UNHINGED (R-18) ENGLISH

INTRO IV: THE FALSE ENDING PT.1

INTRO IV: THE FALSE ENDING PT.1

THE DEVIL

"Iʼm surprised you called me last night." Warm. Welcoming. Both Madison's voice and hand as she shakes mine. Twelve years. Only a few wrinkles and freckles have been added to her skin.

"Itʼs been what?" she says. We both sit: Madison on the single couch across from me. I, on the long couch, near the nightstand. There, a small house figurine, a lampshade, a vase full of peace lilies, I could smell them—clean, faint, almost medicinal. Much like the cream walls; the grey carpet; the glass wall behind the thin cream curtain. A perfect interior for an old lady—an old psychiatrist. "Over a decade since..." she trails off.

"Since I finished the therapy." I smile back.

"Since the last time I saw you." Her tone—neutral, her expression the same. "And you hadn't gotten in touch with me until now."

Every word registers. The rest—background noise. My focus is on Heather. On the event that happened last night. That happened to me. Foreign. New. Something I couldn't yet name.

I even flew from Paris to Massachusetts for clarity. Not that I trust Madison. Trust, for me, is never instinctive—it's an intentional act, a credit given for kindness.

Madison is kind. Patient, even. Because of her, I blend in perfectly.

"But you look gorgeous, seriously." Her smile. Still neutral. "It seems you're doing well. I've heard a lot about you over the years—a renowned architect up to this day. Last time you were here, you were a struggling college student."

"Iʼve been doing well, since then," I reply with a big smile. Not for the compliments, but because it is required. "I've been feeling well, even after everything that happened these past few months. And that's the problem—not for me, but for the people around me." I drop the civility, the mask. My reflection in the glass coffee table. Faint yet clear. My entire face, stone cold. Muted facial expression.

What I just told and am about to tell are not technically pure lies, but still, they are—by omission.

I'm not stupid enough to confess. Not here to justify what I did either. I did wrong. I chose to. That's it.

Morality is only a tool. Not limits.

"What do you mean?" Madison's smile. Now gone.

"I did horrible things. And I wonʼt get into details; all I can say is that I became very manipulative to the point I hurt other people, emotionally, my wife especially."

Silence. No reaction at all from her—Madison, the only psychiatrist who can balance the power play with me.

My head turns to the small house figurine. Stare at it for ten seconds. Then reach for it after. To examine every nook, every cranny beneath my fingers. Some smooth. Some rough. Not perfect. But seen as a whole—perfectly smooth. Like a man with a mask. Without feeling him, you only see the surface.

"Do you remember the very first thing you said to me?" I ask. "During our first therapy session, after I told you my whole story." I'm beating around the bush instead of getting to the point. Well, that's the point. Build tension, then drop the bomb—entertaining.

Madison knows this. To keep me engaged.

"Yes. I do remember. That you're just an inch away from becoming a serial killer."

"I havenʼt become a serial killer. Have no plans to either. But that was why you and the other doctors diagnosed me with OCD. What is the subtype of my OCD called again?"

"Responsibility OCD."

"Iʼm surprised you still remember."

She slightly tilts her head. "How could I forget? Your case is one of the most complex cases I've handled. The whole diagnostic process lasted a year before we came up with an accurate diagnosis."

I return the figurine to its place. "So you still remember what triggers my OCD, correct?"

She nods. "Things that you want to acquire and possess. And people who are small, innocent, vulnerable, and pure."

I smile. "You do remember." Silence screams for ten seconds. And Madison waits—a classic tactic of a therapist. "I succeed in protecting my possessions but fail with people: my little sister and the young boy. Remember them?"

She nods.

My OCD. Usually triggered in a business context, considering my role as a business executive. But with people, it occurred only twice, before I was diagnosed; my little sister—died due to my reckless driving; then the young boy...

That boy, the first time I saw him, young and small, holding his mom's hand, moved into the same apartment where I lived—the room next to mine.

Verbally. Physically. His mom abused him—almost every day for a week. I heard. Loud and clear. Every thud. Every cry. The noises, truly a disturbance. I couldn't study. Couldn't focus.

Every night, I memorized the exact time when the silence took over. Every day, I learned every single neighbor's routine. At the time, I wasn't sure why I did. At the time, all I knew was it gave me a thrill—a slight relief from the noises coming from the next room.

The second time I saw the boy, I was about to go to the university. By then, he was wasted away—skin and bones. He asked for food. I gave him my lunch, not out of pity. But because I was late, he wouldn't let me pass the hallway.

And I was so bored later that night—that one peaceful, silent night—that I decided to kill the sleeping mother. Luisa, my former nanny, caught me. The knife stopped mid-air—an inch from the mother's heart.

No one else saw. Luisa didn't report me. She reported the mother to the police instead, in exchange for my compliance—I should see a psychiatrist.

That same night, only a social worker came. The mother said, "He's overreacting, so stubborn. The father spoiled him. I only discipline." The social worker nodded; didn't even check the boy.

Luisa tried to intervene. The social worker then said, "I always come to their old apartment. The boy is always causing problems at school. Last time I checked, he's in good condition."

Next morning—my first visit to a shrink. Same day. Same hour. The boy died; his body collapsed due to the abuse. Right away, the mother was arrested.

I never blamed myself. I blamed the cruelty of the world and the people living in it.

But as I aged, I realized I also failed to protect them.

And failure, given at any point in my life, gives me thrills rather than stress. This time I'll succeed. No matter how hard it is, I'll succeed.

"Sometimes, in the past," I say, "after what happened to that young boy, I asked myself what could go wrong, why I couldnʼt protect him?" I stop. The piercing sensation returns—same as last night with Heather. Second time. Sharp, but painless. I sigh. "I had never found the answer, until... I met Heather, my wife. I mean, Iʼm really attracted to her. Sheʼs so beautiful."

"Agreed. I came across a photo of you two at a high-profile charity event gala."

"Right?" Ankle on the knee, I lean my back. One arm resting on the backrest. My pointer finger rests on my lips. The sensation in my chest—fades. Faster than the previous one. "Sheʼs also small, innocent, vulnerable, and pure. The very moment that I decided to protect her, I realized why I failed to protect the young boy." I pause. I haven't blinked yet. I should, but end up doing nothing.

"Itʼs the trigger itself," I say. Surprised by how slow my mouth pronounces every word.

The serene motion of Madison's back leaning against her seat. It says everything.

Though I don't care what she thinks about me, politeness is required. "My wife is alive, donʼt worry."

"Itʼs not what Iʼm thinking, Mr. Fabian."

I stay silent.

"You pretended to be cooperative during our therapy session, am I correct?"

"For my OCD, and psychopathy, and ASPD, yes."

"So, your psychopathy and ASPD have already been in a full-blown state..." She trails off. The restraint. Her neck ligaments—protrude and steady. And yet, she swallows.

I nod.

Her hands have been clasped for a while. Now, they squeeze each other. "That's why I told you to follow up and stay in touch with me even after you finished your therapy. Your psychopathy and disorders should be monitored from time to time; you were just twenty years old when you were officially diagnosed—your brain was still developing. And you know what that means."

"Yes." I nod again. "That means my psychopathy and other disorders either improved or worsened as I aged to 25, when the male brain is fully developed. Now, I'm thirty-seven."

Madison doesn't speak. Another silence, to keep me engaged. To push me to talk.

"Does it really matter? I mean—have I," I pause, emphasizing the last two words, "become a serial killer?" Neutral tone. Only a question, yet can be perceived as a statement.

The air between us grows tense. The morning sunlight streaming in from the window gives clarity that Madison has caught a chill. Her skin—prickly with goosebumps. From her arms up to her exposed collarbones. Dozens. Maybe more. I could almost sense them from my seat.

Her blue eyes darken—almost black.

I hold back at first. Seeing someone in this state amuses me. But then, I force myself to blink—no, I close my eyes for a second, putting the mask back on. A heart attack is the last thing I want to give to an old lady.

"Are you okay?" I smile. A genuine smile. But more like a performative smile.

"What exactly happened to her—to your wife?" She smiles, inhales, and exhales. Heavy and deep. She shifts her position. Crosses her legs; sits straight. Her hands, still squeezing each other. Her eyes, still black.

Giving stress to an old lady. Completely unnecessary. And so, I don't think twice when I tell her exactly what happened during my marriage, including last night. Too late for me to take it back. I'm not supposed to get into details in the first place. But Madison utilizes her age. I almost laugh. But hold it in.

"It seems," she begins, "you realize your wife is important to you; that's why you've learned to activate your cognitive empathy."

"Yes. Exactly." A chuckle escapes me. "The first time I did, on a deeper level."

"When you said, you conditioned her—the breaking phase, first step of your procedure; and then you test her resilience—the divorce, the shattering phase, the second step. Then the third—fitting her into your world. What do they look like to you?"

"Like I control every emotion she feels," I say, "her every decision—basically, the principles of trauma bond are what they look like."

"An experiment," Madison clarifies. "And Heather is a test subject."

I smirk, amused by how she decodes my narrative. "Yeah, you could say that, an experiment—so I could rewrite my past failure about the young boy, to protect her against men who would want to hurt her."

"The final step: fit her into your world. It hasn't happened yet." Madison just made a statement.

"No, it hasn't."

"And Jean was the tool to make it happen. Am I correct?"

This time, it's genuine. Truly. I smile. Even my eyes do the same. Crow's feet appear. Their reflection in the glass table before me shows me so. "Madison, you are so great I could design and renovate this office for free."

Madison smiles—controlled, but not cold. "That's very generous of you, Mr. Fabian. Let's keep that offer in mind—outside the scope of today's session."

I nod. Smirk stays. I could picture what the texture of the carpet beneath me would be. The color. The design. Even the—

"Mr. Fabian."

"Yes. Duly noted," I reply. Have lost focus for a moment. Probably, Madison notices. "Yes, Jean was the tool. You were right to suspect infidelity—an immoral act. The plan was simple: I'd discover it. I'd confront her. Then I'd forgive her. I'd tell her the world would judge her, but I wouldn't. I'd still accept her.

"Call it manipulation. Planting seeds. That's fair. Society condemns a woman who cheats. Heather would feel that instantly. She'd believe she no longer deserved love—from anyone but me. She'd stop trusting others. She'd rely on me completely. Her purity? Gone. Fully erased.

"She'd fit into me—the third step of the procedure. Full recalibration. She'd survive this world only because, in her eyes, I'd be the only one left who could protect her. The only one who could love her.

"But it didn't happen—the infidelity. Heather has strong morals. Then came the last night. Then came me—wanting to keep her. Then came the pain in my chest. It vanished the moment I decided: The third step must happen. It has to."

"Fitting her into you," she says, "you're framing this action as protection. And the effect of this procedure: she'd feel unworthy of love, but only feel worthy of yours. This would be stripping Heather's full autonomy—she'd be an extension of you; you'd be the only one to control her."

Madison breathes. Her back rests peacefully against her seat. No movements. No judgment. Only decoding my narrative—my warped view on things.

Madison continues, "It looks, even feels like protection, but in truth, it's control. These are two separate things."

"I know that," I say, "Still, what I do is protection. Parents protect their children by controlling them, by molding their behavior. Without control, the child wouldn't know what's good and bad for them. I do the same. Heather is not a child, but her purity invites predators masquerading as angels.

"Yes, I did hurt her. That's the point. Everything worth having begins with a fracture—with pain. And pain is the process that shapes victory. Once she fits into me, I will give everything to her. I will make her happy, like how a normal person makes their loved ones happy. And yes, she'd be an extension of me, but she's still free to do everything she wants—as long as I'm sure she's safe.

"I wouldn't hurt her, Madison, I wouldn't. That piercing in my chest... she made me feel normal even for a while. I felt normal even for a while. I want to feel that again."

Madison doesn't speak right away. She lets the silence stretch. Her gaze stays on me—not piercing, not soft, just present. A therapist's gaze.

Then, calmly, she speaks. "You've built a system that makes sense to you, Mr. Fabian. And I can see how deeply you believe it. But protection that requires pain, control, and the erosion of someone's autonomy—no matter how well-intentioned—means possession, not love."

Ah, love. The word alone. I understand the concept. I simply don't have the capacity to feel it. To truly love, having empathy is a must. Madison hits the spot. I don't know how to love. But I sure do know how to make anything, anyone in my possession.

"You say you want to make her happy like a normal person would," Madison goes on. "But normal people don't fracture someone to fit them—they make space.

"What you felt—that piercing in your chest—that was a connection. And it makes you curious—amused, even. So you're trying to turn it into something you can manage."

Every word seems to leave Madison's mouth in the most pristine way. Like a sunray shining down in the morning—bright yet soft. Almost immaculate. A light that brings clarity to a dark space.

Interesting.

Madison still has something to say, and I wait eagerly.

"But," she says, "connection isn't meant to be managed. Connection is meant to be shared."

My body moves on autopilot. Elbows to knees as I lean closer—excited, curious. Like a child witnessing a butterfly emerge from its cocoon.

I remember that child. That version of a child who didn't know better. He offered his pointer finger; the butterfly welcomed it and stepped in. And then, he smiled—even in the moment he squashed it.

If only that child had known what I just heard from Madison—the butterfly flew free.

"Teach me," I say. "Teach me that kind of connection. I swear to you—on my little sister, Edelie, and that young boy who died—I will cooperate. This time, I will cooperate."

__________

Every victory requires pain. I have studied the anatomy of feeling long enough—but still, I failed. And perhaps that's all the connection ever was—a moment of stillness between two controlled destructions, when even the butterfly mistook my hand for home.

-Hugo

___________