Mr. Blackart was not a large man. Rather average, he was built like any other. Not too large or too small. However, Mr. Blackart carried a sinister gift; the gift of strength. With ease, he lunges at Dr. Buelock and subdues him on the burgundy-carpeted floor. Dr. Buelock struggles for several seconds to escape from Mr. Blackart’s grip, but soon gives in. Mr. Blackart delivers a deafening blow to the right side of Dr. Buelock’s head, rendering him unconscious.
Upon returning from his assault-induced coma, Dr. Buelock sees Mr. Blackart sitting directly in front of him, on the large velvet couch he had been sitting on earlier. When Dr. Buelock attempts to move, he realizes he has been bound to the tan leather couch in the middle of the room. He exclaims, “What in God’s name are you doing?” Mr. Blackart responds, “I would watch the level of your voice Doctor. We wouldn’t want anyone else getting hurt because of careless ways…would we?” Suddenly a knock door sounds at the large wooden door at the entrance of the room. “Dr. Buelock, is everything okay?” a voice questions from the other side of the door. “I thought I heard you yell.” The voice belonged to the heavy-set woman that had escorted Mr. Blackart into the office. Dr. Buelock looks to Mr. Blackart with a face of worry. “Tell her everything is fine” Mr. Blackart tells the doctor showing no emotion. “Everything is fine Edith” Dr. Buelock tells the receptionist, exposing her name to Mr. Blackart for the first time. “Okay” the receptionist responds with a sound of concern in her voice.
Dr. Buelock looks back to Mr. Blackart after looking to the large wooden door. Mr. Blackart begins to speak. “Nice to see you can actually make some good choices. You don’t see that often in today’s world.” Mr. Blackart says. Dr. Buelock without breath responds, “Why are you doing this? What do you have to gain?” Mr. Blackart replies, “My sanity, Doctor. I gain my mind back. All I want you to do is fix my broken moral doctor. That is all I ask.” “But why put an innocent soul through all of this? I surely didn’t do anything to deserve this.” Dr. Buelock says. “To feel pain, torment, and helplessness. So many people take their mental clarity for granted. I can’t stand it.” Mr. Blackart says. Dr. Buelock replies “So you feel you must make others suffer for your lack of optimism?” Mr. Blackart shakes his head with a look of disappointment and then proceeds to walk to the window where the blinds are slightly shut. “No, no, no. You have it all wrong Doctor. I feel that human kind deserves a little redemption but as long as there are men like me on this earth, we will never survive.” Mr. Blackart explains. “This world is full murderers, thieves, rapists, and liars. With inhabitants like that, we will all surely destroy ourselves.”
“Please Mr. Blackart, I beg you, just let me go. I swear I will turn my head and forget this ever happened.“ Dr. Buelock pleads. Mr. Blackart turns back towards the large velvet couch, seemingly ignoring the doctor’s pleas. “You question why I must do this. The answer is simple; how would anyone listen to a crazy man willingly? Hmm?” Mr. Blackart says. Dr. Buelock looks to the floor silently. Mr. Blackart continues, “You can’t answer that question. No one would. I have dealt with people like you before. You are all the same. We pay you to see us for an hour or two, only viewing our psychological state through this tiny window once a week. Then you all act like you give a damn about us. You don’t care, and you’re all the same.” Dr. Buelock responds, “We’re not all the same. I’ve never just shuffled my patients through like pieces of paper.” Mr. Blackart shakes his head once more with disappointment. “You sure you could swear by that Doctor?” Dr. Buelock pauses with a moment of confusion. “What are you implying?” Mr. Blackart turns to the window and looks out to the retreating sun. “Think Doctor,” He says, “Why would I choose you?” “I don’t know! I’ve asked you that several times!” Dr. Buelock exclaims angrily to Mr. Blackart. Dr. Buelock begins to sob quietly as he tries to speak, showing a break in his composure. “I don’t know what you want from, just please don’t kill me.” Mr. Blackart turns back to face the doctor, showing an expression of annoyance. “Look at my face! Don’t you recognize your work, Doctor?” He exclaims. Dr. Buelock looks up and stares into Mr. Blackart’s dark, deep brown eyes. A sharp pain grabs at his stomach, as he suddenly realizes what Mr. Blackart has been implying. Mr. Blackart sees the expression of shock on Dr. Buelock’s face. “You’re starting to remember, aren’t you Doctor?” he asks Dr. Buelock. “Oh my lord, you’re Edward Crane. You’re an old patient of mine.”
