Get to Know Me

I grew up in a family of four. I tell this to the therapist but she doesn’t understand me. She simply nods and taps her pen against her notebook as if waiting for me to divulge. But I have already told her the most important thing about me.

“Brother, sister?” she says, curling a brunette lock around a finger as she peeks from over horned rims.

“Sister,” I say. She isn’t as nice as she looks.”

The therapist chuckles and angles her knee to match mine. Mirroring, I’ve read all about it. It’s manipulative.

“Sorry to hear that,” she says. “Sometimes it’s much harder for us to like our siblings than it is for others to do so.”

“She’s killed three dozen men and women over her lifetime,” I say. “Still like her?”

The therapist cringes but only for a moment as she dashes notes onto a white page. “Your mother and father?”

“Terrible people.”

“I’m noticing a pattern.”

“My sister is abrupt. Whereas Mom and Dad are skilled in torture. When you hear the screams you’ll wish my sister had the job.”

The therapist writes notes, enough to fill half a page.

“I’m thinking we reduce your N-Doxcyl before next session.”

“And the murders?”

She rests a hand on my knee and offers a sad smile. “Let’s park those for today.”

Today. Today is all we have.

“I want to know more about you,” she says. “I understand you feel conflicted about all of this.”

“I don’t.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Sister kills. My parents play. Different strokes.”

“Surely . . .”

“ And then there’s me. Lucky number four. I’m the thoughtful one. Well, I try to be.”

“Sorry?”

I shrug. “I let my marks get to know me before they die.”

She gasps.

I smile.

“Exactly. I love the look of horror as it all comes together.”