Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 9

Late morning.

She can see birds hopping on the cracked patio outside.

She'll have to remember to mow the gra.s.s.

She's naked beneath a silk, purple robe.

She doesn't like mornings.

Mornings make her remember things.

Memories, she thinks, drinking wine.

But her memories are what make her important.

Memories are what make her story...

She begins to type.

CHAPTER ONECHILDHOOD MEMORIES.

Your father is a memory. Your mother is a ghost. The Cross reminds you of something but you never know what. Your mother died when you were about 15. She was a prost.i.tute and took heroin. Daddy beat her up a lot because he had friends who liked to have s.e.x with women who were beaten up or unconscious. You loved your mother very much. You wish there was some way you could find all the men who had s.e.x with your mother so you could kill them all. Daddy made you watch sometimes. He made you touch him while he watched the men in Daddy's Room through a trick mirror in the closet. He first started molesting you when you were four or five. Whenever he came back from his job, he'd take you into the den, which you only think of as Daddy's Room, and he'd f.u.c.k you. He'd make you do things to him. He was never mean like he was to your mother. He'd do mean things but he'd never act mean. And lots of times his work friends would come to the house and Daddy would let them do things to you and your mother, sometimes at the same time. All those nights for all those years you remember being f.u.c.ked on the couch or on the table or on the floor, and you remember looking up into The Window and seeing The Cross.The Cross glows like huge beautiful white fire.It's The Cross that saves you. It's The Cross that gives you your power.Your mother's ghost told you that.Sometimes Daddy and his friends would tie your mother up and stick things in her. They'd all laugh as she quivered on the floor.You look at The Cross and decide that one day you'll tie them up and stick things in them.

Later she mows the lawn.

She used to pay neighborhood boys to do it, but then her mother told her that they might find something in the yard.

Places where she's buried things.

After that she drives to work to pick up her paycheck.

She's driving the little blue car. Her mother isn't with her today.

Maybe she's with Daddy.

Maybe she's cutting the devil off of Daddy.

In Daddy's Room.

Again and again and again.

She wishes she were a ghost like her mother so she could cut off Daddy's devil too.

Sometimes she sees skulls beneath people's faces.

"Skulls mean death," her mother told her once.

It's The Cross that lets her see the skulls.

She wonders if Kathleen Shade sees the skulls too.

She gets her paycheck at the hospital's physical plant office.

Her supervisor says "h.e.l.lo," and gives her her check.

n.o.body talks to her very much.

They all think she's weird.

She smiles at that.

She goes up to the 4th floor where most of the ICU coves are.

A candystriper at the nurses' station says "h.e.l.lo," and she says "h.e.l.lo" back.

"You're working four to twelve today?"

"No, I don't work again 'til tomorrow night," she tells the candystriper. She wants to warn the young girl, about the devils, and about all the horrible things that men would like to do to her, but of course she can't. "I forgot to finish my s.h.i.+ft log from last night."

"Oh, okay."

While she's finis.h.i.+ng her s.h.i.+ft log, a doctor comes around the corner and starts yelling at the candystriper. "Carrington, not Carrolton!" he yells and slaps down an aluminum folder that they keep the ICU records in. It makes a sound so loud she jumps.

"I'm sorry, doctor," the candystriper apologizes.

"Do you have any idea, any idea at all any idea at all, what could happen when you order the wrong records!"

"I'm sorry, doctor. I thought you said Carrolton."

"I thought you said Carrolton," the doctor mimics her. "Jesus Christ, girl, a patient could die because of your stupidity!"

The candystriper starts to cry.

The doctor jerks around into the station, to get the records himself. "If it were up to me, you'd all be fired," he mutters, rummaging. "Incompetent, the bunch of you."

She feels sorry for the candystriper, but she smiles. "Don't worry," she consoles when the doctor stalks off. "I heard that a patient went comatose last year because he administered the wrong betablocker. The patient almost died."

"He's such a p.r.i.c.k!" the candystriper halfsobbed. "He's always acting like that. It's not my fault he can't say a patient's name right."

"Don't worry."

A fantasy blooms, like a light turning on.

Hold him down, she's saying to the candystriper, while I get him cuffed.

He's jerking and screaming as she cuts off his face with a GradleMiltex postmortem abdominal knife.

See what I'm doing for you? she says to the candystriper. she says to the candystriper. You can learn from me. You can learn from me.

She slices off his ears like the ends of a loaf of bread.

She clips off his nose with Knowels cartilage shears.

She places the shears in the candystriper's hand and holds up the doctor's p.e.n.i.s so the candystriper can cut it off.

"That a.s.shole," the candystriper says, dabbing her eyes with Kleenex. "I could kill him."

Yes, she thinks.

All the while she's been putting the tag number into the computer. All hospitals have an uplink to surrounding motor vehicle administrations for carwreck victims who are brought in with no IDs so they can run the plates and get a printout of the owner's driver's license and see if the carwreck victim matches the face on the license.

"If I wasn't in school, I'd quit this d.a.m.n place," the candy-striper is saying. At least she's calmed down a little now. "I don't deserve to be treated like that."

"n.o.body does."

She doesn't print out the information because she knows that if she does the computer will outindex it.

Instead she memorizes what appears on the colorgraphic monitor.

HEIGHT: 5-6.

WEIGHT: 135.

s.e.x: F.

LIC. TYPE: R.

KATHLEEN MARGARET SHADE.

3660 LEIBER STREET #307.

WAs.h.i.+NGTON, D.C. 20005.

Chapter 9.

(I).

"I'm sorry I missed your lecture, honey," Kathleen's father said over the phone. "I completely forgot about it."

Kathleen had never expected him to show up in the first place. "It went pretty well," she said. She was looking out the window, into sunlight. "I met a nice man."

"Oh, really?"

"His name's Maxwell. He's a poet."

She could nearly hear her father's frown. "A poet?" he said. "Do poets make money?"

"He also teaches college, but he's off for the summer."

"Hmm. A poet."

Her father called every few weeks, either from his house in Alexandria, or from his company office. He was a millionaire. From his own father, he and Sam had inherited a mining company, coal and tin, in Allegheny County. He made several 100,000 per year in what he called "Schedule E Mineral Royalties," which, over the years, he'd converted to millions through real estate deals and the stock market. Sammy sold his shares to her father and put the money in the bank. It infuriated Kathleen, that a pedophile should be allowed to be wealthy.

"I want to meet him when I'm back in town," her father went on. "How old is he?"

"I'm not sure. Late twenties, early thirties."

"We'll go to a nice restaurant, 21 Federal maybe, or how about Duke's? Maybe we'll see Ted Kennedy again."

"Anyplace'll be fine, dad. You'll like him."

"Who? Kennedy?"

"No, dad. Maxwell. He's really nice."

"He better be. n.o.body's too nice for my little girl."

What a trip, Kathleen thought. Kathleen thought. I'm a 33yearold little girl. I'm a 33yearold little girl. She didn't even consider telling him about the killer. As far as overreactive fathers went, her own father was outdone by no one. He'd have her moving out of state. He'd send her on a vacation for a year. She didn't even consider telling him about the killer. As far as overreactive fathers went, her own father was outdone by no one. He'd have her moving out of state. He'd send her on a vacation for a year.

"Do you need any money?" he asked.

"No, dad, I'm fine."

"You're sure."

"Really, dad. Things are great."

And it dawned on her then, that things really were were great. Even if her conception of Maxwell was an overreaction of her own-she'd met him less than 24 hours ago-her life suddenly felt bristling with excitement and reality. great. Even if her conception of Maxwell was an overreaction of her own-she'd met him less than 24 hours ago-her life suddenly felt bristling with excitement and reality. What's different about it now? What's different about it now? she wondered. Was it the credibility she had as a writer? Was it Maxwell? she wondered. Was it the credibility she had as a writer? Was it Maxwell? Is it the killer? Is it the killer? she wondered. she wondered.

She felt complete. She was a complete woman in, basically, a man's world, and she knew she always had been. So why was she only realizing that now?

The moment darkened, though. Almost, alm- Here. Almost, alm- Here. Kathleen shriveled. She knew she shouldn't ask, but... Kathleen shriveled. She knew she shouldn't ask, but...

"Dad? Sam's still in prison, isn't he?"

The pause unreeled like something dropped into an abyss.