A serialized novella in twelve parts
The lavender smell in Dr. Gloria Mackenzie's office has taken on an edge since his suspension. That soft floral scent he'd noticed during those first mandated sessions, back when this was all bureaucratic bullshit, now carries a metallic undertone. Disinfectant. Rubbing alcohol. The cordite and smoke that never quite leaves his clothes. Animal breathes it in through his nose, holds it, and lets it burn. Exhales slowly.
He's sitting differently today. Not the stiff perch of a cop braced for action, not the defensive slump of a man expecting blows. Just... sitting. The low-backed sofa that used to feel like an interrogation tactic now just feels like a couch.
Gloria notices. Of course she does.
She wears that same gray sweater as last time, sleeves pushed up to reveal wiry forearms. A slender watch on her wrist, and a wedding ring. Wait–the ring wasn’t there before, he was sure of it. Suddenly he doubts himself. Was it there before? Did he imagine its absence? Is he going crazy?
"You’ve slept," Dr. Mackenzie says. Not a question.
Animal feels better for it. "Twelve hours straight. I would have kept sleeping but my old man was waking me up, giving me shit. Pounding on the door.”
Gloria's pen hovers over her notebook. She hasn't written a word in twenty-three minutes. He knows that for sure because he's been counting the clicks from that clock she keeps on the bookshelf. He can’t help himself.
–
"The five grand," he says abruptly. "The bounty on my head. You think that's real, or bullshit?"
Her left eyebrow lifts exactly one millimeter. After six months of this, he's learned her tells, these little twitches and gestures she gets when he hits on something meaningful.
"I started that rumor myself. Couple months before Pueblo." He rubs the crescent-shaped scar on his right knuckle, junkie teeth from '79, back when bites didn’t automatically necessitate blood tests. "Told a couple lowlifes, paid them to spread it around. By the time it hit the precinct and came back to me, even my lieutenant was asking if I needed protection. How fucked up is that?"
A muscle twitches near Gloria's jaw. He waits.
"Stories become real," she finally says, "when enough people believe them."
Animal barks a laugh. "Yeah, sure. Not sure anyone other than me actually believed it. Figure that out."
The mention of the Pueblo raid hangs between them like a corpse no one will claim. He doesn't mention the blood, the bodies, the way the kid's skull had sounded under his baton. She doesn’t press it. Instead, he talks about the silence after the collapse. The brick dust in the lungs. The sick feeling a lot of them had for days afterwards.
Animal pauses, then, “I miss knowing who I was supposed to be when I woke up in the morning." Beat. “Even if I had to make it up myself.”
The clock ticks. They’re up to forty minutes.
"My old man pissed himself again last night," Animal says. "Just sat there watching Carson while it pooled in the Barcalounger. Ma didn't notice it at all.”
Gloria's pen stays still.
“Either that or she’s the best actress I’ve ever seen. Dad was a cop too. Took a .38 to the temple during a riot in 1964. They couldn’t remove it. Docs gave him five years before the thing worked itself over to some part of the brain he actually uses." Animal leans forward, elbows on knees. The sofa creaks. "Twenty years later, he’s still here, punishing everyone around him for his own misery.”
He studies Gloria, the careful part in her hair, her posture, and the way her knuckles whiten around her pen when she writes.
"You ever meet someone," he asks, "and just know they had a shitty dad?"
For the first time in six months of sessions, Gloria Mackenzie smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
"So who do you want to be?" Gloria asks, circling back.
The question hangs there, stupid and impossible for Animal to answer. Gloria doesn't push. She never does. It’s why he keeps coming back.
#