“But not today,” he says. With a heavy breath, he touches an extensive scar on his forearm, the planes of his face hardening. “There are a number I’ve carved myself,” he confesses, and I wait for him to offer more. “The pain I inflict on myself serves as a punishment for when I become aroused while watching their suffering.”
Their suffering. His victims. My patient has eliminated any doubt over whether he’s a sadist. I’m concentrating too hard on my breathing, craving the bite of my string in my flesh.
“You look shaken, London.”
My mouth parts, but I can’t find the words to express what I’m feeling. Revulsion. Sickened—this would be normal, and yet, something else entirely wrong crackles through my bloodstream.
Curious. Enthralled
I press my fingertips to my forehead, taking a moment to center myself and break our connection. “Not shaken, just processing. It’s rare that I encounter this level of candor. I appreciate that you’re able to trust me.”
As my gaze returns to his, the atmosphere thickens with the intensity of his stare as he continues to rub his hand over his scars. “You know I don’t feel shame,” he says. “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, self-mutilating rather than losing myself in the liberation of taking from others.”
“Liberation?” I question before I can stop myself.
The corner of his mouth hitches. “Freedom to lose oneself,”he says, the smooth cadence of his voice sliding over me. “Bundy and his kind suffered for that liberation. They feasted and then purged.Indulgeand repent—” he sends me a wink “—it’s a vicious cycle, far more vicious than the one I’ve adopted.”
The force of his words rock me under, yet I want more. I want to shut the blinds and block out the judgment of the world, to remain in this stolen moment where shame doesn’t exist.
When encountering the gravity of a black hole—a force so powerful not even light can escape—you don’t stand a chance against the darkness. Whatever meager light I’ve managed to find in this bleak world, he’ll surely devour if I stay on this collision course.
“Now, my turn,” he says, stretching his arms along the armrests. “How did you get your name? London is unusual for a small town girl.”
“I’m told my mother named me after…” I trail off clumsily. “She named me after her favorite soap opera.”
His brow creases. “You’re told,” he says, stressing my blunder.
Grayson doesn’t miss anything, catching every slip of the tongue and inflection. My turn to deflect him, I purposely glance at the clock.
“So we’re agreed, then,” he says, bringing my attention back to him. “No discussion of mothers, doc.”
“Not today,” I serve his words back to him as I uncross my legs. “I agree it’s a difficult topic.” One I can’t offer any of my own insight on, as I have no memory of mine. Just a few blurry pictures my father saved and the dead garden she left behind. “Most of my patients spend years unpacking that subject. We don’t have that kind of time.”
The mention of his dwindling time tenses his jaw. “What do we have time for?”
“Not much else today, I’m afraid.”
As I start to stand, he eases forward. “We’re a lot alike,” he says, effectively stalling me.
I recline back and say, “How so?”
He glances at the camera. “For one, we both like to record our sessions.”
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t compare the two, Grayson. It’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it, though. I’m curious what you use all those recordings for.” His gaze sharpens on me. “Titillation?”
“The session’s over. We’re done,” I tell him, my tone adamant.
“Do you touch yourself while you watch them?”
I stand.
“Did you watch my videos?”
Halted, I risk a glance his way. “Yes, I did.”
He looks up at me, a sinful smirk curling his lips. “All of them?”
