The Professor's Pet

It was a long day. I was exhausted, mentally overwhelmed from the secrets spilled on Andrew's cataclysmic pages. His devastating revelations sunk in my head like a thick, weighty anchor, his true thoughts and toxic expressions dragging me down with every passing second this knowledge existed in my consciousness. It was a sticky, vile, uncomfortable kind of awareness, one that comes with a realization that the monsters in this world don't simply lurk in passing shadows – they live in your house, they sleep in your bed, they deliver dazzling smiles and promises that hide heinous intentions.

I've known true evil, I've sat across from perfectly composed con-men who feed on the faith and trust of innocent individuals before shattering their lives with cruel actions and pure carnage. I know better than anyone that people are often not who they seem.

I felt a deluded sense of safety in the gaze of a man I knew was no good, and yet still I trusted him enough not to seriously harm me. In a world where monsters walk among us, I chose to secure myself to what I believed to be a lesser evil. What I thought was an honest projection of his faults was in fact a carefully constructed mask hiding more sinister intentions.

Andrew Hawke is a cold-blooded killer – not just of men but of softer spirits. I've known for a long time that he was skilled in the art of manipulation, but I seriously underestimated the nature of his motives and the extent of his malfunction. 

I drive toward Andrew's private practice, gloved hands stiffly grasping the wheel, my mind rattled with shattered preconceived notions. 

I look to the right to glance at the gun resting in the passenger seat like a dangerous little companion. I would get the truth out of him, even if I needed to shove it in his wretched face.

My eyes are damp but my conviction was unshakeable. I'm not sure what I'm going to say to him, but I know that I can't stand by and do nothing; I'm done being passive, it's time to fight. 

The photos sit beside me on the passenger seat, along with the jewelry box of mismatched items. My body is vibrating with a furious frenzy so potent it feels like needles against my skin. 

I can't help myself from wanting his blood spilled. This man took everything from me, and as the hazy fog of warring horror and disbelief cloud my judgement, I find myself wanting to watch him draw his last gasping breaths.

As I pull into the parking space beside his car, I notice the faint light from his office. Good, he's where he's supposed to be. I march out of my car in a huff, the pictures in one hand, the jewelry box in the other. Time stretches and dilates as I walk from my car to the front door, the short walk feels like hours long, as the precious moments he's stolen from me replay in my head like a broken VCR. I slam the door open, wanting it to announce my furious arrival.

I am a storm of wild and frenzied emotion, a tornado that will sweep up this sick man and spit him out with what little remains of his blood and bones. But when I walk in, I hear a commotion that makes my gut twist. For some reason my fingers are shivering and shaking in my gloves, and there's a tingle at my spine and a sour taste in my mouth.