Sanity

Prompt: Write a story or poem about a maniacal villain who is absolutely convinced of his own sanity.

Word Count: 898



“Now, Valerie, I want you to relax.  This is just a friendly chat.” 

“Come now, Doctor.  I'm wearing restraints.”  A small, devious smile played across her face as she let her wandering gaze fall first onto her left wrist, then onto her right, and back up to meet his. 

He smiled, taking his seat opposite her.  “Well, there isn't a lot I can do about that.”  He had, by this time, that dull, tedious look smeared into his countenance, the 'I want to understand you' look.  She leaned back a little and sighed.

“All the same, I'd like to be able to move around.  Maybe have a cigarette.” 

He nodded slowly, calmly.  Everything about this man was slow and calm, dreary and dull.  Unseen by him, she clenched and unclenched her fists.  How she wanted to bring a little disorder into this man's quiet bubble. Shake things up a little.

“Perhaps, if you answer a few of my questions first, we can work something out.”  She snapped back to attention, and smiled at him.  He smiled right back.  Sickly sweet.  “Does that sound fair?” 

“Good enough for me, Doctor.” 

He clasped his hands together and rested them on his lap.  Leaning forward, he fixed her with that same look again, but stronger, more intense this time.  His steely grey eyes bored into her, making her shift in her seat, painfully aware that she was locked into this position.  She trembled a little.  “I would really like a cigarette.” 

“All in due course, Valerie.  My questions, first.”  He sat back a little.  Her breath came staccato, angry little puffs through her nose and gritted teeth.  She scowled.

“You haven't asked any questions, Doctor.  You've been staring at me like I'm a goddamn circus animal.” 

He raised an eyebrow. If he asks me how that makes me feel, I'm gonna...

“Why did you kill Emily Marsh?” 

She let out a short, sharp bark of laughter.  “To the point, Doctor, for once.  Be-cause, I felt like it.” 

“You didn't know her.”

“No.”

“She had a family.”

“Cry me a river.”

“You don't care about any of this?”

Valerie Hayden, model daughter, all doe eyes and bouncy blonde hair, stared resolutely back at him.  “No.”  She stretched her legs, the only part of her that she could move with any small degree of comfort.  “Now, I would really like a cigarette.”

He knelt down and reached up to her wrists, unclasping her restraints with such little hesitation that she was pleasantly surprised.  She pushed herself up as he stood, their bodies mere inches away from each other. 

“I'll get you that cigarette.”  He turned and walked briskly to his heavy tweed coat, taking out a new pack of Marlboro Reds.  She licked her lips as he approached her with one, flashed him a coy smile just before he lit it for her.

And then he was seated again, whilst she paced, twirling the cigarette between her fingers.

“Why did you kill her, Valerie?” 

“What – again?” she scoffed. 

“Yes, again.” 

She smirked, saying nothing, but continued her languid walk from the filing cabinet on one end of the room, to the window, its display of all that she would never see again. 

“You have no regrets?” 

“Only that I was caught.”  He stood, suddenly, and strode across the room to her. 

“Valerie Hayden, do you believe you are insane?”

His words brought a different kind of gleam to her eyes, a dangerous flash of rage that crossed her pretty face for just a few seconds, betraying her inner self.  Evil?  Certainly.  Crazy?  She hissed, “I don't know, I'm not a psychiatrist.”  The smirk was back again, and her gaze steady as she blew her smoke back into his face.

“It's the only explanation I can think of.”

“Then you're a fool.”  She resumed her pacing, and he followed.  “You're scared, and I know you are.  You can't explain me.  Insanity is the only explanation you can come up with, but I've given you the answer.”  She halted.  “I'm not crazy.  I'm not.”

Aware of his close proximity to her, she whirled round, raising her hand as she did so and pushing the lit end of her cigarette into his eye, before he could do a thing.  His hands flew to his face, and he cried out, stumbling backwards.  She made an easy job of knocking him to the floor. 

“Christ.”

“I gave you the answer,” she chided, her foot positioned neatly on his chest as she reached over to the end table, where he had his telephone, a big, black heavy thing.  She held it, considered it, and, feeling him begin to struggle, dropped onto him, her thighs straddling his torso.  “I gave you the answer,” she said again. 

She raised her makeshift weapon, and brought it down on his head, enjoying, in that way only she could ever understand, the crack, the yell, the first little splash of blood as it jumped up, spattering her coveralls.  She hit him again, and again, her ferocity increasing with every blow, her excitement paramount.  “Did I not?” she shouted.  “I'm not–“

She brought it down again, and her voice shuddered.  “Crazy.” 

He failed to respond.  She stood, dropping the phone to land one last time on his head, or what was left of it – a grisly mess. 

She smirked. 

“Because I felt like it.”