Common Hour

Mr. Holland swallowed thickly, his large hand coming up to loosen his tie from around his neck. His grip tightens on the handle of his briefcase, the leather slick against his hand.

Once he was in front of the door, his breathing became labored. He looks over at the officer guarding the room, handing over the card to verify who he was. The cop nods stiffly, pressing a button to unlock the door. Holland swallows again before walking through the open threshold.

Inside, everything was dark.

The hard concrete walls were not very far apart, probably only forty to fifty feet. There was a lone bed against the back wall. A small, fragile figure sat on the stone mattress, gazing out the barred window. Holland knew who that figure was. Everyone did. The old man swallows for a third time, his throat eternally dry.

"Are you the doctor?"

The voice boomed around the small cell, Holland jumping back a good three feet. He lets out a shaky breath before nodding, even though the person on the bed couldn't see him. "Yes," he clears his throat, his weathered hand smoothing down over his shirt. "Yes, I am."

The figure turns around, the breath catching in the older man's throat. So this is Joey Carnell. Holland thought the boy would be older.

"You're Joey Carnell?" Mr. Holland asks, taking baby steps forward.

The young man on the bed nods sharply, his chin moving upward in a sign of superiority. "Of course," Carnell responds, his voice as cold as ice. Holland winces as the younger boy licks his dry lips. "What's your name, doctor?" Holland felt like a child being scolded, even though he was twice the age of the younger man before him.

"Richard Holland," the older man answers, setting his briefcase down on the round table the officers of the institution had granted him. "Dr. Richard Holland."

"Holland," Carnell repeats, his tone slick. "Like the country."

The doctor nods blandly, not replying as he opens his bag. He pulls out the forms for Carnell's case, the sweat dripping down his forehead as his hands shook. Being in the same room as a serial killer would never become the same-old-same-old.

"Mr. Carnell," the old man starts, his ballpoint pen sharp and ready, "let's start with a few simple questions. Where were you born?"

"England," the young man immediately retaliates. "In an alley. Left for dead."

Holland ignores the harsh stare of his "patient" as he writes down his response, the spit getting lodged in his throat when he tried to gulp. And before the doctor could ask something else, Carnell speaks up. "No more petty questions," Joey Carnell bites out, his loud voice echoing off the stone walls. "Move on to what you came here for, Doc. I don't have all day."

Holland felt his weak heart pound faster, his blood whooshing through his veins. "Why did you kill all those innocent people?" he utters, his voice rough from the nerves tingling in his body.

Carnell smirks, amused at the way the doctor shook.

"Isn't it obvious?" he rolls nonchalantly, his eyes flicking over the frail, stooped figure of Dr. Richard Holland. "For the pleasure, of course."

"Pleasure?" Holland asks drastically.

Joey Carnell gives out a shriek of laughter, the cackle piercing Holland's ears. "Pleasure, Doc," he murmurs, his voice giving on a soothing tone. Richard swallows again. "Isn't that what all you experts say? He 'gets off' by....Can you fill in the blank, Doc? What do you think the killings do to 'get me off'?" His voice was now teasing, egging the other man on.

Holland nips at his dry bottom lip. "Studies show..."

"Studies show?" Carnell cackles again. "What do you think it is, Doc?"

The old man heaves, his pen falling out of his hand. He hastily picks it back up, his back creaking. "It is said that...the pleasure comes from...the blood..."

"Ding, ding, ding!" Joey Carnell proclaims, his tone bordering on insane. "And the doctor wins it all! It is the blood, good sir. What is it about the blood that pleasures me so?" Joey Carnell leans forward on the bed, his eyes wide and hungry.

"The, uhm, the..."

Carnell shakes his head. "Delay, Doc. Too much of a delay." There was a thick silence as Holland tries to gather his thoughts. "Have you ever eaten a peach before, Mr. Holland?"

The doctor hesitates, nodding slowly.

"Technically," Carnell explains, pulling a peach off of the tray beside his bed. He requested one every morning. "Technically, peaches are not a fruit. They are categorized as a drupe, or a fruit that has a pit instead of seeds. They also have a fleshy outer skin." Carnell pulls out a knife, Holland's eyes blowing wide at the sight. "Skin that is delightful to peel off with my bare hands." He chuckles. "Or with a blade."

Richard Holland scrambles to signal the officer, his finger jabbing at the button they gave him before he came in here, the button located under the cuff of his jacket. "What do peaches have to do with your murders, Mr. Carnell?"

The young man smiles maliciously. "Everything, Doc."

"Care to elaborate?"

Carnell uses the knife to cut a chunk of the peach off, the juice slipping down his hand. The sight made him grin manically. "When I was younger, the orphanage I lived at served peaches for breakfast every morning. It's the only reason I got up everyday. For the peaches." He plops the piece of drupe in his mouth, chewing on the fleshy meat hungrily. "The feel of the juice from the peach reminds me so much of blood...does it remind you of blood, Doc?"

Holland swallows, but his throat was too dry for anything to be accomplished. "It doesn't," he mutters, his fingers pressing harshly at the button, but nothing was happening. "Why do you have a knife, Mr. Carnell?"

Joey chuckles. "How else am I supposed to cut my peaches?"

The doctor clenches his jaw, his heart pounding faster and faster.

"Peaches and cream," the young man says absentmindedly, his delicate fingers probing at the pit of the fruit, the juice covering his hands. The red sauce made Carnell breathe in, the longing for the thicker substance growing inside of him. "Peaches and cream."

"Peaches and cream?" Holland asks, the moistness of his mouth going dry as he watched the knife move in and out of sight.

Carnell grins. "It's what I tell my victims before I make the final cut. 'It's all peaches and cream. Everything will be fine tomorrow.' Well, it's fine for me at least."

Holland goes to speak, but before he could utter one more word, Joey Carnell flicks his hand back, hurtling the blade twenty feet forward until it plunged right below the start of the doctor's rib cage.

The old man gasps and falls out of his chair, blood spurting from his new wound. The young man smiles sickly, watching the life ebb slowly out of the doctor's eyes.

"Mmm," Carnell hums as the alarms of the building go off.

But he didn't care; just the sight of fresh blood running past his ankles made everything so much better. He picks a new peach from his tray, even though it was now soaked in red from the liquid covering the floor, and plucks the knife from the old man's chest. He uses the blade to carve a new chunk of drupe, plopping it in his mouth. He swallows, his eyes surveying the mess around him.

"Peaches and cream, Doc," he murmurs, eating more peach, the juice from the drupe running down his fingers so his skin was sticky. "Peaches and cream."