Carl Bentin sat stoically on the couch, radio turned on, book in hand.

His apartment was small; one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen and a small living room.

He lived alone.

The mere suggestion of sharing his apartment--much less his thoughts--with another human being sickened him to the extent that he wondered how others could tolerate it. Giving too much information to too many people was hazardous in the least, but giving all his thoughts away to a single person may as well be suicide.

His motto: Trust no one but yourself. And, sometimes, not even that.

The paper was thick under his fingers, rough as he dog-eared the page he had been reading. The radio played soft classical music which reverberated solemnly in his ears.

He set the book on the coffee-table and reached to switch off the stereo.

Carl was not an easy-going guy, not a couch-potato--he was a hard worker and loved every minute of it.

As a psychologist, Carl had learned to ward off the dark thoughts and images that seemed to invade his mind constantly since his wife's untimely death. His work-day consisted of listening to no less than five people a day spill out their complaints and troubles in their lives and into his. He could honestly care less about their problems. If it were up to him, he'd send them all home with bottles of Vodka, saying "Cheers" and toasting to their health.

However, the job paid well. Just because he lived in a small, run-down apartment on the outskirts of town, didn't necessarily mean he didn't have money.

He had plenty of money--only locked up in the safe harbor of the bank. He was saving. Saving for what, he didn't know, but he was saving nonetheless.

The music stopped abruptly as his fingers brushed lightly over the "off" button. Silence engulfed him.

He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. The clock on the wall read 6:45 AM. Unusual as it seemed, his daily routine consisted of five hours of sleep and waking no later than 5:30 in the morning.

He owned no alarm clock. His internal clock told him when it was time to awaken and it was never refused. He wasn't expected to be at work until 7:00, giving him nearly and hour and a half before he needed to leave for the office. He spent this time reading, listening to music, pondering what type of psychos he would encounter today.

This morning was no different. He'd awoken at 5:30, showered, dressed, and followed the same mental timeline that occurred every day.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

He owned no pets. Animals were dirty and the word "pet" suggested it be favored and allowed indoors. To destroy all that he had worked to obtain. He was not in any way a dirty person and he refused to tolerate anything that was.

Acceptance didn't come easily to him because there was very little which he could stand. For example, women who wore bright clothing. What did they accomplish with clashing colors and headaches? His wife, Mary, had been a bright-clothing type of person. All the while until her horrible death when the deep crimson seemed through her bright yellow shirt. He got a headache just thinking about it.

"Mary..." The word felt odd on his tongue. Like some distant language that he had known once but now forgotten. She had been a wonderful wife, but unfaithfulness had its price and Mary was overdue to pay.

He had no regrets though. The way he saw it the wench had it coming. He left her laying on the kitchen floor in a pool of her own blood, butcher's knife embedded between two left ribs.

It was an accident.

At least that's what he told the police.

Carefully, he had wiped all his fingerprints clean from the knife's hilt, using a Kleenex. Forensics proved that it was indeed an accident. Either that, or Mary had committed suicide. They settled on the former.

These sudden thoughts of his dead wife concerned him. Not that he didn't think of her often, because he did, but usually he didn't dwell on the details of her murder. He liked to remember all the good times they'd shared together: going camping, having a picnic. Mary had loved the outdoors, her inspiration and excuse for he vibrant clothing which she wore.

Carl was a perfectionist. Mary was more lenient about things.

They used to have a cat. Tilly. Carl hated that cat. Mary loved it. Ironically, it disappeared soon after Mary's death.

Things had definitely changed with Mary gone. On the one year anniversary of her death, Carl was visited by horrific dreams in which the court sentenced him guilty on a first-degree murder rap. In the worst ones he envisioned himself in the electric chair or being injected with toxins which would eat him from the inside-out.

That was the first night of many nights that his internal clock woke him at 5:30 in the morning.

It was a curse and he hated it.

He was wasting time dwelling on the past, on things that no longer meant anything to him. Grabbing his navy blue briefcase to match his pinstriped shirt, he snatched up his car keys and headed out the door.

As his feet left the threshold of his apartment, Carl wondered what type of psychos he would be expected to help today.