The Psychopath Maker

Chapter Fifty-Four

On the second floor of Everclear, Dr. Weiss rummaged through John Fulton's desk drawers in search of a flashlight. Her trembling hands slid over cold metal and she pulled the object out. She used her hands to determine what the object was

"Revolver." She said with a little less fear. A knock on the wall yanked at her attention. She gripped the handle a little tighter. Who is it?" She left the door. Her heels clicked on the tile as she moved to the doorway. She peeked out like a frightened child, her throat closing. The hallway was empty, the few feet she could see in the darkness, which did nothing to quell her fright. Her biases about working at a sanitarium were surfacing.

Dr. Weiss' biases stemmed from the endless, bone-chilling stories she heard from various psychology professors. One story resonated in her psyche as she glued her finger on the trigger and her thumb resting on the hammer. It was the story of Carmen Normandy. Dr. Carmen Normandy, a professor Weiss had for her junior-level psychology class at Cornell.

A young Vivienne Weiss, in a collegiate tee and jeans, sat at her desk intently listening to the story her professor told about her first job right out of medical school.

It was a job that supported and educated her for eight years and five months until an incident occurred; an incident that sent Dr. Normandy fleeing to the field of teaching.

It was a Friday and Dr. Normandy had one more patient to see before she could call it quits and retreat to her modest loft of solitude. Her last patient was Francis Stuart from McKinney Georgia. If you were alive in the '90s you heard the stories. Francis, the quiet hard-worker that did odd jobs to supply the needs of his family as they lived in the middle-class home was so pissed about new tax increases implemented to build new schools that he grabbed his machete and hit the neighborhood slaughtering youngsters.

As Dr. Normandy entered the stated cold room the door slammed behind her. She took a seat while Francis sat rooted in his chair, with slick peppered hair and razor-thin lips. She laid her briefcase on the table then pulled out the worksheet she had to submit to the judge in the morning.

The interview rolled smoothly. When she asked a question he responded promptly. Until one split second, she bent over to pick up a sheet of paper that cascaded to the floor. As Dr. Normandy rose back up she was met with a stab to the chest with her very own-initialed pen. When the bloody pen broke he used brute force to continue his attack. It took the orderlies, which were standing outside the door, a minute and twenty-seven seconds to control Francis.

Sadly, that was enough time to send Dr. Normandy to the hospital with a broken jaw and nose; shattered eardrum, and indeed of a blood transfusion. This was the account that pumped fear into Dr. Weiss' nervous body as she decided if she should step into the hallway.

She counted to ten and took a breath between each number; using a tactic another professor told her would relax her anxiety. She talked herself into it. She placed her flesh-toned pump foot into the hallway. The other foot followed and then the gun slammed to the floor. Then Dr. Weiss dropped to her knees. Her hands sprung up to her throat. Blood leaked between the cracks of her bony fingers. Her head smashed to the floor. Her engagement ring rolled off her finger, next to her void eyes and spun until her warmblood pulled it down.

"It's not personal." Someone spoke over Dr. Weiss's limp body. "Just a means to an end."

Who do you think is speaking over Dr. Weiss' body? 

Remember the story of Francis Stuart. It'll be important in the end.