“And you…you won’t make us leave?”
“I’ve told all of you that you can stay.” I reach out and take her hand. “I want you to stay.”
“Why?”
I’m surprised at Netti’s blunt question, and I’m not sure I have a very good answer.
“Because…because I’ve never felt comfortable with anyone else. I didn’t think I would ever meet someone who I didn’t…”
“Didn’t what?”
“Who I didn’t want to kill on sight. That’s all I could think about when you first got here. I just wanted you dead and out of my way.
Netti’s eyes widen, and I see the briefest flash of fear inside of them.
“I don’t feel like that now,” I say quickly, “but that’s how I’ve always felt. I felt that way ever since…”
I close my eyes, unable to continue. I don’t want to bring this up. I don’t want to talk about how truly fucked up I am. They are all just now feeling safe with me, and anything I say will ruin that.
I feel a hand on my arm, and when I look up, it’s Seri’s eyes staring back at me. I’m not even sure how I know it’s her, but I do.
“Go on, Bishop,” Seri says softly. “You can tell me.”
I want to ask a dozen questions. How can Seri be here now, in the middle of this conversation? Is Netti still listening? Does Seri know anything of what was said since I summoned Netti? I have no answers.
Seri compensates.
Seri smiles encouragingly at me, and I don’t know what else to do, so I just start talking.
“When I was first arrested and charged,” I tell her as I reach for my whiskey glass, “I was evaluated by two psychiatrists. They wanted a mental evaluation before the sentencing, but I still wasn’t really saying much of anything. I’d already figured I was going to prison for life, and I didn’t see much point in talking. I didn’t trust anything anyone said, and I was afraid they were going to lock me up in a psych ward instead of prison.
“The second one I talked to was kind of a bitch. I don’t know why, but she had attitude before I ever said anything to her. She gave me a test to take, and I think I told her to fuck off. Then she…well, she said if I took it, I could see my mother. I hadn’t talked to her since it all happened, and I only saw her once when I was being arraigned. The test was one of those that they scan later, so I just filled in all the letter B answers. I suppose that pissed her off. I didn’t care. I wanted to talk to my Mom.
“A few days went by, but my mother never came. The next time I saw my lawyer, he said she was refusing to see me. I saw her at the sentencing, but she never even looked at me. Not even when she took the stand and said…she said…”
My throat constricts, and I can’t get another word out. Seri grasps my hand and moves closer to me. I rub my eyes with my free hand.
“What did she say?” Seri asks.
“At my sentencing, both the psychiatrists got on the stand. The one said I showed all the signs of prolonged, severe abuse, but since I didn’t tell him anything, he admitted that he was basically guessing. The second one, well, she said I was a sociopath. She said I didn’t have the capacity to feel anything for anyone else and that I was a general danger to society. Then my mother took the stand.
“She said the doctor…the psychiatrist…was right. She said
I was sick. She said I must have always been sick, and she just didn’t realize it. She said I should be put down. She said it just like that: ‘He should be put down like a rabid dog.’ She said I deserved to die.”
Seri gasps as she tightens her grip on my hand.
“I believed her. I mean, if my mother thought I was like that, then it must be true, right? After I was sentenced and sent to juvie, she came to see me. It was the first and only time she talked to me since…since that night. She said I ruined her life.”
“But you were trying to protect her.”
“Yes, I was protecting her,” I say as tears begin to flow over my cheeks. “I was trying to save her, but she didn’t see it that way. He would have killed her eventually. He would have killed both of us, but she still blamed me. She was right to blame me. I was the one with the axe.”
I pull my hand away and wipe the tears off my face. I grab the whiskey glass and take a big gulp, light yet another cigarette, and force myself to go on.
“Once I was incarcerated, there were other doctors and other evaluations. I wasn’t particularly cooperative, but I think they all came to the same conclusion anyway. I’m violent, and I don’t care about the consequences. I lack empathy. That term—sociopath—came up more than once. I thought about it a lot. I started paying attention to the people around me, and it all started to ring true. I didn’t give a shit about any of them.”
“But you aren’t,” Seri says.