Sociopath by Lime Craven
Dr Pescki's Office
Aged 10
"Miss Lore." Dr Pescki, my psychiatrist, glances between my mother and me before knotting her fingers on the desk. "I can assure you—there is nothing wrong with your son."
My mother drops her gaze to the thin blue carpet. "A hundred percent sure?"
"I've been seeing Aeron for three months now. He exhibits none of the DSM markers I'd expect to see in a child at this point. In fact..." She flexes her bony fingers in exasperation. "For a ten-year-old boy, I'd say he's well-adjusted. Polite. Considerate. Smart, even."
I am all of these things, sitting beside my mother and shrinking into the chair; let them talk over me. Let me exist only in terms of what I do or do not have. We've been to this quiet, chintzy downtown office more times than I care to remember, and I hate missing school for it. Hate being singled out.
"I just...there's something not right," my mother says quietly. She was beautiful once, with her dark hair and shining eyes. Now she has faded like cartoons on an old TV.
"I understand your concern. Given the circumstances...things must be very hard for you. All children are capable of exhibiting eccentricities from time to time; it's part of the process of growing up, exploring boundaries. I see a lot of parents who want a diagnosis to make things easier, but let me tell you, that's not what it does."
My mother tips her chin with an indignant stare. "I'm just looking out for him. That's my job."
"It is," Dr Pescki agrees. "And it's my job to reassure you that your son is emotionally stable. He's healthy." She glances at me. "Aren't you?"
I fiddle with the hem of my tan sweater and offer her a shy smile. "I guess."
"You have a bright future ahead of you, Aeron," the doctor tells me. "Your mother loves you very much, and with that kind of support, you'll go far."
Yes.
Yes, I will.
#1
Trust (noun): the warm, fuzzy realization that you have way too much dirt on someone for them to fuck you over.
I learned the art of trust around the same time I learned to capitalize on it. I've been excelling ever since.
Case in point: my top-floor New York office at Lore Incorporated, a beige abyss of Bang & Olufsen, glass and mirrors. People like beige. It's inoffensive, comforting, and commands respect when used with style. But the mirrored walls either side of my desk make clients and employees nervous; they're afraid of being caught at an awkward angle or seeing undesirable things. In the midst of all that, they get to thinking: the kind of man who enjoys being surrounded by mirrors? He's got his shit together.
They're going to trust that man.
Another case in point is my assistant, who is currently running through my itinerary for the day. Tuija is my redheaded rocket: killer dress suits, sharp eyes and a tongue with a razor edge. She looks—and acts—like she's the bastard child of Christina Hendricks and Chuck Norris, and is framed by the huge twin TV screens that forever roll my two news networks on mute.
"Eight o'clock breakfast meeting with Isenhour—he's getting antsy about the acquisition. Expect eggs'n'Jack." She scrolls along the iPad with a nimble finger. NN24 and Truth Daily bounce off the mirrors to her left, casting dancing lights across her pale skin. "Nine thirty with the lawyers. Your trainer will be here at eleven. Lunch meeting with Phil for the same bullshit, different day don't trash the president treatment. Then the SilentWitn3ss clique arrive at two."
"Including the CEO?"
"Including..." She pauses, scrolls again. Wrinkles her nose. "Yep. The mythical Miss Reeves will be in attendance."
"About time." I peer into the mirrored wall closest to my desk to adjust my taupe silk tie. "What do you think of this shade?"
She cocks her head. Her brown eyes flare as she regards me in the mirror, zeroing in on the brief flash of colour against my tailored grey suit. "It's subtle."
"Good." I give the tie one last pat and then turn to face Tuija with my usual dimpled grin. "Thanks, firecracker."
"Always a pleasure, boss." She rolls her eyes, but I know she likes the praise.
Ladies and gentleman, witness the slow burn of trust in action. Watch Tuija hit the skillet as I seek her opinion. Watch her sizzle in inflated self-worth; watch her sigh when I singe her edges with flattery. She thinks I call her firecracker because of her red curls. Like I give a fuck what she thinks of my tie.