity permeates his voice. 

         “Well, really however you want, but generally whoever is in your seat begins by telling me about their situation.  Why did you seek my help?”

         “My girlfriend.”

         “Please continue”

         “She...left me.”

         “Please, Mr. Barksdale, try to give me as much information as possible, the more you tell me, the more I have to work with.  What was she like?”  Typical, I think I’ll get an easy one and I draw a mute whose actually making me work.

         “She was like you.” What? Brunette?  An alcoholic?  A woman.....?”She said she didn’t love me.  She told me to leave.”  As he speaks his eyes dart around the room.  Full of surprises this one, I assumed he was more the type to stare lost into space.  How can he afford me?

         “Well, did you do anything to make her ask you to leave?”

         “I told her she was my girlfriend.  She told me she was married.  I told her she wasn’t, that she was my girlfriend.  But she didn’t listen.  So I went to make her come with me, but she told me to leave.”

         You’ve got to be joking me.  Do I really have someone this out of their mind on my hands?  “And did you leave?”

         “I’m here now.  You don’t tell me to leave.  You are my new girlfriend.” His words come out methodically, as if he doesn’t really know what they mean, just that they are something he should say.

         The sun is full in the sky and out of the corner of my eye I can see it streaming through the sky scrappers as it stretches to my office and fully illuminates the place.  In the light Mr. Barksdale looks fully insignificant.  I decide I’ve had enough.

         “Mr. Barksdale I feel like this has been a productive session.  I’m going to have to think on your situation and get back to you.  In the meantime I’ll write you a prescription for some anti-depressants.  Take them twice a day with food, morning and night.  You can call later to set-up an appointment.”

          I scribble the prescription out, walk to the door and hold it out for him to grab as he leaves.  He stands up surprisingly matter-of-factly.  Uttering no protest to my remarks he politely takes the slip of paper from me and grabs a worn brief case I hadn’t noticed before slipping through the door. 

         “Thank you for you’re time Ms. Porter,” he says crisply, without any of the dull glaze that had covered all of his previous remarks. 

         As he leaves my office I swear I hear the clink of metal on metal.  Surely I heard wrong though. 

         The golden red beams of the sun shoot through my window and dance in the bottle of amber brandy sitting on my desk.  Fire rushes down my throat as I throw back what remained in my glass.  The sun has set and the pink tint in the sky is replaced with the florescent yellow of the city.  I had no other clients today, but I hung around anyways, partly to drink in peace, partly to think in peace. 

         He had been weird today, yeah.  But not that weird right?  She was like me.  She was like me.  She was like me.  Surely he didn’t mean a psychiatrist.  He hardly seemed to know what one was.  Though his simpleton manner had seemed to vanish at the end there....No, no, no, no.  I’m over thinking this.  Maybe I’ve had to much to drink.  Ha, a novel idea at anyrate.  Hmm..what about the clinking of metal as he left? No, that could have been anything.  Maybe he just had a lot of metal pens in his brief case.  Yeah, thats a much more logical explanation.  Honestly I was starting to scare myself there. 

Errrrrrrrr......

What was that?  The door was open a crack already wasn’t it?  I didn’t close it earlier did I?  Deep breathes.  Maybe I really did have too much to drink. 

Chhhhh....Chhhh.....Chhhh

Are those feet on a carpet?  Do we have a carpet?  This is ridiculous.  There is no way that the hapless guy who came into my office today is the killer.  Just no way.  That doesn’t happen.  I didn’t hear the clink of knives and he’s not here now.

         The door swings open and for a moment the light from the lobby blinds me, I hadn’t realized how dark my room had become.  A dark figure pulls a hand from behind his back and its holding something metallic.

         “AAAAAHHHHH!  Don’t come any closer!”  I shout, hoping that for whatever reason he’ll listen to me.

         The lights come on and I see that it’s just James holding his cellphone. 

         “You okay?  It’s just me?  Who’d you think it was?  That crazy killer?  You’ve obviously had enough to drink.”  He picks the bottle and shot glass off of my desk.   He leaves for a second and when he returns his hands are empty. 

         “Go home, get some sleep,” he commands in an almost parental tone.

         I didn’t mention my drunken episode to my husband.  He’d only worry and I did plenty of that on my own.  The liquor remains in James’ office, which is probably for the best, so instead I’m entertaining myself via crossword puzzles.  Enwrapped as I am I hardly notice the knock on my door.  It becomes incessantly louder until finally I answer.

         “Yes, come on in.”

         The door swings open and this time he actually is standing in the doorway.  But so what?  I obviously overreacted yesterday.

         “Why, hello again Ms. Porter.  How are you today?”  His speech now seems completely polished, as does the smile that is accompanying it. 

         “I’m sorry Mr. Barksdale, but I have another client coming any moment.  You really need to make an appointment.”

         “Oh, I’m sure you can make room for me in your schedule.”  His eyes look straight into mine as he says this and his voice remains consistent.

         Okay, now he’s starting to creep me out again.  I start to get up, but he cuts me off.

         “Please, Ms. Porter, remain seated.  It’s much neater that way.”  Neater? “Surely you didn’t take me to be as slow as I seemed yesterday?  I thought I rather overplayed it.  Oh well, not that that really matters now does it?” he inquired, though he didn’t really seek an answer.  His tone grows less and less emotional, colder and colder.

         I’ve officially had enough and I reach for the phone.  In one swift motion he extracts a kitchen knife from his brief case and hurls it at me.  Pain shoots through my arm as the knife sinks into my shoulder and remains lodged there.  I let out an involuntary scream and hear footsteps before blood fills my ears and all I can hear is my own heart beating.  He’s talking to me, still calm as ever, but I can only see his lips move.  James busts through the door and as he looks at me his eyes widen.  The warmth of the blood is now apparent on my hand and I look down to see a small puddle starting to form below it.  I look up just in time to see Mr. Barksdale come down on James’ forehead with what must be a meat cleaver.  The wail that is released by James cuts through my momentary loss of hearing and drags me away from my own pain.  Mr Barksdale laughs.

         James collapses and I get out of my chair.  I try to pull the knife out of my arm, hoping for something to use in my defense, but I’m not strong enough.  Mr. Barksdale yanks it out and then proceeds to slash at me with the knife.  A gash opens up across my stomach, doubling me over.  I curl up in pain on the floor.  I want to give up, but my body wont let me yet.  My feet flail about as I try to hurt him in someway, but I don’t feel any contact.  Then there is more pain as I feel the knife slicing through flesh again.  The sharp steel blade parts the skin in my side before pushing through muscle and who knows what else.  I gasp and then finally the room starts to darken.  As my eyes close I see one thing and hear another.  I see him sawing off my pinkie, but I don’t feel it anymore.  I hear sirens in the distance.  Maybe they’re for me.  Maybe not.

         “In further news a fourth psychiatrist was murdered yesterday as the killer continued his rampage.  However this time he lingered too long and was apprehended by the police as he tried to leave the building.  Unfortunately the woman had already experienced too much blood loss and died before an ambulance could arrive.  A co-worker of hers.....” Sam turned off the T.V.