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That night he came home late. When he closed the front door and stepped into the foyer, he knew someone was in there. He felt it in the air around him, a hint of tension which alerted his senses. He took his time to take off the coat, fold and leave it on the small blue velvet bench beside the staircase. He took his time to walk down the corridor to the kitchen, sensing that tension again but unwilling to let it in.
He didn't turn any light on. The glossy surfaces of his kitchen welcomed him, along with the barely audible buzzing sound of the refrigerator. As soon as he opened the stainless steel door of the fridge, cold light broke the darkness and flooded the room, dispelling the shadows but one. Now he knew who was there. He could smell a distinctive scent, an unfortunate blend of nutmeg, carnation and cinnamon. He didn't speak, he didn't turn around. He closed the steel door and waited.
---
After waiting for what seemed like an endless amount of time, Will finally heard the key turn into the lock of the front door. He didn't move from the corner of the kitchen where he had spent most of the evening. He just stayed there, gun on the floor, waiting. He was good at it. He didn't mind waiting in the soothing darkness of that room.
He heard footsteps on the corridor, a hand on the door knob, and he didn't move. When the light of the refrigerator pierced the darkness, he finally stood up. He walked until his gun was just a few inches from his doctor's head. He knew his after shave would have immediately been given a name, but he had decided to wear it anyway, out of habit.
“Our last kitchen conversation was interrupted,” Will said. “I'd like to pick up where we left off. If memory serves, you were asking me if it'd feel good to kill you.”
“Do you have an answer?” the doctor asked. “You've had time to think about it.”
“Plenty of time.”
They stood still, the gun still pointed at the back of the head.
“I can feel desperation in you, Will.”
“It's not desperation. It's resolution,” and he drew the muzzle of the gun nearer. “You were so clear. According to you, starting a process of self-awareness was a question of life or death. Know yourself, you told me. You took me down that path and now that I've finally come up with something, don't play dumb.”
“Very well, then. What have you come up with?”
“My gun and the urge to put a bullet in your head.”
“This means you finally know how you'd feel after killing me.”
“Righteous. I'd feel righteous. Killing you would feel good. Things would come full circle.”
Will knew he was making a mistake. When he started talking, he knew. That was not how things were supposed to be - no words, just a bullet in the head. The very moment he spoke, he became aware he was fucking things up. He felt like a cold grasp on his stomach and an unpleasant warm sensation on his chest. Frustration and anger were bubbling inside like a venomous potion.
“It would be a fleeting victory,” the doctor went on. “It would lead you nowhere but in a place of darkness. Do you really want to go back there?”
“I wouldn't. My old self is gone. Now I know myself.”
“And aren't you curious? What does the Chesapeake Ripper want with you?”
The smell of carnation made the doctor feel uneasy and dizzy at the same time. He couldn't think of anything as unpleasant as that blend, yet he felt a familiar quality in it. Smelling it so near him made him feel at peace with himself.
As for Will, although his sense of smell wasn't as refined or trained, he wanted to put into focus the slightly salty odour that was making him sick. It smelt like blood, like seaweed, like rotten fish. Something powdery in it, something exotic. Then, suddenly, it hit him like a bullet in his head. His psychiatrist smelt like sperm. The thought went to his head and made him feel uneasy. He was excited. Sexual arousement was the third dangerous ingredient to the mixture of frustration and anger brewing inside. He didn't have time to give that urge a name and he didn't want to. He could feel he was getting wet.
“Don't you want to know how it ends?”. The doctor was pressing him, pushing him to react.
That was enough.
“Shut the fuck up. Another word and I'll kill you.”
“You know you could kill an innocent man. How would this make you feel?”
“I told you to shut the fuck up.” This time Will raised his voice and slammed the gun down on the black marble counter nearby.
“If you kill me, who will answer your questions?”
Will felt he was disassociating, as if he were on a crime scene. He saw himself grabbing his doctor's left shoulder with one hand, the nape of the neck with the other one, throwing him against the steel door of the fridge and pinning it with the weight of his body. He was acting out of instinct, yet he was wondering why a physical reaction from the other part was missing. The doctor was taller than him, definitely fitter and stronger, yet he wasn't fighting back, which made Will's anger grow.
Instead, the doctor asked: “Are you taking your revenge on me?”
Will was still pushing all his weight on the other's body. His right hand undid his own belt. He saw his left arm go to unzip the doctor's trousers. “This is not right,” he thought, yet he went on stripping the doctor from the waist down with one angry movement. Again he pressed his own weight on the other's back and got another whiff smelling like come. He took his own dick in his hand and didn't stroke it: it was hard. Pre-cum was leaking through his slit and he felt he couldn't last long.
“You said it. I am,” Will replied.
Was the doctor ready? Was he as excited? Was he open? He couldn't care less but he spit on his fingers and tested him. The voice inside blacked out when his dick replaced his fingers in the penetration, meeting no resistance on the other side.
He wanted to punish the doctor, to make him feel how mad he was, but seeing him so compliant, so docile, so ready, had a double effect: it made his anger explode and made him push all the way in.
No sound, no noise but the rhythmic thump of the doctor's knees on the fridge door. Their panting was barely audible. Will held him by the hips and kept thrusting. The soft touch of the grisaille blazer on his face, pressed on the doctor's shoulders, was soothing. A single gasp choked in his throat, one last thrust and he came.
Frustration, anger and excitement were slowly ebbing, yet still pulsing. The idea of staying inside repulsed him, so he pulled himself out. At the same time, he moved his hands to the doctor's dick. It was thick and dripping wet. He hadn't even touched himself.
---
For his part, the doctor was disappointed. He had let Will take him from behind, thus depriving himself of the joy of watching him. He couldn't see him but he could imagine. The light of the moon, coming in through the window, cast a spectral set of shadows into the kitchen. He knew that light swathed Will's body in a silverish shroud. He knew it run along Will's profile like a whispering brook. He knew Will's face was shadowed by his black curls, casting more darkness on his features. He imagined him with his eyes closed, lips parted, trying hard not to let moans, trapped down his throat, find a way out.
---
“Haven't you had enough? Should I beat the shit out of you?” and Will grabbed the other's dick with his right hand.
The gesture of moving his hand up and down, the feeling of sensing the other's orgasm surfacing, made him feel like God. The doctor took that away from him too soon. The same gasp he had choked a few moments before now was there, in the other's throat, while come spilt on the steel door and on his hand.
The doctor stayed there, speechless. He felt Will rubbing his hands clean on the back of his bespoke jacket. That was unbelievably rude but he didn't mind. He heard Will pulling his pants up, taking the gun from the marble counter and turning his back on him, moving to the door.
“Call yourself lucky. Next time you'll try to frame me and lie to my face, I'll kill you with my own hands.”
Steps along the corridor, the front door closed with a bang. He was gone.