Page 328 of Rage

I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.

What kind of knife cut so clean like that?

How deep is the cut?

My knee began subtly bouncing unconsciously as I studied the photograph. I hummed Für Elise silently in my mind, trying to keep this tightness in my chest at bay.

“How does it make you feel, Tara?” Dr. Halloway said, the tone of his voice darker, deeper. “Tell me, do you like what you see?”

Chapter One

Tara

4 Years Ago (17 Years Old)

“Do you like what you see, Tara?”

Dr. Halloway’s deep, ominous voice echoed in my mind as I sat in the same armchair I’ve been sitting in since I was eleven years old. I was staring at a spot on the carpet of his office, lost in thought.

“Tara?” Dr. Halloway asked, drawing my attention back to him. Shifting in my seat, I crossed my arms over my chest, reciprocating eye contact.

“What now? Everything is fine, just swell. Like always.” My voice was sharp, harsh.

“We need to discuss your transition, my dear. Since tomorrow is your eighteenth birthday, you will no longer be with the Haven House.”

A tightness built in my chest again; the familiar feeling of my urges surfacing… My urge to feel the warm, silky smooth sensation of blood on my hands. The urge to see the life leave someone’s eyes as I steal their last breath…

“I’m fine,Timothy,” I spat, staring daggers at him.

The image of him spread out on a four-post bed like the image he’s shown me every time I’ve been in his office… I wanted that to be Timothy Halloway tied to that bed with his neck sliced wide open by my knife…

“We’ve discussed this callousness in your attitude, Miss Hollis.”

“We’ve discussed how I don’t give a shit about your little psychopath test, Timothy.”

Dr. Halloway stood from his chair, tossing his portfolio to the seat, and walked towards his desk. I watched him pull open a drawer and slam it closed, walking towards me.

“Don’t forget who holds the power here, Tara. Your pathetic attempts at manipulation and dominance are useless here.”

Dr. Halloway grabbed my wrist, and forced me to grip the handle of my paring knife I stole from Megan, my previous foster mother. At age eleven, having killed a bird with it, he took the knife from me when I was forced to see him.

Feeling the smooth, wood handle in my hands sent a wave of calm over me. My vision became more clear, my breathing more even, my urges jumped to the forefront of my mind. All I could do was stare at the blade, tilting my head slightly, imagining the memories I have made using this knife to kill.

The power he had over me was frustrating.

The social worker forces me to have sessions with him twice a week, and each session he pokes and prods, studying me. “Studying your perfect mind.” He calls it.

I’m not stupid. I know what he’s doing.

Once I turned sixteen, he began showing me more intense crime scene images and videos. People murdered in various ways, people having sex in unconventional ways, purposefully triggering my urges so I’d kill who he wanted without the blame being on him.

I couldn’t fight it and he knew it.

I’ve always been different, void of any emotion. I never understood why movies made people laugh, why funerals made people cry, why a man cheating on his wife makes her angry. My brain can’t comprehend these emotions, and it’s led to being stuck in the foster care system. No families could handle me; apparently my birth parents couldn’t handle me either.

At least that’s what Dr. Halloway and Gemma, the social worker, say.

“What do you feel, Tara?”

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