OOC: Thought I'd do this now that I'd submitted him, due to a lack of ideas for new characters, but a desire to still write. _____________________________ â€œI am not psychopathic.â€ His words were clear, but warm. He sounded almost as if they were involved in friendly conversation in the pub, not a psychiatric analysis. â€œIâ€™m just creative. They called Van Gogh mad, and heâ€™s one of the greatest artists in human history. Itâ€™s only logical that most would look at me the same way, I know that. But youâ€™re an educated woman; Iâ€™d have expected someone of your stature to be able to see brilliance when you come across it.â€ Dr Jessica Brown hastily scribbled notes into her pad from across the table. The man was clearly insane, his record and history showed that, but his civility, his use of logic and reason; it was like nothing sheâ€™d ever seen in a spree killer before. She might have been on the verge of discovering a brand new mental illness. Of course there were polite and civil murderers, but he was different. His belief in his work as art, for instance, was most unusual. Not the idea, perhaps â€“ many killers would find a creative pleasure in murder â€“ but for this man it was more than the kill itself. Heâ€™d always leave his victims in some sort of elaborate position, objects of significance meticulously placed around and, in some cases, inside them. There was real evidence of symbolism, like a painting. He clearly knew what he was doing. â€œVan Gogh never killed anyone.â€ She said. Despite the accusative nature of her words, she continued the conversational tone. She knew she was safe; the superhuman on guard outside was far above the level of power needed to hold her subject. But amicable conversation made her assessment easier. â€œAnd he may have been a great painter, but cutting off your own ear and handing it to your partner isnâ€™t art.â€ â€œWho are you to judge what can and cannot be classified as art?â€ he replied with a soft laugh. He was smiling, but not in an off putting manner. He smiled like a friend would after a companion had said something foolish. â€œArt canâ€™t be classified by its very nature. And it was a prostitute by the way, not a partner. Personally, I think it is art. What greater thanks can you reward someone than a piece of your very being? Itâ€™s touching, really, and itâ€™s exactly the kind of thing we need to see in todayâ€™s society. Art in action.â€ The man moved in closer to Jessica as he spoke. â€œIt takes brilliance to create a truly inspired painting. It takes genius to implement your work into reality. Do you understand what Iâ€™m saying?â€ Jessica merely nodded as she continued to write. This was fascinating, her first real one to one interview with a murderer, and he was giving her so much. â€œAnd you claim that I kill people. Iâ€™d argue that I donâ€™t. No, what I give my subjects is a new reason for existence, true immortality. Take, for instance, the Mona Lisa. The physical form of the girl in that painting is forgotten, her body rotten underground somewhere, eaten by maggots and rats. But what you see in that painting, it will live on. For as long as humans have memories, it will live on. This is the service I provide.â€ â€œHoweverâ€ she interjected - Jessica had noticed a flaw in her subjectsâ€™ logic. It was the perfect opportunity to pounce, to see what cracks were present in his mind. â€œYour method â€“ â€˜art in actionâ€™, as you put it â€“ it does not allow for the immortality you claim. You use bodies that decay, and your work is taken down, confiscated by police forces. It is temporary.â€ â€œPhysically, perhaps.â€ His face appeared ponderous, though relaxed, as he collected his thoughts. â€œBut the newspaper reports, the investigation records and photographs, the memories of those that witness my work first hand, the stories those police officers tell, they will live on. And that is how my art will survive. That will give it immortality. There is nothing more pure than human memory.â€ Incredible, Jessica thought. Usually when dealing with psychopaths, logical fallacies are either glazed over, or met with a reply of utter nonsense. This man hadnâ€™t missed a step though. His logic was strong, at least it made sense, and he had tackled the subject matter head on. â€œConvinced?â€ He asked, his smile still present. â€œIâ€™m not insane. Iâ€™m capable of perfectly coherent, logical thought. I know exactly what Iâ€™m doing in every piece of work. The moniker of â€˜psychopathâ€™ is nothing but an insult to me, as much as Iâ€™ve tried to be amicable in our conversation, and I would appreciate an apology.â€ â€œThe only thing thatâ€™s changed,â€ Jessica asserted, defiance in her voice â€œis that youâ€™re going to jail instead of a mental asylum. It would be much easier on yourself if you admitted your problems. If you got help.â€ â€œNo.â€ He stated flatly. â€œThen Iâ€™ve no other choice.â€ Jessica turned toward the door, and raised her voice. â€œJohn? Could you come in here? Iâ€™m finished with the subject; itâ€™s time for you to take him back to the cell.â€ Jessica waited for a few seconds, but there was no movement at the entrance. â€œJohn?â€ â€œI donâ€™t think heâ€™ll be coming.â€ The manâ€™s voice was casual once again. â€œHe probably scared him away. He has a habit of doing that. An untrained mind doesnâ€™t tend to have a great deal of resistance to The Scream.â€ â€œThe Scream? What do you- the report doesnâ€™t say anything about telepathy.â€ Jessica panicked, as she realised what was happening. â€œYou were scanned. Your brain doesnâ€™t have the requirements needed for telepathy, thereâ€™s no way you could have done that.â€ â€œI donâ€™t have telepathy. It wasnâ€™t me that did it.â€ The man stood from his seat, and began to move toward Jessica. â€œHeâ€™s present within me, I suppose. An observer. He likes to watch his work, ensure that it evolves naturally. Art in action.â€ His hand extended toward Jessicaâ€™s face. â€œApologise.â€ Jessica tripped, and attempted to crawl backwards, away from her attacker. As her back hit the wall, she burst out into tears. This was her fault. Sheâ€™d selected the remote location, sheâ€™d chosen a bodyguard with no defence against mental attack, and she had insulted the man coming to kill her. â€œI donâ€™t want to dieâ€ she sobbed â€œIâ€™m sorry! Iâ€™m sorry!â€ â€œVery well. Then you shall have immortality.â€ The hand gripped her face, fingers sprawling across her mouth, one onto her eye. Nothing could be heard above her blood-curdling scream as the burning began. It was a prolonged torture, the soft, warm smile of the fiend that assaulted her never moving. The grip was released. She was alive. â€œThere.â€ He whispered. â€œImmortality. You like to investigate monsters. Now you are one yourself.â€ Jessica couldnâ€™t move as he casually left the building. The shock was too great, the pain to severe. Her husband, her children, her family, theyâ€™d never be able to accept a creature of exposed bone and charred flesh. The sting of her tears on her damaged cheek muscles was the least of her worries. Sheâ€™d be outcast, forever seen as different, as monstrous. Like some breakout patient from the asylum. The symbolism was beautiful.