Grin

I. The Psychiatric Facility

"And how would that be helping you?"
          They were the first words to come out of the shape at the other end of the table and Dr. Hastings could hear the weariness dripping off every word, like thick ropes of syrupy blood. It was very clear to him this had not been the first time hearing these questions and the disappointment resonating in his voice hung between them, tangible in the air of the poorly lit room. It still stung somewhat, the therapist had to admit.
          Hastings tried to continue to look as relaxed as the situation permitted, however uncomfortable the quasi-casual embrace his legs had found themselves in was becoming. This way his notepad was leaning on the soft slant of his right thigh, which gave the comforting illusion of staying outside the other man's view. He didn't suspect the man of being distrustful necessarily, no, if he were to be reading along with the upside down writings it would be out of curiosity, for his own amusement. It might have cost Hastings years of his life to train in order to end up in this position, but in a sense the same could be said of his patient and he wasn't very keen on the idea of sharing his notes. Nevertheless he felt like every stroke of his pen was being followed by the pair of dark eyes and a slight curl of the corners of the mouth staring at him.
          Attempting not to show he was taken aback, he responded: "Because we need to know what happened. We can't help you if you don't tell us."
          The curl in the cheek was hardly open for interpretation anymore, as a smirk took over the face and a giggle escaped from within. He seemed amused by the whole situation.
          "No,  no, what's in it for you personally? A promotion, a pay raise?", the man inquired. "Perhaps you wanna write a book about it, hm?"
          This was hardly Hastings' first confrontational patient in the years he had been a psychiatrist, but he would have appreciated a forewarning. To be honest, he hadn't been told much of anything about the person sitting across from him, even though he was pretty sure he wasn't the first to be sent in. He was just given minimal details on something terrible that had to have happened and somehow this guy must have been involved enough to know more.
          As an honest approach seemed just as good as any, he said: "I'm just trying to help the police do their job, they asked me to–"
          "Ah, law and order, justice, the highest authority," the man scoffed with an ever wider smile on his face. "Isn't that an honorable thing to serve!"
          Hastings didn't appreciate being interrupted, but he disliked being mocked to a far greater extent. He had to control the initial urge to retort by way of an ad hominem; he had a professional reputation to keep intact. It would have been too easy anyway, as the silhouette hiding in the shadows must have been painfully aware of his aesthetic shortcomings already – and in no case known to man had poking in someone's inevitable insecurities led to a more cooperative attitude. Either way, it wasn't the story behind his undoubtedly decade-old deformities that was of interest now.
          "Someone got hurt."
          For a second Hastings was fooled into thinking the gravity of the situation had dawned on the man, but as his eyes and mouth slowly opened up, the look of worry quickly turned into a caricature of surprise.
          "Who? Was there some sort of tragic accident? Did a girl get kidnapped? Another mobster executed?"
          "Why don't you tell me." Dr. Hastings immediately realized he had snapped back too quickly. He was frustrated with his new patient clearly knowing more than he was letting on, more than anyone working hard on this case. Reacting bluntly only meant he was falling for his game, letting his nerves get the best of him: compensating with annoyance was no cure for his shivers, only another result of the inexplicable unease he felt around him. The man paused for a second. It wasn't to consider spilling the beans, Hastings knew. He was just taking in the little glimpse of desperation, this delightful verbal confirmation that they depended on him, that he could toy with his psychiatrist for as long as he'd like. A wide grin grew on his face, baring a set of straight teeth, clenched to unsuccessfully hold in a laugh.
          "Oh, but where would be the fun in that?"