Page 92 of Into Pitch

The second drawer however, that one is exactly what I’ve been hunting for.

It is full of files.

I bite down on my lip in excitement and slowly pull one free. They’re all old and yellowed at the edges, with papers clipped instead of bound. Screaming of institutionalized order that is begging to be pried apart. Gathering what I can in my arms, I move to the bed and flop down. Preparing to dig into what he clearly wanted me to or he wouldn’t have left it so readily found.

I think.

Well, if not, then the ass shouldn’t have left it here and me alone. I flip the first file open and still when I find what I read.

Juvenile Psychiatric Evaluation

Alexander James Dormsworth

Age: 16

I suck in a breath, my gaze bouncing over the words. I had expected to find files on myself, not on Alex himself. Maybe even files of other clients to snoop through, but this… this is going to be interesting. Mainly because he refused to talk about his past with me or give me anything about him.

I flip the paper and continue.

Reason for Admission:

Arson. Suspected homicide.

“Shit,” I hiss and rub at my neck. The homicide itself isn’t what shocks me, it’s the age and how early he started. My eyes dart back to the files and I begin to absorb it all.

Physical abuse by a father that was documented as severe and repeated. His mother was non-interventional who displayed patterns of passive neglect and failure to protect. All of it keeps getting worse and worse the deeper I delve.

They describe injuries. Broken ribs. Bruises in various stages of healing. Burns. Cigarette marks. The kind of language professionals use when they don’t want to acknowledge cruelty with emotion.

And worse, how many times had I seen these marks on him in the dark and thought nothing of it because I simply didn’t bother to care. Because I was too wrapped up in my own head and my own problems.

Christ, I’m not the only one who needs therapy.

Though, I guess from my understanding Alex had turned Pitch into his own kind of fucked up therapy.

Then I find a line that ties everything together in a neat little bow.

Incident Summary:

Subject intentionally set fire to family residence while both parents were inside. Fire resulted in total loss of structure and parents were found deceased at scene.

He was sixteen.

Sixteen years old when he decided to end the lives of his parents, and after reading what I did, I can’t say I blame him. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the exact same thing. And I don’t know what that says about me for sympathizing with him over it.

I let myself wonder over everything. The way he watches people and dissects language. The way control isn’t something he wants, but something he requires. I even think of his questions in the mirrored room.

Who hurt you?

Why did you sit?

Why did you come here?

Not just curiosity, but recognition in a similar form. Abuse in separate doorways, but neighbors none-the-less. I don’t think he saw me as different and interesting, he just saw someone who might be able to see him back.

I keep reading, despite some small part of me that says its morally wrong to.

He was institutionalized after the fire and diagnosed with conduct disorder and antisocial traits. High intelligence, of course. But emotional detachment was noted early. And to no shock of mine, he had been flagged for manipulative tendencies.