Shiflett 1

Sarah Shiflett

Ms. Mann

English II

27 October 2017

Click, Click, Click

“How are you feeling today?” Amy Jones, my therapist, inquired politely with a genuine

smile. Altruistically warm, her unruly blood-red curls bounced freely contrasting with her

rounded head and snowy complexion.

Small clay crescents hung from the ceiling, suspended by thick brown twine. I marveled

at the moons, swaying in the stifling air. I too swayed in the heat of the room. A perpetual

series of gurgling vibrations emerged from the AC vent in the ceiling, echoing throughout the

spacious room.

“I’m fine,” I grunted, polishing my glasses of the fog that had formed on the thick

surface.

Click.

“Remember what I’ve been telling you the last few months,” she said, “give me more

than a two-word response.”

“Dr. Jones, I am fine,” I insisted, looking back at her. “Can I go? I have errands to run

and court files to look over.”

Click, click, click.

“The session has already started, Travis. I want you to know I truly care about every one

of my patients, including you.”

“If you insist,” I replied, clenching my teeth with a fierce intensity.

 Shiflett 2

Click, click.

“Is something wrong, Travis? You’ve been clenching your fists since you sat down.”

I peered down at my hands and willed myself to open them.

“Stop doing that thing with your pen,” I gritted.

“What? This pen? Does this bother you?” she questioned, clicking it faster.

“Stop. It. Right. Now.” I seethed, my face turning a bright beet red.

“Travis, stop! Sit down!” she cried out, while curled in her plush purple chair.

Stalking over to her small frame, the pen, now clutched within her small porcelain hands,

vibrated as I approached Dr. Jones. Prying the thin object from her slender fingers, I hurled it

across the room, striking some of the half-moons hanging from the ceiling, the audible

splitting of clay reverberated on the pristine flooring of the therapist's office.

I erupted, foaming at the mouth, leaving a storm in my wake, as I bolted from the room,

the crunch of shattered moons beneath my feet. I aggressively charged down the stairs to my

car, slamming the metal door, as I turned the key in the ignition. God, I can’t wait for work

tomorrow, I thought.

“All rise.” I entered my courtroom in my neatly pressed black robe. I could feel the

adrenaline the job offered, coursing through my veins. Today, I had the pleasure of presiding

over a murder case.

Hushed whispers descended upon the room as the decision was delivered to me. Adrian

Kenwood, stood stiffly next to his attorney, the strain evident on his paling face.

“The state of Alabama vs. Adrian Kenwood Verdict count one. We the jury of Alabama

do as to count one of first degree murder, find the defendant guilty,” the jury foreman stated

matter-of-factly.
 Shiflett 3

“The defendant is thereby sentenced to 50 years in prison,” I proclaimed emphatically.

Collective gasps from the gallery resounded off the marble pillars in the room.

“This is so unfair. I’m going to kill you,” Adrian exclaimed in fury. The defendant was

swiftly removed from my stunned courtroom by two burly officers.

After work that day, sitting in the deserted parking lot of the courthouse, the sweet

melodies broadcasting from my radio were interrupted by a news bulletin.

“Breaking News: Newly declared convict, Adrian Kenwood, has escaped police custody

and is on the move. The Somerville Police Department said Kenwood is armed and

dangerous. Folks, for your safety tonight, make sure to lock your doors and hold tight to your

loved ones.”

Gulping, my heart started to beat faster than the wheels of a moving train, my breathing

became increasingly labored. My apprehension about this convict was putting me on edge.

My vision began to blur slightly. What was happening? Darkness overcame me and I slipped

into a shadowy abyss.

My eyes fluttered open as they labored to adjust to the darkness. Marbles seemed to

bounce off the walls of my skull, like the insistent knocking of a door-to-door salesman,

increasing in intensity as I scrambled to clear my disoriented mind. Where was I? The stale

stagnant air overpowered my sense of smell making it that more difficult to concentrate.

Coarse rope rubbed against my bare skin, leaving me feeling raw around my hands and feet.

Suddenly the quiet was replaced by a repetitive never ceasing echo.

Click, click, click.

All I could make out was a melodic voice taunting, “What? This pen? Does it bother

you?”