“So…” said the therapist, weakly, “did you feel better… afterwards?”
I considered briefly. “Not better. Different, perhaps.”
He shifted uneasily.
“You didn’t feel any remorse… shame for your actions?”
“I suppose there was an element of regret.”
“That I hadn’t taken more time over it.”
He stood, pushing back his chair.
“I’m not sure I’m the person to help you,” he said. “I’ll refer you elsewhere.”
I stood too.
“As you like. I’m done here anyway.”
I left, reciting the address I’d memorized from the identity tag on his briefcase.
He hadn’t helped.
But I had learned something.
I’ve decided to go sinister for a change this week, though I’ll never hold a candle to the Master of Menace, C E Ayr. Thanks to our illustrious leader for shepherding the Friday Fictioneers forward into the fold of autumn. Good luck with As One Must, One Can, Rochelle.