People come to therapy because they want to be saved. They walk into my office, hand me their emotional baggage, and expect me to be some divine, all-knowing relationship guru who will magically fix their crumbling marriages, their codependent messes, their sad little illusions of love.
Cute.
See, the thing about love is that it's just a story people tell themselves to make the crushing loneliness of existence slightly more bearable. And me? I'm the editor-in-chief of their fairy tales, except I specialize in rewrites where the prince cheats with his secretary and Cinderella realizes she settled way too soon.
I adjust the cuffs of my perfectly tailored navy-blue suit, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind my desk. Sharp cheekbones, neatly styled dark hair, a face that exudes both authority and charm—effortlessly appealing. My clients trust me because I look like someone who has his life together. And they should. Because I do.
Take the delightful disaster of a couple sitting before me right now.
Mark and Julia. Married for seven years. He wears a watch that costs more than my rent, she keeps checking her reflection in the glass of my bookshelf, as if making sure she still looks like the woman he once desired. They're a textbook case: rich, bored, and desperate for me to tell them that their love is still alive. It isn't, of course, but I do love a good challenge.
"So, Mark," I say, crossing one leg over the other, the very image of professional concern, "when was the last time you and Julia had a real conversation? And no, 'pass the salt' does not count."
Mark laughs, that nervous, hedge-fund-manager-who-knows-he's-guilty laugh. Julia glares at him. Ah, the sweet symphony of marital decay.
"We talk," Mark insists, looking to Julia for backup. She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. "I mean, we just talked last night about, uh…" He fumbles. "Vacation plans."
"Vacation plans?" I echo, like I've just uncovered a deep philosophical truth. "How riveting. Nothing says deep emotional connection like deciding between the Maldives or Greece."
Julia shifts in her seat. "I don't think we communicate the way we used to."
Bingo.
I offer a sympathetic nod, as if I don't already have them figured out. "Julia, do you ever feel like Mark doesn't see you anymore?"
She inhales sharply. A bullseye right to the fragile ego. Meanwhile, Mark shifts uncomfortably, adjusting his overpriced watch, probably wishing he could adjust his entire existence.
And this is where the real work begins.
Oh, I could help them. I really could. I could guide them through honest conversations, help them find their way back to each other, maybe even reignite that long-extinguished flame. But where's the fun in that?
Instead, I do what I do best. I plant seeds. Just a few words, carefully chosen, delicately placed. Words that will grow into doubt, suspicion, inevitable implosion.
"You know, Julia," I continue, leaning forward slightly, voice warm, understanding, "sometimes when partners drift apart, it's because one of them is holding onto something. A secret, perhaps?"
Mark's head snaps toward me, his face quickly morphing into irritation. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
I raise a perfectly measured eyebrow, letting the weight of my words settle in the air. Julia stiffens beside him, already second-guessing her husband's reaction. That's the thing about trust—once a little crack forms, it doesn't take much for the whole thing to shatter.
And just like that, the argument begins. Voices rise, accusations fly, the tension ripens into something ugly, something irreversible. I lean back in my chair and watch my masterpiece unfold.
—
Suddenly, silence.
Well, not silence exactly. There's muffled sobbing, the occasional rattling of chains, but that's just background noise at this point.
Mark and Julia sit tied to two chairs in the middle of my basement, their hands bound, eyes wide, lips trembling. The basement itself is a beautifully organized space—spotless concrete floors, shelves neatly stacked with tools, a surgical tray gleaming under the dim overhead light. I pride myself on cleanliness. After all, a man of my intellect shouldn't be forced to work in squalor.
"You know," I sigh, pacing in front of them, "I really hoped we could do this the easy way. But you two insisted on screaming." I shake my head, disappointed. "That's the problem with relationships. Too much noise."
Julia sobs harder. Mark tries to speak through the gag, but it's useless. It's always useless in the end.
I pick up a blade from the tray, admiring its precision. "I want you to know," I say, "this is not my fault. You did this to yourselves."
And then, I make my incisions.
—
Pause.
I know what you're thinking. How did we get here? One moment, I'm a brilliant therapist dismantling marriages with well-placed words, and the next, I'm standing over two corpses, a blade in my hand, contemplating which bleach works best on concrete.
Let me take you back.
Five months ago.
That's when I met her.
The one who changed everything.