Squib

"So, do your children, Darrin and Mercy, do they still wet their beds?"1

She shifted nervously on the couch, stunned, and trying desperately not to show it. He already knew the answer.2

"Gabrielle too?"3

She started rummaging through her bag, fervently looking for something, anything really, to distract her from this line of questioning. This was a torture that she did not need, could do without.4

"When was the last time that your father, or 'uncle', or your ex-husband raised his hand to you? Do you like it when he hits you? Do you like the attention? Something your brother didn't give you enough of.......or maybe, too much of?"5

At this point, she stood, furious, and made her way to the door. She had had enough of her boss'/lover's head games for one day. It all led to the same thing in any case, her in tears and him to 'comfort' her, like a father-figure should, or a brother. A dead brother, to be more accurate, made suicidal by just this kind of torture/abuse/control, a dead brother that her boss/lover all but killed about one year ago. True he didn't physically push him off of that bridge, but he could as well have.6

”You've still got ten minutes at least for this session, Ms. Vasquez, please, we've just made some headway", the good doctor beckoned her, ”Tell me more about this vampire obsession of yours, are you still having these dreams of drinking blood?" 7

She stopped dead at this point, hitching at her skirt as she did so, choking back tears of frustration and humiliation.8

”I am a vampire, you stupid, ugly fuck, and you know that", with gritted teeth, she fumed back at him, nostrils flaring and eyes glaring, her body literally pulsating in the badly lit office that she stood in.9

"Vampire? You're not a vampire, my little brioche, you're a malignant narcissist with a victim/martyr complex! As well as a blood fetishist with Renfield's syndrome and possibly a persecution complex stemming from...."10

The speed with which the pretty little intern jumped the table and mounted the therapist was blinding. In a nanosecond, his head was halfway off his neck and hers had all but replaced it. Through chortling, grunting, mewling sounds, and with quick, jerky, spasmodic movement, she drained him of his life source, gulping, choking and half-puking between coughs and swallows, blood softly stinging her eyes and throat. She slowly climbed off of her now-dead therapist and proceeded to clean herself up. 11

"Subject was a misanthrope who suffered from a major Daddy complex , control issues and ultimately, the psycho-babble syndrome, a disorder that proved terminal to a clinical, linear minded, anal-retentive with his own head too far up his own ass. This session is over", Bianca shakily wiped her mouth with her hand, licked her fingers clean of the dead therapist's blood and got her bag from off of the couch. "That was for turning me and killing my brother, you asshole", she spat vehemently at his lifeless corpse, emaciated and smoldering, like a caricature of an anorexic or bulemic having had a seizure and was now stricken with rigor. She got her bag from the couch and made her way to the door. She paused. Surveying her landscape for one last time, her head turning a full 270 degrees in doing so, she tore through the wall of the doctor's office with the speed of tacheon and took to the sky, disappearing into the black maw of night where she and those of her kind, resided and were infinite.