Daniel Webb - December 5, 2006

Yvonne Martin

Patient arrives in office at 10:10 A.M.. Introduce self.

"Hello. I'm Yvonne."

Ask to sit down and explain a little about self.

"I am nineteen; I was born in Chicago. My father died when I was ten, my mother when I was eleven. Both from lung cancer; they smoked. My only brother and I were sent to live with my parents' close friend in New York City. My brother was shot and killed a year later. I continued to live with my aunt for another year, until her death from an aneurism.

I was then sent to live with a cousin in Albany, New York, until she was killed in a hit-and-run three months later. I was then sent to an orphanage where I stayed for a year until I was adopted by a couple, Mr. and Mrs. Saplan. I lived with them until they were killed in a fire in their home two years later; I was sleeping over at a friends.

After that I lived with another aunt who had been away in Africa since my parents' death and hadn't heard the news. She then let me live with her, in Seattle. When I was eighteen, I moved out, back to Chicago. I found out a week later than her boyfriend of four months had murdered her after finding she was pregnant. He was found hung six weeks later, suicide. And I'm still in Chicago, as you can see."

She smiles. Ask about other details; friends, pets, memories, etc.

"I was never very popular," she smiles again, "people tended to turn away from me when they heard my past. I did have one good friend while in Albany. Her name was Mary. She died of leukemia shortly after I moved to Chicago.

As for pets, I had the occasional cat or dog, but they always seemed to be hit by cars. I gave up after burying the fifth.

No particular memories are of any great importance. Most of them are of crying faces at a wake. And of course the deads' faces."

She seems to answer each question almost automatically, with no emotion expressed. Ask about relationships.


Nod head.

Look at clock; thirty five minutes have passed.

"Eager to be rid of me?"

She smirks.

Assure that it is not the case, merely making sure we haven't gone past the session time. She closes her eyes as if sleeping and starts speaking in a barely audible whisper.

"Death seems to follow me everywhere, Mr. Webb."

Call me Daniel.

"Right. Well, Daniel, it does. I have learned to accept that which I cannot change. Death follows me. I have become one with it. I am death."

Assure her that she is merely confused about her life. That she has gone through rough times, but it will improve.

"No, nothing will improve, Mr. Webb."



Ask why she believes this.

"It's fate. So be it."

She stands up and runs a hand over my head. Do not stop her for fear of upsetting her. Sharp pain in left arm.

"I don't lie, Mr. Webb. I am death."

This is probably the oddest thing I have ever written, but it popped in my head earlier today and decided to go with it.

So . . . not much to say about it, actually. Please review! I would like to hear opinions on it.