The day is October 6th, a warm fall afternoon. The clock in the corner reads 6:18pm; the roman numerals are thick and dark, from the early autumn evening sunset. Mr. Blackart sits in a cool waiting room, alone staring at the considerably large grandfather clock, ominously lurking in the corner of the room. He is growing more impatient with every loud tick in the quiet cluttered space. He reads the lettering above the clock: “Salem Psychiatric Institute.” Mr. Blackart’s appointment was a scheduled 6:00pm, and it was now 6:25pm.
A heavy-set woman from behind the clinic’s window called Mr. Blackart’s name, pulling him from his rage spoiled cessation. He sits up and walks across the room. He opens the wooden door and steps into another cluttered room. The room is dark and overly decorated, with a red velvet couch, and a tan leather chair supporting large armrests. In this chair sat a man; an older man, early fifties maybe, aged from years of countless layers of healing rage and confusion. He wore a fine suit, black as the color, with a face that bared a large gray beard and glasses with thick black frames. He introduces himself as Dr. Jonathon Buelock.
“Please, have a seat” he says. Mr. Blackart, without haste, sits on the large red velvet couch. “So what brings you here mister…Blackart?” Dr. Buelock says puzzlingly as he studies a piece of paper that he is holding. “It doesn’t seem to say a first name here.”
“Blackart is what you will address me by, and that is all, Doctor.” Mr. Blackart says. He speaks for the first time; a soft, deep, eerie voice laced with a sound of wisdom. “Well ‘Mr. Blackart’, along with omitting any other names or aliases, you have also failed to list your reasons for this appointment. Why might that be?” Mr. Blackart, leaning back against the plush red couch, responds, “I feel that the points are irrelevant on a piece of paper. I would much rather confess my thoughts face-to-face. You understand, Doctor?” Dr. Buelock asks, “What do you mean ‘confess’, Mr. Blackart? Typically such confessions are to be withheld and confided in a priest, taking place in a house of God. I believe you have come to the wrong place, sir.”
“Such spiritual devotions for a therapist” Mr. Blackart says sarcastically. “Do you believe in God, Doctor?” Mr. Blackart sits up from his comfortable position, and walks over to the large wooden door at the entry of the room, and stands as he waits for Dr. Buelock’s response. “I am man of faith, and a man of science, Mr. Blackart” Dr. Buelock says. Mr. Blackart stands ominously as he pauses. He then reaches for the golden knob which locks the handle of the large wooden door. Dr. Buelock shifts in his chair, uneasily fearing what Mr. Blackart’s motives could be. “What the hell are you doing?” he exclaims. Mr. Blackart responds as he locks the door, “You see, Doctor, there are many types of men on this earth. Some are good men, who sing the praises of life and live through faith of a protector that they cannot see. But some men, well, are just dark, disturbed, sinister beings. They are very, very, bad men. Such men, I believe, should never step foot in such sacred grounds.”
“And which man are you, Mr. Blackart?” Dr. Buelock asks, with a feeling of discomfort. “Well let’s just say, if I were to step into a house of God sir, I believe I’d burn.” Dr. Buelock begins to perspire as he fears the worst of this nightmare has yet to begin. Mr. Blackart begins to make his way across the cluttered office towards Dr. Buelock. He pulls a large, polished steel, razor sharp knife from the waist of his slacks. “You see Doctor; I am a very disturbed man. I live my life with the feeling of disgust towards this human race. The disgrace that humanity proves to be evident every day, the world that birthed such a horrible man as me, and proves to me that there can be no God in this existence.” Now truly in fear, a less composed Dr. Buelock begins to perspire in fear. “What are you going to do to me?!” he exclaims. Mr. Blackart responds, “I’m a very corrupted man, and you are going to sit here and listen to what I have to say, the tormenting thoughts I experience every day of my life. And if you can’t fix me, Doctor…let’s just say it’s bad news for you.”
