Unrepentaint. Impenitenti

Chapter 1

The lost art of murder

There are arrows shot with the aim wrong, but striking straight at the heart.

Kerys

We live buried in the sky.

I would often think of him, from when I was back home. The air had taken on, for me, is the same consistency of the soil fresh.

Their way to breathe and move is not so much a difference, we are dominated by other worlds. Die buried by the stars. We like to call it living, but we are only here to pass the time before to be buried even more deeply, and to be trodden down by the rest of the dead wandering.

"Is there anything else that you would like to tell me?"

Dr. Warris was always dressed elegantly, with hair as

blonde styled hairstyles pulled that didn't allow a single tuft of escape and hazel eyes hidden by a pair of lenses enclosed in a tortoise shell frame thick. I imagined could have double my years, and then about forty, with a few wrinkles that showed it was difficult to enact an age accurate.

I was not yet very familiar with her, even if I had started the sessions prior to the class. I was not able to open myself and part of me, to tell the truth, she didn't want to do it. All that I wanted was that he could decide that I was ready to make it on my own, but until that time I would have been forced to see her every week.

"For now, no. Everything's fine." The given myself a tight smile. "The lessons are started by a couple of weeks and it does me good to be here, it seems to me to be returned to life".

It was easy to lie to the psychologist. It was enough to waste time in idle chatter useless, throw it into the conversation a detail that you would consider interesting but in reality it was nothing. And as soon as the hourglass placed on the

small table between us began to slide the last grains, you could even see the relief on his face.

I had only three sessions, and to understand that, once finished, the time, for you were no longer my own problems or those of any other patient. It is logical, if he had to carry the thoughts of its customers every second would not have been able to live his life. For me, I would have closed that door behind her, as every time, with the only relief to have finished the session. But what we said in those four walls , I would be persecuted in silence, teeming under a cloak of normality apparent, for the rest of the day.

"Seems like a good step forward. You are able to establish even a few new friendship?"

"Still no," I hastened to say, simulating an instinctive response. I understood that sometimes it was necessary to give the appearance of falling into its traps. "But there are my friends who are close to me".

That was perhaps the greatest of the lies that I had trimmed.

The answer, however, seemed to satisfy her. I looked down at the hourglass, with only a short time at the end of the session, and I had studied long as the answer to the question I posed all of the times that there were ten minutes at the end. I focused then on other spots of his studio to hide my impatience.

The room was not particularly furniture. There were some certificates hanging on the walls, a desk in the glass is almost completely bare, made exception for the laptop and stationery ranges. The chair on which he sat was of the same leather of the couch in a white I was, some of the plants used to embellish the corners of the room; next to the window, from which filtered the sun sleeping one morning in early autumn, was the seat of a cabinet, which I assumed to be full of folders just like the one that gripped between your hands now, with my name written all over it.

Closed my file and put it on the coffee table together with the pen: I knew that was so, to give myself the illusion that what we said from that moment on would remain between the two of us. I accepted the challenge and put on an expression of the façade to the well studied.

I had to look worried and at the same time show me a little willing to give it to see. This is the only way to recite it could work.

"The police is coming to ask you?"

This time, I took a moment before answering them, with the intention of looking to his eyes, afraid to say the wrong thing. "No,"

sospirai, by looking away from the doctor to place it on my hands intertwined and resting on his lap. "They asked me to leave my contact details here at the college, and it has not been a problem, but now seems to be interested in something more important."

That would be my wi

For this, I found myself unprepared for the question that followed, that is not respected at all, the script in my head. "You feel abandoned by them?" The smile of his consolatory seemed to have a note of victory, but perhaps that was just my imagination.

"What do you mean?" temporeggiai.

"I understand that you're very strong and you don't like the words, so I'll be direct with you." His look conveyed no emotion.

"The fact that it was found dead of a student and that the police are giving priority to this case, while you're here, alive and recovering from a kidnapping and the culprit is still out there, without a face or name, makes you feel abandoned?"

One of the things that I had learned by studying the Law was to understand the true intentions behind certain questions.

Psychologists often rely on the ability of people to fill in their speeches, but almost always the correct answer is not the one you expect. A bit like when someone asks you if you know what time it is and answer which are five in the afternoon, but the right answer is actually 'Yes, I know'.

My chest rose up to take a deep breath. "I don't feel abandoned.

"Do you sometimes think of him?" she asked. I didn't remember much of my executioner. I had been for most of the time drugged and left in a catatonic state. The few times in which I had been conscious in those two weeks I was alone in the one that had all the air of being a shared bedroom, but without windows. And when I was quite alert to be displayed to th there

with me, he had the face covered, and the memories of those moments were so confused that I would not even been able to tell if the mask in black leather she wore it for real or if it was the fruit of my imagination. Maybe it was a joke I played the mind to protect me, a simple defense psychological for me to forget as quickly as possible to the man who had held me hostage.

This time sviai the question. "I am not afraid that he return to recover, while the police are busy with other things, if this is what he wants to know. I know that's not going to happen".

"Why are you so sure?" I watched the

hourglass, it was missing a small handful of the grains at the end of the session. "Because no one found me and saved, but that he decided to let me go". I had tried to analyze her behavior through the few things that I knew, and I came to a conclusion.