I stared out the window, blocking out the psychiatrist who was giving me a mental evaluation. I knew that he was just doing his job, but look at him, he's holding up a picture of a fucking dead person in an attempt to make me tell him my feelings. What an asshole.
"Brendon. Look at me." He said sternly, tapping his pointer finger on the picture of Leslie. If I wasn't handcuffed, I would punch the guy.
"What do you want me to say?" I asked in a mocking tone, giving a twisted smile.
"Tell me about this girl. You were seen with her in public. Was she your girlfriend? Do you love her?" He picked up his pen that had his contact info imprinted on it, ready to write down whatever I said.
"I was her boyfriend but she's dead now and there's no point in feeling anything about it." I answered in a snappy tone. God. I just want to go back to my cell and rot.
"Not even grief?" He looked at me with sad eyes, but I wasn't going for it.
"Grieving makes you weak. I do not love her no more, and my grieving process ended after her funeral, my feelings for her were buried amongst her limp corpse. You showing me that picture of her gives me no feelings." And it was true. She's just a past memory, one that did not last long. It would fade away eventually.
He held up a picture of Ryan next.
"Tell me about Ryan."
"He hates me. But I pretend that were still friends, and one day he'll visit me and we can talk about the day I get out of here. He's alive, right?"
He nodded, and I sighed in relief. I had waited ages to know. I just hoped he wasn't banged up too badly.
"Is he okay, like is anything wrong with him? Broken bones or anything?" I needed to know that my best friend okay.
"I'm not allowed to give you that information. Sorry." He looked down at his clipboard, writing more information down.
"Are you kidding me? I can't know? I was the one who saved his ass! Its my god damn right to know! Tell me now!" I struggled to get up but the restraints around my legs and wrists were too tight.
"This meeting is over, Mr. Urie." He pushed a button on his desk, which allowed security guards inside the office. They began wheeling me away. I stopped fighting the restraints and flipped off the psychiatrist on the way out.
Later that evening, I learned of the diagnosis that he had given me.
My name is Brendon Urie. At the age of seventeen years old, I lost my true love to an explosion, faked my death, burned down my own home, killed two innocent people, saved my kidnapped best friend, and was diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Disorder, or in popular terms, I am a psychopath.