Unethical

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Sarah

I stand by the big office window. The blinds are firmly closed, but a crease runs through one of the plastic pieces, creating a gap between the slats. My eyes narrow as his car pulls out of the parking lot.

An eerie chill rakes my arms, and goosebumps rise over my skin as I recall what I just witnessed. He’d stared at the closed blinds covering my window, and just the memory of his heavy gaze makes my cheeks flush with heat. It was as if he could see me through the dark blinds. Then he’d looked straight ahead before dropping his head back.

Even though I didn’t want to admit it at the time, I knew what he was doing. And I wasn’t surprised. God, he’s such a creep.

So why did I find myself sticking a finger between the slats and widening it just a little?

I couldn’t see any details behind the dark windows, but the movement was enough to paint a picture. I’m nauseated by the thought of him touching himself to me. And it’s not a far stretch to say that’s what he was thinking of while he pleasured himself. I see how he stares at me when he’s here, with a hunger that leaves me feeling naked and dirty.

But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’ve imagined all of this. Instead of yanking on his dick and throwing his head back in the heat of the moment, maybe he was just scratching a really pesky itch on his foot.

Then I remember how his dark eyes had landed on the window again, and I’d ripped my fingers away and thrown myself against the wall. I try to calm my breathing as this memory overtakes my senses.

I hate him.

I hate our sessions.

This is a complete waste of time.

He doesn’t want to be here, and I don’t want to be within five feet of him. Or one hundred feet, considering what I just witnessed in the parking lot. But there’s something about him that stupidly makes me want to cut him open and let his insides spill all over me. I want to pull him apart and understand how someone becomes so fucked up and disconnected from reality and other human beings.

Doesn’t he want to connect with someone? Aren’t we all born with that innate desire to be someone’s something? A friend. A lover. Shit, even an enemy.

He doesn’t even seem like the type to have an enemy. That would require emotion, which is something I’m sure he’s incapable of. If he killed his brother, it wasn’t an act perpetrated out of hatred. It was probably a gut reaction to some morbid curiosity flitting around in his brain. For someone like Maxim, his brother would have been a thing, not a person. It would be no different than seeing how a broom fairs when shoved inside a woodchipper.

Fuck, why am I comparing a dead little boy to a broom?

I drop my head into my hand and rub the small stretch of skin between my eyebrows. Is mental illness contagious? Can my patients’ long list of personality disorders rub off on me?

I think they become a part of me, in some way. The more sessions I have with my multitude of patients, the more I begin to question my dwindling sanity. Even sessions with people like Maxim, when our time together is absolutely dreadful and unproductive, begin to seep into me. It’s like he’s crawled inside me to live in my mind.

Or infect it.

I guess that’s what happens when my one job is to get inside their heads. It’s hard to do that without letting them into mine too. But how else can I learn how they tick? Trust must be built. A delicate push and pull must be performed. I let them in a little, they let me in a little, and then I get all the dirty little details they’re too scared to share at first.

But that’s not what I want to do with him. Maxim is too ill to become a part of me. Too deranged to let inside my heart. Something about him leaves me with this nagging certainty that he’s worse than any of the other patients I’ve worked with. So much pain and suffering reside in my soul because of the men and women before him, and I don’t think I can take on any more of it.

I drop into my leather chair with a sigh and pull my laptop closer. As I bring up the internet browser, the search bar glares at me. I fight the urge, but I eventually give in and type his name into that little white rectangle. The same news stories and mugshots fill my screen.

Does he have to be so ruggedly handsome?

I groan and drop my head to the desk. I shouldn’t think about a patient this way, but especially not a patient as dangerous as Maxim. A violent offender. And though it hasn’t been proven, probably a child murderer. I only have one course of action now.

With a shaking hand, I pick up the phone and call his probation officer.

As the phone rings, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I want to help him, I truly do, but I don’t want to lose myself in the process. There are only so many pieces of my soul left.

A voice comes across the line, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I clear my throat. “Hey, Frank. It’s Sarah, Sarah Reeves, Maxim Jankowski’s therapist.”

“What’s the matter, Sarah? Is he behaving himself?”

No.

Yes.

He hasn’t done anything...yet. It’s the future actions of Maxim Jankowski I worry about most. But I’d sound crazy if I said that.

“Yes, he’s fine. The problem is, I just don’t think I’m the right fit for him.”

“Ms. Reeves, the other therapists have overburdened caseloads. You’re the only one in our program who has any availability. If you can’t provide the court-ordered course of therapy, we have no choice but to take him back into custody and allow the prison shrinks to take a crack at him. Is that what you think he needs?”

Gaslighting prick. I don’t want to be the reason he’s sent back to prison, but if something happens to me, this is on them.

“No.” I take a breath. “I’ll figure it out.”

Frank tries to release a sigh of relief as quietly as he can, but it still blows like a gale-force wind into the receiver on his end. “Take care of yourself.”

What a fucking ominous farewell. And it doesn’t make me feel any better about my sacrificial decision to keep him out of prison. I sure hope I don’t end up regretting this.