Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

When I tap my fingers on the armrest, he sighs. It’s only fair that he divulge more if he expects more from me in return.

“My mother liked to watch. But we’re not talking about that. You’re not ready.”

“The very definition of my job is being prepared to talk you through this exact thing, Grayson.”

“But not today.” He touches an extensive scar along his forearm, a hard expression masking his face. “There are a number I’ve carved myself,” he confesses. “The pain I inflict on myself serves as punishment for when I become aroused while watching their suffering.”

Their suffering. His victims. If there was ever any doubt as to whether or not my patient is a sadist, Grayson has just eliminated all uncertainty.

“You look…surprised.”

I open my mouth, but can’t summon the words to convey what I’m feeling. Revulsion. Fury. Sickened. These are acceptable responses, and yet I don’t feel any of them. Alarmed. Curious. Enthralled—the dark corner of my mind beckons me closer. I can feel the draw.

I touch my forehead, giving myself a moment to bury my head and disconnect from him. “Not surprised, just processing. I rarely encounter this level of candidness.” I look up at him. “And with no shame.”

The atmosphere thickens with his intense stare. “What am I supposed to feel ashamed of? I could be weak like Bundy or BTK, and inflict my sickness on the innocent. Instead, I’ve learned how to control my impulses and direct them toward the wicked. I’ve even learned how to manage my desires, choosing to self mutilate rather than losing myself in the liberation of taking from others. And let me tell you, Bundy and the lot of them suffered for that liberation. They feasted and then purged. Indulge and regret, over and over. Which is a far more vicious cycle than the one I’ve developed.”

I feel the force of his words, the lure reeling me in—and I’m powerless against it. I want more. I want to shut the blinds and block out the judgmental world and only exist in this one hour where shame doesn’t live.

When encountering the gravity of a black hole, a force so powerful not even light can escape its vortex, you don’t stand a chance against the darkness. Whatever light I’ve been able to muster in this dark world, he will surely devour if I continue on this collision course.

“So now, tell me,” he says, stretching his arms along the armrests, “how did you get your name? London is very unusual, especially for a small town in Mississippi.”

“I’m told my mother named me after…” I trail off. Smile. “She named me after her favorite soap opera.?

??

His brow creases. “You’re told,” he repeats, stressing my blunder.

He doesn’t miss anything. Paying attention to every slip of the tongue and inflection. My turn to deflect. I glance at the clock.

“So we’re agreed,” he says, gaining my attention. “No discussion of mothers today, doc.”

I straighten my back. “That can be a topic for another day.” One that I won’t compound on, as I have no memory of mine. Just a few blurry pictures my father saved and her garden in the backyard. “Most of my patients spend years on that subject. We don’t have that much time.”

The mention of his dwindling time carves his features in hard angles. “What do we have time for, then?”

“Not much more today, I’m afraid.”

As I start to stand, he sits forward. “We’re a lot alike,” he says.

It’s time to end the session—it’s smart to stop it right now—but curiosity forces me to recline and stay. “How so?”

He glances at the camera. “We both like to record our sessions. I use it for reflection.”

I shake my head. “I wouldn’t compare the two, Grayson. It’s not the same.”

“But isn’t it? I’m curious. What do you use all those recordings for? Titillation?”

“We’re done.”

“Do you touch yourself while you watch them?”

I stand.

“Did you watch my videos?”

I push the frame of my glasses up, situating them. “Yes.”