Whisper softly or you're dead

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Chapter twenty-six.

Hopes dashed! Drastic measures required.

Michael needed to find the remaining body parts but first the other matter must be resolved. The post arrived and eagerly he selected the letter from the clinic. He tore it open with relish, but his face fell. He had been teased in the past for having pale almost translucent skin but now it was ghostly as the colour drained from his already pale visage. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he sobbed until he had no energy to stand up anymore. His hopes were dashed. He had been rejected again.

He must ring the idiotic man and persuade him to change his mind. He had no idea how a man could suffer when he felt wrong on the outside. He would make an appointment quickly for the next week before the man went on one of his extended holidays. Man, to man, professional to professional, he would make him change his mind. It was his last chance. The last clinic which might accept his case.

He went to the gym ignoring the strange looks he garnered from the members. The regulars knew him and accepted him for what he was. They considered him a harmless freak and tolerated him without letting him into their circle and making friends with him. He was building muscle now the steroids working slowly. His strength was building, and he was proving to the members he was as capable as any of them of building iron. Access to the steroids and other drugs he required was easy for him in the past, but regulations were becoming tighter due to negligent fools taking overdoses and dying.

He would be forced to go to Europe again or Asia where anything could be bought for a price. He wanted a reputable clinic where mistakes would not be made like last time. The owner of the clinic had paid dearly and painfully for taking his money under false pretences, but he still bore the ugly scars where the operation had gone drastically wrong.

Later that evening he met the consultant in his clinic. He had asked for an after-hours appointment and the man had reluctantly acquiesced. Sitting opposite him, the consultant explained the results of his tests.

‘‘I’m sorry but we do not feel your tests show you are prepared enough psychologically to cope with the potential changes in your psyche. The physical changes and your changing relationships with family, friends and work colleagues will stretch your ability to cope. We think you need to discuss your issues with a psychotherapist and come back to us with their recommendations. If they feel after treatment you are then suitable we will reconsider our position.’’

He sat up straight in his chair and stared the man eye to eye. The consultant dropped his eyes first, wriggling visibly in his chair.

‘‘As a professional I feel I know when I am mature enough to make this decision.’’

‘‘I’m sorry but I think you are wrong and so do my colleagues who have studied your results. I gave them to two others to ensure I made a fair judgement. Please see a psychotherapist and get treatment and then as I said we will reconsider your case.’’

Michael got up as the man closed his file and put out his hand to shake his own. He was burning up inside but in his reflection in the mirror on his outside he looked as cold as a slice of ice. Only his eyes showed the desire for murder he was suppressing inside. He was proud he could contain his anger.

Who was this idiot who called himself a professional who acted like god sitting in judgement on him, destroying his life? One letter would gain him the freedom to live the life he wanted, to be himself. This man did not know what he had suffered, the taunts, the loneliness, the inability to find a suitable mate. He would get that letter whatever it cost. He said goodbye to the man, feeling his visible relief when he left his clinic. He also thought him a freak.

He waited until the man got into his car and followed him home. As he expected the fool lived in a gated residence in the upper-class suburbs of town on his own, his family living with his estranged wife. It was easy to cut the perimeter fence and slip under the wire. He slid through the bushes and found a downstairs window open. Slipping through the hall he saw through an open door the man sitting and stroking his cat which jumped on to his lap.

‘‘Thank God today is over puss. One of the saddest cases ever to pass over my threshold in years.’’

He was now finished with the assessment and could close the case. He had rarely met such a cold damaged person in his years of work. He had felt uneasy during the last few weeks with this patient knowing a rejection for treatment could send the person over the edge. Instead the patient had not screamed or shouted at him but had just stared at him.

He shivered thinking of those cold blue eyes that had assessed him and found him wanting. Those eyes had speared him, made him feel like an insect under a microscope waiting to be dissected. The patient’s hands were clenched, white, as if holding in a contained aggression. He was so relieved when a nod completed the assessment and his patient walked out without a further glance or word to him. It was if a toxic presence had vacated his consultation room and he had had to open the windows to gulp in fresh clean air.

‘‘Years of therapy will never gain the results needed for the op. I’ll take those weeks of holiday I’m owed and avoid the office like the plague.’’

Michael appeared silently behind him. A slice with his hand on the man’s neck and he was disabled and then tied to his chair. He said to the moron, ‘‘If you want your death to be easy sign this letter. You know what it contains.’’

‘‘Please let me go. I will sign anything you want,’’ pleaded the man but knowing it was of no use.

The cobalt eyes had turned a pale soulless blue like pebbles, not really seeing him. A slim hand took the man’s fingers and pulled out a scalpel and coldly and cruelly began to slice into the skin of his forefinger. The man screamed.

‘Next, I will cut much lower in your groin.’ He took the paper and put it on the man’s lap where the cat had sat. ‘Sign it and you will not feel much pain.’ The man took the pen with shaking hands and signed on the line, crossing himself slowly afterwards.

Michael smiled and took the hypodermic needle he had prepared and pushed it into the man’s neck, watching as the man slowly lost consciousness, the light fading out from his eyes. He then went around the house smashing and destroying some decorations and taking the credit cards and a few easily carried valuable items to make it look like there had been a burglary. He was always good at covering his tracks which was why he was still loose, and the police were tying themselves up in knots.

He then slipped out of the house and into the gardens and through the fence again. He had the letter, his route to freedom. He would act on it after the weekend when the clinic opened. For now, he would sleep and then he would tell Madeline to come back and find the other pieces to the puzzle while he sourced the eyes.

The others were idiots hanging on to his every word as if he were a god. They had helped him dispose of the body of the girl picked up near the night club, but they were incompetent. They didn’t know how to use a scalpel and their motives for killing were different from his. They did not understand the need for total hygiene and sanitation, barbarians enjoying their dirt. They enjoyed killing and harming women. He saw it as a mere necessity to achieve his goal, his masterpiece. He would dispose of them when he had no use for them. Madeline was different. She was clean and obedient to his orders. She understood his needs.

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