Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

Most people don’t know this, and it can be a frightening realization when they discover the truth.

A married couple continuously arguing the same points, night after night, both adamantly swearing the other is wrong, that they are mistaken.

They’re both right. Their memories are skewed to perceive the world around them in a way that structures and defines who they are and what they believe.

I wrote a paper on this once, back in my first year. Ripe right out of college, I was set on tackling the origins of a murderer’s mind. Was it the nurture—the upbringing and experiences—that created a murderer, or was it how his mind perceived those first impressionable, crucial years that fashioned the killer.

Most would argue that they’re one and the same. There’s no difference between how we recall our past and our actual past—that the outcome, either way, creates a monster.

This is chiefly true. It’s difficult to separate any fact from fiction. So why bother debating theories and nitpicking the particulars?

I was young, and in my youth I bent to the psychology of the masses. I never again thought of my thesis, or how it may pertain to my patients. It was irrelevant for my area of study as I furthered my career with serial killers and their rehabilitation.

And in order to move forward, it was imperative that I stop recalling my own memories of the past. How many times had I gone over the details? How many times had my mind warped those events? Were my memories even real anymore, or just fragments of the truth tangled with my nightmares? Like an old cassette tape being recorded over and over, my memories now play back a garbled, distorted song.

I stuff my hands into my coat pockets and follow the winding trail through the lush garden of the aviary. The birds sing along to the tune in my head, their high-pitched shrieks punctuating the peaks of my anxiety.

I hoped the stroll through one of my favorite places would calm my worries, as I’ve used this escape a lot over the years to quiet my thoughts. But swooping birds overhead grow louder, as if they’re aware of my secret, sharing it with one another in their twitter code.

I huff a soundless laugh at my paranoia. The birds don’t care about me or what I’ve done. I’m losing my mind.

A chill touches my skin, and I release the clip, letting my hair drop and giving my tresses a shake to cover my neck. I’ve recalled the memory of my last session with Grayson too many times now, analyzing it, dissecting it, recollecting the details. The sensations and emotions he evoked. The yearning… And I’m scared that every time I remember, I’m altering what actually occurred.

Our minds are so powerful, constructing connections and feelings to a single occurrence, turning something considerably insignificant into a meaningful moment. Full of passion and elation. When in truth, any colleague looking in would simply derive that countertransference is inhibiting my ability to assert my role as doctor over my patient.

I gave in to Grayson’s wants, and you can never give your patient everything they want—regardless if those desires reflect your own. No, scratch that. Especially when their desires reflect your own.

It’s more than dangerous; it’s unethical.

But the feel of his rough hands on my skin… I shut my eyes, just for a second, allowing the memory to claim me once more before I bury it. I inhale a deep breath full of the cleansing power of the garden, and the evening sky darkens, thunder clouds looming.

The sound of birds has vanished. The sudden stillness of the aviary consumes my senses, and I notice that I’m not alone.

I turn around. “Are you following me, detective…?”

Wearing a black trench coat over a cheap suit, the slightly overweight man is easy to identify as a cop. Being raised by the town sheriff, I have experience in this. His smirk confirms my theory. “Foster. Detective Foster,” he says. “I was just enjoying the scenery. Figured we could talk once we were alone.”

I vaguely recall Lacy mentioning a detective by that name. I wrap my arms around my middle and glance behind him. The aviary will be closing soon. I start toward the exit. “You can say whatever you need to at my office. During business hours.”

“I’ve tried, Dr. Noble. You’re a difficult woman to get in touch with.” As I try to pass, he thrusts a manila folder toward me. “You need to see this.”

Regardless of my understanding of the mind’s tricks, curiosity is still a powerful tool. This detective knows this, and he uses his skill set expertly. I take the folder.

“You’re not the first shrink he’s abused.”

I squint at his word choice, then flip the folder open. When I look down, my breath catches at the base of my throat. I school my features as I assess the image, not allowing the disgust to register on my face.

I flip to the next page and scan the victim’s profile.

“Doctor Mary Jenkins.”

I continue reading over the pages. Why does that name sound familiar?

“A neurologist at Hopkins. She was accused of unethical practices on her patients,” he continues, filling in the blanks. “But never prosecuted.”

My stomach pitches. Unethical practices is blanket terminology that doesn’t convey the accused cruelties levied against her. The details come back to me of a Maryland neuroscientist who resurrected the barbaric practice of lobotomy.

The images of the deceased Dr. Jenkins capture the gruesomeness of the procedure. Puncture wounds dotting above her eyelids denote that she was a victim of her own morbid methods. Her dead eyes stare into the camera, blank and vacant. I wonder whether the pictures were taken peri- or postmortem, as they depict a casualty of lobotomy quite accurately.