James
Five Days Prior
The news was filled with him.
“James Cartright.”
“James Cartright.”
His picture was on every TV set. Every wanted poster across the nation. Specials were run on him. Kids feared him. He was a household name in the worst way possible.
“James Cartright, serial killer.”
I stared fixedly at the TV screen in front of me, a bowl of popcorn in my lap. They were reviewing all the children, girls, he's murdered again.
“Abigail Wilson, age 14.” A beautiful brunette girl surrounding by her friends at cheerleading practice appeared on the screen.
A brief flicker and a petite blonde girl holding a puppy replaced her,
“Trish Stanton, age 11.”
Another flicker and an older girl dressed as the devil, must have been Halloween, appeared on the screen,
“Nicole Summers, age 16.”
My eyes began to water, all those girls, those poor girls. Abruptly I reached for the remote, just as another girl flashed onto the screen.
“Rachel…”
I turned off the TV.
One would think all my years studying psychology, followed by my own practice, would get me more used to this sort of thing. That I would have developed an immunity to the world’s troubles and automatically understand why people do the things they do. But that’s not the case. I don’t understand people like James Cartright and I never will.
With a slight groan, I ran my hands over and down my face. I know better than to watch the news. What’s an old saying, “Don’t bring your work home with you.” ? Well it’s hard not too with my job. Where everyone is a project. A study. Something to be analyzed, like a lab rat. But someone like James Cartright? They’re too far gone.
There I go, thinking of him again.
Sighing, I grabbed my popcorn bowl. According to the clock, a coo coo clock just above my small TV set, it was 9:30. Way past my 9:00 bedtime and I must be bright eyed and bushy tailed for my 8:00 appointment. I’d hate to disappoint Mr. Jenkins about as much as he’d hate to see me disappoint him.
I rose from my couch.
I need a maid. I thought, looking around my over furnished living room.
“Or a storage room.” I said under my breath, tripping over my mother’s antique footstool on my way to the kitchen.
She passed away four months ago and I still don’t have the heart to do anything with her stuff. Sarah wants to sell it, but then again, she was always mom’s least favorite daughter.
Collecting myself, and the few pieces of popcorn that got flung from the bowl, I stepped into my small, on second thought, very small kitchen. That barely fit me, let alone Sasha, my Maine Coon kitten. A last Christmas present from my mom.
Where was Sasha anyway? I wondered for a moment before dawning on me, “She’s probably already in bed. The little bed hog.” I muttered, hurrying to dump out my popcorn.
Only six months old, and Sasha has already grown large enough and old enough to develop a fetish for covers ownership, “Sasha, you better move over!” I yelled, hurriedly scrubbing my bowl, “I don’t want to have another talk with you again!”
I placed the bowl in the dishwasher, shaking my head at myself. I’m beginning to be as crazy as my patients. Talking to a cat. I thought, chuckling as I walked a few short steps to my bedroom. Which, like the living room, was also crammed with stuff.
“Hmm.” It looked like a maze and, as small as the room is, I can’t even see my bed, let alone Sasha. Was it even this bad last night?
Huffing, I grabbed my mother’s blue quilt off her old sewing machine and stormed back into the living room. Guess it’s the couch for me tonight.
“James Cartright.”
“James Cartright.”
His picture was on every TV set. Every wanted poster across the nation. Specials were run on him. Kids feared him. He was a household name in the worst way possible.
“James Cartright, serial killer.”
I stared fixedly at the TV screen in front of me, a bowl of popcorn in my lap. They were reviewing all the children, girls, he's murdered again.
“Abigail Wilson, age 14.” A beautiful brunette girl surrounding by her friends at cheerleading practice appeared on the screen.
A brief flicker and a petite blonde girl holding a puppy replaced her,
“Trish Stanton, age 11.”
Another flicker and an older girl dressed as the devil, must have been Halloween, appeared on the screen,
“Nicole Summers, age 16.”
My eyes began to water, all those girls, those poor girls. Abruptly I reached for the remote, just as another girl flashed onto the screen.
“Rachel…”
I turned off the TV.
One would think all my years studying psychology, followed by my own practice, would get me more used to this sort of thing. That I would have developed an immunity to the world’s troubles and automatically understand why people do the things they do. But that’s not the case. I don’t understand people like James Cartright and I never will.
With a slight groan, I ran my hands over and down my face. I know better than to watch the news. What’s an old saying, “Don’t bring your work home with you.” ? Well it’s hard not too with my job. Where everyone is a project. A study. Something to be analyzed, like a lab rat. But someone like James Cartright? They’re too far gone.
There I go, thinking of him again.
Sighing, I grabbed my popcorn bowl. According to the clock, a coo coo clock just above my small TV set, it was 9:30. Way past my 9:00 bedtime and I must be bright eyed and bushy tailed for my 8:00 appointment. I’d hate to disappoint Mr. Jenkins about as much as he’d hate to see me disappoint him.
I rose from my couch.
I need a maid. I thought, looking around my over furnished living room.
“Or a storage room.” I said under my breath, tripping over my mother’s antique footstool on my way to the kitchen.
She passed away four months ago and I still don’t have the heart to do anything with her stuff. Sarah wants to sell it, but then again, she was always mom’s least favorite daughter.
Collecting myself, and the few pieces of popcorn that got flung from the bowl, I stepped into my small, on second thought, very small kitchen. That barely fit me, let alone Sasha, my Maine Coon kitten. A last Christmas present from my mom.
Where was Sasha anyway? I wondered for a moment before dawning on me, “She’s probably already in bed. The little bed hog.” I muttered, hurrying to dump out my popcorn.
Only six months old, and Sasha has already grown large enough and old enough to develop a fetish for covers ownership, “Sasha, you better move over!” I yelled, hurriedly scrubbing my bowl, “I don’t want to have another talk with you again!”
I placed the bowl in the dishwasher, shaking my head at myself. I’m beginning to be as crazy as my patients. Talking to a cat. I thought, chuckling as I walked a few short steps to my bedroom. Which, like the living room, was also crammed with stuff.
“Hmm.” It looked like a maze and, as small as the room is, I can’t even see my bed, let alone Sasha. Was it even this bad last night?
Huffing, I grabbed my mother’s blue quilt off her old sewing machine and stormed back into the living room. Guess it’s the couch for me tonight.