hair cut

Posted on May 16, 2014. Filed under: dissociative identity disorder, schizophrenia |

“Motive? You think I killed those girls because they’re all young and nubile and ripe. You think I killed them because they’ve got what I haven’t? Their lives, their fertile years, stretching out ahead of them – all neat and plush and pretty?”

A little taken aback, he tried hard to not let his eyes widen.

“You think I killed them because I’m eaten alive with jealousy and resentment – and if I can’t have a family then neither can they?”

“Now, now…” warned Maro.

I whirled to the foot of the bed and quickly followed her gaze: the radiographer, a trifle horrified, was waiting to take me in…

“Could we have a minute?” Handsome asked her.

She backed away, backed away, backed back into the X-ray room, closed the door and probably went to crouch behind her lead-lined screen.

“Did you cut Sophie Curtis’ corpse with a scalpel?” he asked.


Part of him, the trusting, inexplicably naïve part, hadn’t expected that.


“I was shaking.”

“Shaking what?”

Trembling… I’d not long since had surgery. I didn’t mean to cut her, obviously. I’m not a nut-job. The scalpel slipped onto her forehead while I was cutting her hair.”

Handsome went white.

“You were cutting her hair?”

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