Ms. Scarlet

"Why do you do what you do?" It always sounded corny, even clich?,
but it was inevitably one of the first questions Dr. Herbert asked a
new patient. This time, however, there wasn't an immediate response. He
looked up from his notes to study the newest addition to his decor. It
wasn't until that very moment he fully realized how gorgeous she was.
Like an exquisitely sculpted work of art, she adorned the lavish
surroundings of his office; a newly acquired treasure to showcase
amidst the dark mahogany and old leather. Her hair was dark and shining
under the warm sunlight streaming through the curtainless window. She
had turned towards this light, admiring the city from 24 stories up.
The sun fell full upon her face, highlighting her smooth features. Full
rich lips were reddened with just a touch of the lipstick. She had a
cute, dainty nose and deep brown eyes that were soft, reminiscent of
the eyes of a baby deer.

She seemed to absorb the sunshine, like a budding rose soaks it up and
returns the favor by blossoming slowly into the lover's flower. Turning
reluctantly from the window, she smiled at him. He was struck by the
warmth and innocence of that seductive smile. It radiated its own
trusting warmth. He glanced back down at the opened folder on his desk,
suddenly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of her gaze. It took the
words written on the paper to remind him of her true nature. The rose
may be among the most beautiful and celebrated flower in the world, but
its beauty always distracted from its thorns.

"Well," she said at last, "the money's good." Her smile widened at her
little joke, and Dr. Herbert was certain that no woman could possibly
be more desirable. Despite his disciplined willpower, his eyes were
drawn along her generous curves. She was modestly dressed in a pullover
shirt and blue jeans, nothing terribly tight, and yet it still managed
to accentuate her body. "But, then," he thought, "She would look good
in anything at all. Or nothing." He forced his eyes back down to his
folder. It was far from professional to be lusting over the woman
you're supposed to be counseling.

"To tell you the truth, doctor," she began, "I actually enjoy what I
do."

He felt a chill. He wanted to ask, "How? How can any person possibly
enjoy the loathsome acts you've admitted to?" But, as a psychiatrist,
he knew the "how's" and "why's" could often be as deep-rooted into the
sub conscience as the roots of an ancient oak tree can dig into fertile
soil. Indeed, most of his patients didn't even know the "how's" and
"why's" themselves. Instead, he determinedly locked his eyes upon hers
and said, "Tell me about your first time."

"Wow," she said. "You definitely know how to skip through the
chitchat, don't you, Doc?"

When his brow furrowed in confusion, she explained, "No, 'Enjoying the
weather', or 'How 'bout them Cubs?'"

"You're not paying me to chitchat, Ms. Scarlet," he reminded her. Ms.
Scarlet, like the Clue game. It was the only name she'd given him, but,
given the nature of this consultation, he'd accepted it. His patients
frequently used pseudonyms in this office. He'd seen everything from
domestic abusers to drug dealers to pimps and hookers. But now, he
found himself wishing for something more intimate than an assumed
name.

"Hmmm," she mused. "I suppose not." She turned her face back to the
window, twisting her body to lean on the back of the couch. One slender
leg was folded beneath her, the other delicate foot tapped absently
against the plush carpet, the white leather sneaker beat out a rhythm
that only she could hear. He could still read her face, though now only
in profile. Her eyes seemed to focus on something far beyond the
borders of the city. Her expression softened in remembrance. She had
the look of someone reminiscing a pleasant walk or a tender first kiss.
The look was an extraordinary contrast to the horror of her
words.

"He actually came to me," she said, after pondering for a while. "A
lot of them come to me."

She stopped again, but Dr. Herbert knew better than to interrupt her.
He waited patiently for her to continue. It was a constant struggle to
keep himself from taking advantage of her distraction and allowing his
eyes to roam.

"I had rented a hotel room," she continued. "Nothing extravagant, but
a nice room, just the same. I believe it was at the Mariot or Hilton.
Something like that. He showed up exactly on time, and more than
willing to get down to business." She paused long enough to flash her
award winning smile at him again. He swallowed hard and nodded, finding
himself inexplicably warm and aroused. He'd not be leaving the
screening concealment of his desk any time soon.

"Anyway, it wasn't at all what I expected. He was dressed very well
and he treated me like a lover. I think I wanted it as bad as he did,
but, all in all, it amounts to the same thing. We just fucked each
other.

He flinched at the explicative and she picked up on his discomfort.
"You don't like that word, do you, doctor?"

It wasn't the word. Dr. Herbert had heard it plenty of times before,
had, in fact, used it himself on occasion. He had simply been caught up
by the innocence and beauty of the petals and had been shocked to be
reminded so suddenly of the thorns. He cleared his throat. "And you
allowed this?" He asked.

She chuckled. "As I said, I actually wanted it. He was kind of
handsome, in a spoiled rich kid sort of way. And gentle. It was like
making love, except there was no love. He was obviously experienced and
he knew exactly how to turn me on. We fucked for the better part of the
night." She paused, snapping suddenly back to reality. "I can't believe
I'm telling you this," she said, sheepishly.

"Again, I remind you, that's what you're paying me for."

"Too true, doctor." She returned to her study of the world
outside.

"So you fucked him," the verb felt awkward in his mouth, "Even though
that's not what you were there for." It was a simple statement of fact;
a gentle prod for her to continue.

"Yes," she said, once again returning to whatever far-off place she
reserved for such memories. "That's what he thought we were there for.
He thought he was getting an encounter with a high-class call
girl."

"So you went along with it."

"Oh yes. I've found it easier to do my real job if I do what they want
first."

"So afterwards..."

"I waited until he fell asleep. Funny, but it just seemed more humane
that way."

"You killed him."

"Yes, doctor." She sounded slightly annoyed. "That's what you want to
hear me say, so I'll say it. I killed him. I used the knife I had
brought specifically for that purpose, and I slit his throat while he
slept. That's what I was there for. That's my job."

The only sound was the far away din of the city traffic, too distant
from 24 stories to be anything more than a soft, constant background
noise.

"Slitting someone's throat is actually the most effective way to kill
a person if you have to do it quietly," she said. "A gun draws too much
attention to itself. Everyone remembers a gunshot. If you cut someone's
throat, you don't even have to worry about them screaming, because
you've severed their windpipe. About all they'll manage is this
gruesome gurgling sound. It sounds like an aquarium bubbling. Of
course, it's extremely messy. Any time you rupture an artery it's going
to get messy. I've seen blood spurt ten feet from a nicked
artery."

Dr. Herbert was no longer aroused.

"You're looking a little pale there, Doc," she said. "Are you going to
be okay?"

He nodded.

"Good. Then I suppose I'm about done here."

"Yes," he said. "Your hour is almost up." He was sure there would be
no second appointment.

She reached for her purse and stood, gracefully. Instead of moving for
the door, she stepped gingerly across the thick carpet to stand by his
desk. Her elegant hands opened her handbag and withdrew a barely
glimpsed metallic object. "I've found it easier to do my real job if I
do what they want first, Doctor."

"Oh, God." He moaned. Panic rose in his throat. He found himself
pushing his antique banker's chair back across the carpet, struggling
to keep it upright, only wanting to get as far away from this woman as
possible.

"Richie Avalon found out who ratted on him, Doctor. He discovered a
certain psychiatrist who broke the patient's confidence and went
running to the police when they offered a reward."

The chair's old wheels bogged down in the carpet and he felt it
tipping backwards. It spilled him heavily onto the floor, landing on
top of him and gouging painfully into his ribs. Ms. Scarlet towered
over him, her feminine hands clutching a decidedly masculine hunting
knife.

"Now Richie wants me to put an end to the annoying little
psychiatrist. The one who sold his files and his cassette tapes to the
police for a paltry reward." She kicked him violently, her delicate
sneaker smashing into the side of his head. Through the haze of pain
and the panic of his fright, he was only vaguely aware of the beautiful
rose pushing her thorn into his throat.