- Merlyn
The Fool - Innocent, Free, Reckless, Fearless, Used
Folliet Bard has been caught.
She can hear her mother crying in the hall. The door is closed, but it’s very loud sobbing. A bit irritating really. The psychoanalyst seated across from Bard is staring her down with wide, predatory eyes. Like she’s caught an interesting specimen. It’s gonna take quick thinking and slick lies to escape. It’d be helpful if her mother piped down so Bard could concentrate. But if her mother was helpful, she wouldn’t have brought Bard here in the first place.
Bard knows she’s different. She’s small, and mousy, and does bad stuff. Feels an intense pressure to always do the wrong thing. She’d been trying to do small bad things to reduce that pressure - so she didn’t lose control and get caught. Obviously, she’d fucked that up. Now she was facing consequences. Starting with a thorough psychological screening that she has apparently also fucked up.
Well, she’s not locked up yet. She fixes her mask and prepares for battle. Gonna be the most normal chick in this fucking loony bin.
Her mother’s wailing hits a particularly grating pitch. The elegant doctor briefly scowls towards the door of her posh office.
“Sorry about that. We usually can’t hear blubbering from the hall, but she’s really going for it. Want me to send her away?”
Yes, says the pressure. “No,” says Bard’s mask.
The psychoanalyst smiles. Her amazonian sophistication probably scares men and worries HR managers. It makes Bard want to do bad things. The doctor pulls a green bottle from her desk. Gives it a little wave.
“Scotch?”
Bard feels the pressure build. Yes, it says. “No,” says her mask.
The doctor smiles, shrugs, and pours herself a beautiful amber drink. She sips it with relish, then snaps open a file.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Folliet Bard. Do I call you Folliet? Folly?”
“Bard.”
“Alright, Bard. You can call me Merlyn.” She gestures vaguely towards the hall. “Do you know why she’s crying?”
“I failed the test.”
“Ha, no. You can’t fail. It’s not a test. It’s a diagnostic.”
“It was called The Psychopath Test.”
“Alright, it’s kind of a test. But you can’t fail, it only shows who you really are.”
Bard’s mask crinkles with anxiety. “So I’m a psychopath?”
Merlyn smiles. “Well, just mostly. Specifically, you have a no-fear anomaly. Fairly rare. I’ve seen worse. There’s no standard of care for a no-fear anomaly, but most psychiatrists would drug you til you’re too tired to steal cars and fuck your mom’s boyfriends.
“Fortunately, I’m a renowned expert in the Dark Triad of psychopathy, machiavellianism, and narcissism. I know most psychopaths aren’t missing emotions, but the biophysical reactions to those emotions. You’re probably riddled with fears, your body just responds to them differently. Perhaps as a feeling of pressure, that pushes you towards them.”
Bard feels the pressure build. Her mother is crying so loud. She hides behind her mask. “Can you fix me?”
“Oh yes. I can turn you into the perfect little daughter. Would you like that?”
FUCK OFF, snaps the pressure. “Yes,” whispers her mask.
Merlyn smiles even wider. Sheer glee accentuates her predatory eyes.
“We could also teach you to fake being normal, but really train you to be a secret agent for a morally ambivalent world domination attempt.”
Bard’s mask freezes. The pressure builds. “What does a secret agent do?”
“Lies. Spies. Kills people.”
“Bad people?”
“Mostly. Other psychopaths for sure.”
Surely this is another test. But there’s something reassuringly deranged about Merlyn’s smile. The pressure builds.
Fuck it.
Bard whispers. “Let’s do the secret agent thing.”
Merlyn’s hearty laugh syncopates eerily with a mother’s heart wrenching sobs.
“Oh, Bard. We’re gonna have so much fun!”
Bard’s mask slips and a crooked smile sneaks out.
The Psychopath Test (Quiz)
Should you be a psychopath? (Video)