Chapter 12: Truths and Assumptions

"I want to kill a man."

The psychiatrist looked up from his notes and asked, "Do you mean that metaphorically?"

Maya locked eyes with him and replied, "No, literally."

He asked calmly, "Why?"

"Because he killed my father."

"How?"

"He betrayed him and conspired with his enemies."

The psychiatrist twirled his pen between his fingers and asked, "Did he confess this to you?"

She pursed her lips. "No."

His eyes narrowed. "Then who told you?"

She responded impatiently, "No one told me. I just know."

"Wait! Why are you angry?"

"Because you don’t believe me."

The psychiatrist leaned back in his chair and said, "What about you? Do you believe yourself?"

Maya smiled, her expression shaky. "I’m not schizophrenic, doctor."

He spoke sincerely, "It doesn’t have to be schizophrenia. Let’s see, how long have you been thinking about revenge?"

"Three years, ever since my father was killed."

"Have you seen a psychiatrist before me?"

"No."

He asked, "Why now? Why did you decide to see a psychiatrist now, even though you’ve had this idea of revenge in your head for three years?"

She laughed lightly and said, "Exactly what I’d expect from a psychiatrist," then scratched her head as she continued, "Because now a problem has arisen."

"And what is that?"

"The man has a nephew."

He urged her, "And…?"

She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t, then smiled shyly.

The psychiatrist, observing her, said, "No rush, take your time."

She stared at the white carpet under her feet for a few minutes before looking up and saying, "I’m ready."

"Alright, this man you want to kill has a nephew, and that’s causing you a problem. Why?"

She lifted her head and gazed at the ceiling, gathering her strength. She hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to admit something like this. Finally, she looked back at him and confessed, "The problem is that I’m in love with his nephew."

The psychiatrist asked skeptically, "How old is he?"

She smiled faintly. "Oh, he’s not a child. He’s my age."

"I see. Does he love you?"

"That’s not the point."

Ignoring her answer, the psychiatrist repeated, "Does he love you?"

She was silent for a moment, angered by the question, then answered curtly, "I don’t know."

The psychiatrist persisted, determined to make her admit it. "Yes or no. Does he love you?"

She replied forcefully, "No."

"How do you know?"

She whispered, "I just know."

The psychiatrist smiled mockingly. "Aren’t you tired of saying that?"

Maya responded in kind, "Aren’t you tired of asking questions?"

He replied confidently, "No. It’s my job."

She reached out, grabbed the glass of water on the table in front of her, took a sip, then set it back down, muttering, "Where were we?"

The psychiatrist said kindly, "This nephew…"

Maya interrupted, "His name is Alexander."

"Alright, Alexander. How do you know he doesn’t love you?"

She focused on her clasped fingers. "Alexander knows I want to kill his uncle Frederick. I told him that, and he told me he wouldn’t let me do it…"

The psychiatrist interrupted, "Is that why he hates you?"

Maya spoke angrily, "If you ask me another question before I finish talking, I’ll leave."

The psychiatrist, realizing that her anger stemmed from his use of the word "hate," apologized. "I’m sorry."

She continued, "A week ago, Alexander had an accident that left him severely addicted to heroin. Since the doctor said that the usual treatment of gradually reducing heroin doses would be harmful to him, I decided to use psychological motivation to treat his addiction. You know what that means, right?"

He nodded. "Yes, it means presenting the addict with things they care about and value, like showing a father his young children and reminding him how they’ll be without him. But this method rarely works, so doctors don’t often use it."

"Exactly. In my case, I told him I hadn’t killed his uncle before because I was afraid of him. But now, I would kill his uncle because he wouldn’t be able to stop me since he’s an addict."

The psychiatrist encouraged her after she fell silent for a long time. "What was the result?"

Maya looked at him, as if she’d forgotten he was in the room, then smiled sadly. "Imagine! It worked. He believed me and fought fiercely for the next two days, refusing any dose no matter how small. He struggled and endured all the symptoms, especially since his uncle—fortunately for me—was on an urgent business trip. On the third day, when his uncle Frederick visited him, I think he realized I was lying. But he continued resisting the addiction because, as the doctor told me, he had regained some of his cognitive functions and understood the severity of his addiction. Yesterday, I found out he’s still in the hospital but steadily improving."

The psychiatrist placed his pen on his desk and clasped his hands together, saying cheerfully, "That’s good news."

Maya replied angrily, "Good news! Yes, it is, but not for me. Let me explain further. That day, when I told him I would kill his uncle, Alexander’s mind was clouded by heroin, so I was speaking to his heart and emotions. If he loved me, if he trusted me even a little, he would have realized I was lying and known I’d never play such a dirty game. But unfortunately, he believed it. He believed I was despicable enough to exploit his situation to achieve my revenge."

The psychiatrist tried to help her process her pain. "That hurt you, didn’t it? The most painful thing is when we discover that the person we trust doesn’t reciprocate that trust. Instead, they…"

Maya cut him off, biting her lip to stop it from trembling. "Stop. I didn’t come to you to analyze my feelings."

"Then why did you come?"

She spoke seriously, "Well, because of Alexander, I’m starting to think that Frederick might be innocent, especially since I don’t have concrete evidence that he betrayed my father. But the thing that confuses me, and I want your help with, is this: if he’s innocent, why have I had this thought in my head for three years, telling me he’s the traitor and I must avenge my father?"

The psychiatrist tapped his desk with his finger for a few seconds, then hesitantly asked, "Did… you really want to kill a man without any evidence?"

She pointed to the wireless earpiece story. "There’s some evidence, but it’s not conclusive, so I didn’t rely on it."

He asked, "What did you rely on then?"

She replied with genuine confusion, "Do you know that feeling? When someone senses rain before it falls, when they feel the wind before it blows—that’s the feeling I relied on. It may sound silly, but something tells me Frederick is guilty."

The psychiatrist pursed his lips in thought, then asked, "Did you love your father?"

She was surprised by the change in topic but confirmed sharply, "Yes."

"Could you imagine your life without him?"

She mumbled, "Never."

"How did you feel in the early days after his death?"

She replied sarcastically, "I’m really curious about how I felt."

The psychiatrist scratched his neck, then clarified, "You misunderstood me. I mean, how did you feel in those first days when he wasn’t there to share your daily life—meals, watching TV, walking in the park?"

Her eyes sparkled as she admitted, "I didn’t feel anything because I hadn’t lived with him for the last six years of his life. I was living with my grandfather and aunt in another city."

The psychiatrist was momentarily surprised, then asked, "Tell me, how did he react when you left for another city?"

Her face froze as she recalled those days when she had ignored her parents’ attempts to dissuade her from leaving. She hadn’t cared about them; all she had wanted was to go with Nina. She had thought it was her right as Nina’s mother without realizing that staying with her parents was their right as her parents. She looked at the psychiatrist and simply said, "He tried to dissuade me, but he didn’t stop me, and he wasn’t angry when I left."

The psychiatrist sat up straight and spoke seriously, "Alright, Maya, listen carefully. When your father was killed, you must have felt a deep sadness for not seeing him before he died. This sadness led you to think, ‘If only I had lived with him, if only I had listened to him and stayed by his side, I would have spent more time with him, gathered more memories, justified him more, and benefited more from him.’ All these thoughts made your conscience torment you."

He paused to let her absorb his words, then continued, "The other thing that happened is that you loved your father deeply, and when he died, you felt sorrow, felt lost. You said you couldn’t imagine your life without him, which means his death was a severe shock to you—a shock that made you hate living, I believe."

Her face paled, and the psychiatrist realized he was correct in everything he had said. He continued after she looked up at him, "So, my dear, because of your guilty conscience and desire to die, your subconscious—driven by a need to protect you—painted Frederick, who was with your father and couldn’t protect him, as a traitor. Your mind also generated the idea of revenge, as the desire for revenge would distract you from your guilt and give you a purpose in life, thus removing your desire to die."

Maya closed her eyes, realizing that the psychiatrist might be right about everything he said. This meant she had wronged Frederick—her father’s dearest friend—for three years. If this were true, she owed him an apology, though she wasn’t sure if he would accept it or reject it.