I am lying on the couch staring at a framed print of the Laughing Cavalier that dominates the far wall; the scratch of my psychiatrist's pen as he takes notes a soothing murmur in my head. I crane my neck in an attempt to see his face but can't. I tell him how I shout into the phone after people have hung up and how I masturbate in public and how I hate most people I meet and that I invariably end up with a desire to kill them. He grunts and tells me to continue so I tell him how out of touch with myself I feel and how every situation I find myself in I always want to resort to violence, but I just end up walking away fighting back tears while going over the scenario again and again in my mind coming up with more and more brutal ways I could have resolved it. I tell him my frustration is reaching dangerous levels and I am sure any day now I am going to snap and actually do somebody some harm and he smiles, or at least it sounds like he smiles since I can't actually see him, and he says that I need to come to terms with my feelings and find the source of my aggression and he is here to help so I must trust him and keep telling him what I feel and think, and while he is saying this I sit up from the couch and turn to look at him and as our eyes meet his warm, professional smile falters for just an instant and he stops talking. I stare directly at him and ask him how discussing my desire to disembowel someone with a blunt Derwent HB pencil or castrate them with an empty can of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup will help? And as I am asking this I stand and take a step towards him and he give me a quizzical look and is about to get out of his chair and I am sure make a dash for the door when I smile and sit back down on the couch and he lets out a barely audible sigh of what I assume is relief and as he picks up his pen and looks down at his notepad I lunge across the room and plunge his sterling silver, bone handled letter opener into his chest and then I wrap the cord from his telephone around his neck and as he writhes in my grasp, gasping for air, I glance at his notes and see that all he has written is the word "fuckhead" over and over again in large capital letters and I grit my teeth and pull harder on the telephone cord while smashing him in the face with his hand carved green onyx ashtray and as his struggling ceases my breathing slows and I eventually let him slump onto the floor. I stand over him watching his lifeless form and when my hour is up I smooth over my hair and tuck in my shirt and lick my lips and as I walk out of his waiting room his secretary says goodbye and that she'll see me next week and I stop by the glass door with his name on it and look at her and smile and say no I won't be back since I am all cured now thanks and she gives a little laugh and watches me leave and I start to whistle as I walk out into the sunlight.