I remember my face slamming into the blood-splattered floor, as my mother screamed monstrous things into my ringing ears. 

Her shrieks filling my head, repeating as if a demon was hurling them into my memories. 

 I recall her breathing becoming sharp, as salted tears rolled from her dusty, blue eyes.

The yanking of my blonde hair, the smashing of my face into the floorboards over and over as she ignored my screams and begs.

I remember shards of glass and wood pounding into my skull as blood poured from my fresh, open wounds.

I remember the feeling of desperation as my mother abused my body. 

My small hands clawing and ripping at her arms, peeling her thin flesh from her body.

As if reliving the night, I flashed on her screams as they became louder and louder.

 She repeated the same three words as if possessed.

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

I recall clenching my teeth, tasting blood from my swollen lips. 

I remember my mother's drunken power being overwhelming as she thrust my limp body through the backdoor.

 I rolled in the mud sensing the rain collecting in all areas around me. 

I remember the feeling of laying there lifeless, drinking in dirt and blood.

The overpowering aroma of worms and earth filling my gasping lungs. 

I remember, glass and slivers of wood slipping deeper into my wounds as I painfully tried to adjust on the ground. 

My right eye was swollen and my left was completely blurred. 

Unable to see or move I panted holding back my shrieks of agony. 

I remember, laying there, feeling every part of my body squeeze with torment. Hearing the creaks of the back door open once more I let the feeling of panic rise in me faster than before.

My head screamed for me to run, move, anything to get away, but my mother's nails cut into my arms, crushing any hope that was once in my grasp.

I remember becoming terrified.

 I pleaded with my mother to stop. But I was unaware of what was to come.

I remember...   

I screamed blood-curdling cries as a jagged bottle ripped through my right eye socket.

 I shrieked as I felt the hot glass pull from the place it layed, and wailed as it shredded through my left. 

I remember, as my body slipped away from the horrors of that night.

I remember, and I will never forget.

* Mr. G. Cliff

I trudged along the sidewalk, bumping into passing people. Their rough scoffs echoing inside the back of my head. Cars raced by and the evening of New York came alive. So many sounds, so many smells. I was disgusted but content. 

I made a right, stepping up a few stairs then grasping onto a rounded doorknob. Pushing forward, the door made an eerie sound and I walked inside a large home.

"Welcome Mr. Cliff "

I nodded in the direction of the voice. 

"Why do you not have your cane?" The voice asked chuckling, and a man came into sight. "I know you aren't fully blind, but it is supposed to help. After all, you can only view things about a foot in front of you". 

A low rumbling erupted within my chest and it spilled from my lips. "Ah dear boy, I would rather enjoy what I have then be paranoid about it before I don't. "

The man just shook his head and smiled.

"Well, please allow me to take you to Mrs. Emilia's quarters."

I simply nodded and was led down the hall. A clean smell flooded my deep nostrils. It was satisfying and different. 

Making a right I was brought into a large room. It smelled of raspberry perfume and a slight hint of smoke. The man, in front of me, took in a hitched breath, "Emilia! How many times have I told you? No smoking within the psychology building." He stepped forward and started tapping his foot showing his obvious disappointment and annoyance.

A woman inside just bubbled with laughter.

"Oh please, if I left you'd probably die."

The tapping from the man stopped and a sigh sounded. The man started for a window and opened it trying to air out the wretched aroma of sweet and deadly. Though, I personally thought it was quite pleasant.

"You always say I'm going to die, but by who? You?" He scoffed. "You are permanently stuck in a chair and Mr. Cliff can hardly see. It wouldn't be that hard to run."

I smirked quietly at his cockiness.

"Darling," Emilia dragged the word out as if speaking to a child. "You can't run forever. And just because I can't move and he can't see doesn't mean we can't staple your mouth shut and pick away your skin while relentlessly torturing you till your last breath." The room became cold though I was unsure whether it was from her words or from a wind that swept inside from the, now, open window.

I went back over her words impressed by her creativity and the man shuddered.

 The idea itself was chilling indeed, but Emilia was smiling nonetheless.

 The room became shallow. A towering clock ticked ominously and the man cleared his throat feeling uncomfortable.

"Right… Well, allow me to get a head start then." And with that, the man fled the room in a quick-paced walk.

I began to chuckle and stepped forward taking in more of the unfamiliar room through my closed squinted eyes.

"I see you did some research," I spoke, using a soft tone, trying to strike up a conversation with the interesting woman. She had already amused me within the first three minutes of introduction. A feat that I had previously thought was impossible.

"Indeed Mr. Cliff. It's not every day someone at the age of fifty-two gets away with murder. Not to mention twenty-three. Seven of which were children under the age of thirteen."  

Coming closer to the area she was, I let out a short breath then slumped into a floral couch. 

The area we conversed within, was small and delicate looking. A white carpet laid atop the hardwood oak floor. Two floral couches with soft colors faced each other, and to the right of me was a fireplace.

 Green bars with metal vines were placed in front, to keep small children away from danger. Atop the fireplace was simple decorations. 

A low table sat between us and a laced fabric was stretched across the top. A bowl of roses and peonies were arranged which sat wonderfully in the center. To my left, a ways away, was the majestic clock, with a slow swaying pendulum. To it's right and left, were forestry green curtains that hung from golden-colored knobs near the ceiling, which fell to the ground just dusting the floor. Each slightly covering massive windows that oversaw the landscape of New York. Behind me was a large bookcase filled with writings of old and new authors, poets unrecognized and world-renowned ones, useless scribbles and breathtaking stories. 

"Trying to take in the area?" My host asked.

I took in a silent breath and nodded. Emilia was sitting in a wheelchair watching my expressions and I could tell she was examining me.

"Mr. Cliff." I read your letter on remembering. It seems like your mother was terrible to you."

"That's one way to put it." I spread my legs getting comfortable and stretched my arms letting them fall on the top edge of the couch.

"I read through an article that those who you ‘supposedly killed’ were depressed, mentally ill, or unstable in a sort of way. Did you do it as revenge on your mother?"

I cocked my head smiling, enjoying her guessing attempts.

"Did you do it for the need of a difference? Growing old, many complain of becoming bored with their everyday lives. Especially those with no living family members."

I bent my head straight back and heard as my spine popped. I continued to smile.

"Perhaps it was a need for attention, I've taken the time to look back at your elementary and high school careers. Turns out you had a multitude of friends. All of which would claim you to be an innocent and harmless man. Your father committed suicide when you were eightteen as well."

I licked my lips entranced by her voice. It was milky and modest.

"Was it because you wanted to see a dead body again?"

Chills erupted on my forearms. A warm adrenaline rush filled my chest and my smile grew.

"Ah. . . I see." Her voice was quiet and she slouched back into her chair. "Mr. Cliff your father committed suicide in front of you, correct?"

"Yes." My 's' dragged out disturbingly making it seem like I was hissing.

"Right." She said to herself. I could practically hear the gears turning in her head. 

"And could you possibly explain what happened to him? In detail of course." Her hands floated to her lap and she turned her head slightly, patiently waiting for my response.

I cleared my throat and closed my eyes recalling the memory. I chewed on my left thumbnail for a minute, then brought it back to the ledge of the couch.

"I had just come home from school. My bag was wet from the snow and my hands were stuffed into the front pocket of my sweatshirt." I said mimicking my childlike self. 

"My dad was at the top of the stairs and he was writing something on the wall. I was hungry, so I just called to him saying I was home."

I heard my memory come to life.

         "Dad I'm home!"

"I knew mom wasn't home because it was a weekday. A… Tuesday I believe."

I brought my fingers to my lips and grazed my upper lip feeling the softness of my hands caress the thin skin. Emilia shifted in her seat soaking in my every word. 

         "Dad?" 

         "Son…"

"He sounded so… tired." My hand fell and clasped the other in my lap.      

   "There are times when you just have to live with your mistakes. But this time. I don't have that choice." He said.

"When he turned around I could see the blood rushing down his arms. My eyes became so big and I stepped back letting my shoulder blades brush up against the wall behind me. I didn't even notice the knife in his hand." I paused. 

The memory hazed in my mind. I pushed my fingers into my forehead trying to recapture the moment.

"Take your time," Emilia spoke kindly.

 She was extremely talented at hiding her motives and excitement. Though I knew, every detail to her was important. 

The pendulum swung multiple times before I started again.

"He brought the knife up," I copied the motion. "And stabbed himself, he was screaming the entire time, i-it was so loud!" My voice rose and I started chuckling. "But it didn't stop. No no no it… it didn't stop. My dad brought it back out of his chest and stabbed again then again and again!" I started laughing at the memory. 

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My father's face ripped through my mind. His eyes bulging and his jaw dripping low. His face had gone through different colors. Red, then a deep purple, then sheet white.

"He stepped forward and…" my voice trailed off and I followed my arm that was outstretched in front of me. I saw my teenage self reaching out, screaming at my dad to stop,

"He fell forward with the knife in his hand. He fell down, down, down…" I recalled hearing his body traveling down the stairs. The cracking of bones along the way.

"The knife slipped from his hand and as he fell it went straight," I clapped my hands making Emilia jump. "Through his head." I realized I was leaning forward with glee. 

I relaxed my shoulders as I slouched on the couch once again. Silence had fallen between us.

"Mr. Cliff. . .” Emilia began, controlling her tone. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but there wasn't any fear in your tone." 

I ran my tongue from my back, right molars to the left, then smacked my lips.

"Emilia. That entire story was fear." 

Her face became cold and she peered at me curiously.

"Are you afraid of me Emilia?" I asked, listening for any kind of response. 

"Only slightly." She replied almost immediately, "I'm glad to know that my hypothesis was correct." She swallowed hard and hit her chest letting out an improper burp. 

I chuckled softly and she began to hum a childhood melody. The tune sparked a couple memories but I shut them down in spite.

"If I may…" I motioned to continue, and she gave me a nod to proceed, "What was your hypothesis?"

She smiled warmly.

"That there is almost always, a childhood trauma that has affected the so-called 'psychopath' into what they have done in the present. Though, I believe that that one incident is not the only thing that has pushed you toward your actions."

"You may just be right my dear Emilia." I winked. Her words had sparked my interests once again.

She shook her head and pouted slightly.

"So, did you kill those people just because you wanted to feel adrenaline again and see a body?"

"Who says I killed anyone?" I growled lowly, loving the banter between us.

Emilia smiled, "Come on. Just between the two of us." 

I snorted in disgust but kept the mood light.

"Aw my dear, just because my sight is shit doesn't mean I can't hear the frequency coming from your ass. A recording device I presume?"

Emilia took in a slow drawn out-breath. "You caught me. Are you gonna kill me?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." I stood and moved around the table coming to sit beside her.

"Mr. Cliff, are you flirting with me?" She laughed.

"If I was flirting with you, you would know."

She chuckled in her seat letting her cheeks grow warm. The silence between us was temporary as I wanted to continue on something that was digging into my mind.

"Tell me kitten. How did you lose your ability to walk?" I asked, placing my hand on her armrest. 

"I will, but only if you promise not to call me ‘kitten’ ever again." Her words were sharp and direct and I soaked in her sass. 

 I raised my hands in a polite mannerism. "Apologies, never again."

She became comfortable and lounged back in her perminate chair.

"I was twenty-three, on my way to pick up my daughter from daycare." She smiled and I guessed she was recalling her daughter's face.

"The house wasn't far but for some reason, I was in a hurry. Long story short, I missed the green light and drove right in front of a semi. My car was pushed to its side. Gasoline was leaking and the semi ended up ramming into a tree on the side of the road. I was trapped." A bubble appeared in her throat but she brushed it off by clearing herself.

"A man was able to clasp my hand and drag me from my vehicle just before it exploded. Everything was engulfed in flames and I wasn't even worried about it. I was more focused on my legs. I couldn't feel them." She stared down at her thighs and fidgeted with the material overlapping them.

"Aren't you happy you’re alive?" I said trying to sound sympathetic but I heard my thoughts laughing as I longed to smell her blood and sweat. What I would've paid or given to see the look on her face. Her innocent, young expression of horror. A smile played on the corners of my lips.

"That's the thing… I left one thing out of my story." 

I bit my lip forcing myself to keep a concerned expression present.

"It is true, I was on my way to pick up my daughter from daycare but I never mentioned my two-year-old son in the back seat. . ."

Her hands became still and I fixated on her chest. I watched as it rose then faded back into place. I traced my eyes along the veins running from beneath her shirt up to her neck and vanishing underneath her chin. 

"I never even thought about my son. And my daughter was picked up by her father and I never saw him or her again. I lost my son, husband, daughter and my legs."

 I hummed darkly, zoning out and Emilia seemed to notice.

The door behind us squeaked open and Emilia brightened her face.

"Emilia, would you like any refreshments brought to your room?" Called a voice. I wasn't able to see him but I visualized a scrawny man with light brown hair wearing an inexpensive tux.

"If possible,” She replied, “I would like oh, some Triscuits and cheese slices with some sweet tea and my friend here would like. . ." Her voice lowered. "What do you want? My treat." She winked and I smiled, flattered. "Bagels. And cream cheese. Nothing to drink."

She nodded then repeated my words to the waiter at the door. 

"Right away." The door closed and it was back to Emilia and I.

"So,” I began taking control of the conversation, “I was told to come here yet, I don't know what this place is."

"Ah yes! We jumped right into business before explaining where you are. Apologies." 

"It's quite alright, as long as you explain to me a little bit," I said, forcing a smile.

"Well, Mr. Cliff, you are sitting inside New York's biggest psychiatric hospital. Built in 1967 this place is one where criminals or men, just as yourself, that are being persecuted for sickening crimes, and we learn the reasons as to why and treat you accordingly. My name is Emilia C. Swafford. I am the head of this department and treat the more… rare patients."

"Such as?" I pushed.

"Patients who commit manslaughter at an alarming rate without a so-called 'reason'. Most people call them psychopaths."

"And am I?" I gestured to myself. "One of these psychopaths?"

She nodded slowly, her eyes searching within mine.

"But my crimes have no proof? How can I be treated as a criminal when there is no evidence that I was the one who committed the crime?"

"A fair point, but tell me. Do you feel as though you are being treated like a criminal?"

I sat back and smiled intrigued by my circumstances.

"If I were to leave," I began and allowed Emilia to take my words.

"You would be able to leave, but by the law of New York you must come in at least once a week due to public opinion and anonymous vote." Emilia finished.

“Public opinion and anonymous vote?" I asked, repeating her words.

“The people are afraid of you Mr. Cliff."

I licked my lips, unshocked by my newfound information.

"Scared of me…" My voice trailed away.

"Does that excite you?" Emilia questioned.

The door swung open and I was brought to the delicious smell of triscuits, bagels, and tea.

"Your food." said the man with the tray.

"Why thank you, Mark." Emilia politely replied.

A platter of our order was placed gently on the table in front of us. I could sense Mark’s eyes glued on me and I smirked. Moments later it was back to the two of us. We had dived into our treats with no hesitation or thought of mannerism. The pendulum inside the glass and wooden box swayed accordingly. 

"So, Hypothetically."  Emilia began. I nodded bracing myself for her words. "If you were to murder a twelve-year-old girl. How would you commit this unnatural crime?" 

"Emilia, you are treading in the thoughts of a so-called psychopath. I bid you to brace  your mind."

She nodded, agreeing.

Taking in the last bite of my bagel I chewed slowly thinking back on the girl’s face. I do admit privately to myself that I did kill her, but will never admit it openly, for the sake of ‘freedom’.

“I would first, find a reason as to why this girl should be killed. Which is easy to see.” I shrugged.

“Go into depth, just for my sake,” Emilia said, coming closer in her chair. 

“Why, the girl herself was a nuisance. A pitiful soul which contributed nothing to society.” I said imaging one of my first crimes I committed just under five years ago. 

Her hair was always knotted, her skirt bunched up and uneven. Her face never washed and she spoke as though every word was slang. Children, these days, are useless. I thought to myself.

Emilia nodded slowly and picked up a notepad beside her. Her skeletal hand began writing down personal thoughts and she was starting to become psychological with my explanation.

“So, as anyone else,” I said continuing, “I had the authority to teach such a nuisance the ways of correct mannerism and womanhood. Sadly, with today’s atmosphere and the title of ‘pedophile’, I wouldn’t be able to just walk up to her and begin teaching.”

“And by teaching you mean… “ 

“Beat.” The word slipped from my lips letting a chill settle in the room. I, however, did not notice. 

I recalled how my plan went out. I waited for the right time taking notice that her lunch began at twelve forty-five and she always went to the bathroom before meeting with her friends. I had simply walked into the building, straight to the bathroom and grabbed her.

“As any murderer, they must first obtain their victim. The difficulty of this varies depending on time, population of people in the surrounding area, and cameras.”

“I see…” Emilia spoke letting a slight hint of disgust take a drop in her tone.

“Then, you would have to… find a place to put her and simply begin the ‘teaching’.” I explained.

The little girl hardly screamed. Instead she fainted in fright. It was as if the world was helping me. I then took her to a secluded place and started teaching the ways a woman should act. I forced her to walk and to tie her hair back. I taught her how to keep her legs closed at all times and when she refused or misbehaved I simply slapped her.

“And what if this girl ran?” I felt Emilia’s eyes on my cheek as I shoved my lower jaw to the right side in a habit of personal judgment. 

The question meant they found evidence leading to the assumption of the girl escaping and having someone larger in size drag her back. 

The chase was short lived. She didn’t make it far and I dragged her by her disgusting, greasy hair, threw her on the bed and committed vile acts upon her.

“Take her back.” I answered honestly. My voice was light even though the meaning behind my words were considered otherwise. 

A bird flew by the window and the fluttering caught my attention. Emilia noticed this as well but continued writing.

“What a lovely specimen. A robin I do believe. She seems to be searching for food.” A smile cracked across my dry lips and the feeling brought my tongue out to wet them.

“Would you murder her at this time?” Emilia’s question shot through me and without hesitation, I replied in a light mood.

“Perhaps.” 

Her brows twitched, “Why?”

“Why what my dear?” I questioned slyly.

Emilia laid her pen down on the stand between us and she pulled her leg over the other to prop her elbow on.

“Why would you kill her? Was it because she ran?”

“Yes,” I replied, though this answer was a lie. Partially at least.

 I killed her because I realized that teaching her was far more inconvenient than I had originally thought.

“Why not let her go?”

I gave Emilia no reply and sat silent thinking about my personal answer.

Because I hate her. The child was pathetic, a nuisance, a disgrace, she was Nothing. The idea of letting her go seemed absurd to me and I started chuckling to myself.

The woman shifted again.

“What gave you the authority to teach that girl?”

I became silent. I thought long and hard about how to respond yet my mind offered nothing as a response. The feeling of not having an answer was unsatisfying and new. 

“It was your mother, wasn’t it?” Her words hovered beside my ear and sunk in making my brows furrow in conflict. She continued.

“Your mother abused you as a child. She taught you to be a grown man and whenever you failed at this task she slapped you. Didn’t she?”

I was in slight awe at Emilia’s accuracy and smiled in her favor.

“You, Mr. Cliff, are just like your mother.” My smile dropped with unamusement, I arose becoming peeved at the idea of being like my mother. 

“Ridiculous. This is all just hypothetical.” I stated.

Emilia bowed her head in respect. “Of course.”

I trudged across the widespread room and searched for the robin that had once sat on the ledge. She was now in a nearby tree. Her chest pronounced and I examined her slicked black feathers. 

“A truly gorgeous specimen.” My voice trailed as I watched her hop from branch to branch.

“Mr. Cliff, I would like to continue our conversation.”

“I refuse.” I stated, my voice was stern and I twirled on my heel facing in her direction.

“Alright. How about a game?”  She offered.

My head tilted with curiosity and I saw, in a slight blur, Emilia gesturing for the couch across from herself. “Please, have a seat.”

I followed her instructions and found my way back to my first seat. The couch was cooler now and I sunk down into the cushion. Emilia simply waited for me to regain comfort before explaining further. I locked eyes with hers and she blinked happily.

“The game is simplistic. I ask a series of questions, you give me an answer. You are allowed to take as much time as you would like, so do not feel the need to reply instantly. Are you ready?”

“Sounds easy enough,” I said letting my ears perk with excitement.

“Let’s begin.” Emilia’s mood changed within a millisecond and the sight was exhilarating to me. 

“Do you feel anything inside that hurts you?”

The question was odd so I thought about it. Taking in the fact that I was in a psychiatric hospital she must be talking about emotions. 

“Assuming what you're asking,” I started, “No, I do however, get a feeling of anger and that can sometimes hurt my head.”

“I see,” Emilia said, jotting down her notes. “Next is, how often do you lie?”

This question was just as intriguing and I shifted in my seat cocking my head slightly. 

“Everybody lies. It’s the way of human nature. We can’t help but lie. Now in the matter of how often? Well, I’d say only when I want to.”

Emilia blinked a couple of times and bit her lip. She was unsettled by something. She then rolled her paper over itself and resumed eye contact with me. We sat quietly for a few seconds before her thin lips parted and she asked her final question.

“What do you find, amusing?” Her words were light but deep within them I sensed a dark motive. This conversation was dull to me now and I was unwilling to continue. After all, it wasn’t worth my time to continue on such ridiculous topics.

“A lot of things are amusing.” I sighed.

“Such as?” Emilia pressed.

My mind flashed on a couple obscene things. Death, murder, suicide, anger, saddness, lonliness, the realization of how pathetic humans truly are.

“The normal things in everyday life. Food, music, simple conversation.” I said. I wasn’t exactly lying but those were nothing compared to what actually made me smile. "Emilia. I know what you’re trying to do and I can already tell you. I am a psychopath. I'm insane. I don't feel emotion toward anyone yet you, you, my dear, are a sociopath. We are very much alike."

"And what makes you say I'm such a thing?" Emilia asked.

"Both psychopaths and sociopaths have persistent antisocial behavior. The way you enjoy calling out other citizens, the way you are fascinated in this study is abnormal. Plus, you have committed your own murders, haven’t you?” 

Emilia became very still but her own thin smile stayed on her wrinkled skin. She leaned into her back pocket and clicked off her device shutting down the frequency. “How did you,”

“Research darling,” I said, cutting her off, “I looked you up.” I arose and straightened my jacket. “Do they know?”

“Who.” she asked, watching me carefully.

“The men you’re working for.”

She was silent. So silent that one would have assumed she died.

“Do they know you killed your family and that story you told earlier was total bullocks.”

She shook her head very slowly, closing her eyes.

“You poor old man, there is no one in the world as twisted as you.”

A deep frown made impressions on my face. “Go to hell Emilia.” I then headed for the door leaving the room.

“See you next week Mr.Cliff.”