Blood Shall Be Shed

Timothy D. Tucker

La Scena Un

“So Mona, what do you want to talk about?”

“Uh...I don't know. The um...weather...it's nice out.”

“Yes, it is very nice outside, but this session is about you. You must have something on your mind. Mona, are you listening?”

“What? Oh...oh yeah. Um...There's nothing to really...talk about.”

“Mona, we've been doing these therapy sessions for two months now, don't you think it's time to open up?”

“I...I guess.”

“Ok then, let's talk about your childhood. Do you have any favorite memories?”

“Well, um, my dad used to take me to my nonno's...I mean grandfathers vineyard in Palermo. They would tell all sorts of stories and let me taste the wine. I didn't like it too much...”

“Your father, what does he do for a living?”

“Well...that's kind of...a secret...”

Mona D'Ambrosia stared around the spacious office of her psychiatrist. It was painted a warm mahogany, which made her feel at ease despite her increasing anxiety from her therapy session. From behind his desk, Dr. Elijah Goodman hurriedly scribbled into his notepad, his brow scrunched into a look of concentration.

Dr. Goodman was a bespeckled man in his late forties, but all the years of his work could be seen in the multiple wrinkles and gray hairs. He had been Mona's personal therapist ever since she had arrived at the Pantheon Psychiatric Facility two months ago.

“A secret, eh?” Goodman leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I'm your friend, remember? You can tell me anything.”

Mona shifted uncomfortably in her seat and averted her gaze to the window. A light breeze gently brushed a colorful tree limb against the pane, creating a rhythmic rapping- - - - -

“Mona...”

From behind his glasses, Dr. Goodman's eyes seemed cold and indifferent.

“Well, um, my dad, he owns some businesses in Italy, warehouses and...stuff.”

Goodman nodded, seemingly happy with his new found break through. “Are you upset with your father for having you committed?”

“No...no not really. I guess it was for the best.”

More notes were scribbled into his book. “And your mother? What is your relationship like with her?”

“It's...good.” More notes...

“When was the last time you've seen your mother?”

“I think...I don't really remember...” Mona tried desperately to recall her mothers face, to fill in a void that had been inexplicably left in her mind. Most of her memories of her had been reduced to nothing but fragments; a birthday party one moment, a summer resort in Sicily the next, but it was always the face that alluded her.

“I think that's enough about your parents for now, we'll cross that bridge when we get there.” Goodman thumbed through a thick manila folder. “I see you didn't do your homework assignment, mind telling me why?”

Mona began to wring her hands together in a nervous fashion. “Well, Gabriela said it was stupid. And besides...no one else did it...”

“That's beside the point. We talked about how Gabriela can be a 'negative influence' on you.”

Mona gazed at the clock, eagerly watching the second hand make it's rotation. “Gabriela said, she said that all this stuff was bullshit, and that you're a quack that got his degree online. Her words...not mine...”

Goodman sighed and removed his glasses. “I think that's enough for today.” Mona jumped from her seat, beyond relieved to finally get out of his office.

“By the way Mona. Happy Birthday. Eighteen?”

Mona nodded, inwardly kicking herself for letting her own birthday slip her mind. “Yep...eighteen.”

“Well, here.” Goodman reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a blue slip of paper. “I know it's not much, but show this to the cooks at dinner, and you can get an extra dessert.”

Mona took the slip of paper and pocketed it. “Same time next week?” Goodman said, emphasizing his words as more of a command than a question.

“Sure...I guess.”

“Ok then, see you soon.”

Mona made her way out of Dr. Goodman's office. She was sure Gabriela would be interested in her latest therapy session...

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Two Hours Later...

“Please, Dr. Goodman, my son, he is sick. His head is not in the right place and I fear for his life. Now I don't need you pissing down my leg and telling me it's rain. I need to know that Pantheon is the best choice for my son.”

“Mr. Ippolito, I assure you that Pantheon is not only one of the finest mental health facilities in the United States but also the world. Your son will have the latest in amenities and medical care, a twenty four hour staff that works to- - - - -”

“I can't say what's going on in my sons head, but what if...you know, he wants to 'poke' one of these fine little birds running around here?”

“...EXCUSE me Mr. Ippolito!?”

“Ha! Relax, it was just a joke! You know? Guy humor!?”

“Ah yes...joke...”

Anthony 'Tony' Ippolito mockingly slapped his knee and laughed, his corpulent gut rising up and down with each breath. Next to him, his 'son' Konstantinos stared stoically ahead, his dark eyes boring a hole through Dr. Goodman.

“Well, all of the paperwork has been filed.” Goodman continued. “All I need is your signature of compliance Mr. Ippolito.”

Tony did not even bother glancing over the sheet of paper that was pushed across the desk towards him. He haphazardly scribbled his name and thrust it back to Dr. Goodman.

“Well, no standing on ceremonies then!” Goodman quipped, but as all the parties rose from their seats, he could not shake the feeling that there was something off about Mr. Ippolito. The man carried the aura of a shady politician, of someone you would not want to cross.

“God bless Dr. Goodman.” Tony said as he and his son headed for the door. Tony Ippolito wrapped his arm around Konstantinos and embraced him. He brought his head close to his, so the doctor could not hear what he was saying..

“The package will be here in one week. Make her suffer son...”

Without so much as batting an eye, Konstantinos nodded. “Yes papa.”