Before this deviation begins...

WARNING: This writing contains disturbing imagery, could be triggering to those of uncertain mentality, and is extremely fucking long. If you don't have the time or the proper mindset, please do not read at this time.

Thank You.

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He stared at me and in the silence, I returned his steady gaze.

I'm normally not open with people but I made it a point to myself to be brutally honest with him. Only with Roger. He slowly blinked and settled back in his chair. Processing my answer, his usual calculating manner wavered a little.

He didn't believe me. I wasn't really surprised. We'd been talking for a while and bringing up something like this after so long must be off-putting.

I leaned on my knees even though the chair was full and comfy. Its burgundy plush seemed oddly out of place for this kind of conversation but it wasn't its fault. I don't blame the furniture for its surroundings. I turned to staring at the goose grey and burgundy carpet. The synthetic fibers still stood tall though many feet had crushed them.

"How long have you had these thoughts?" His clipboard rested on one knee as it's crossed over the other. The pen was held gently between his hands, glimmering softly in the comfortable lighting. Roger's own burgundy cushion seemed barely burdened by his slim frame.

I was silent for a moment. A revelation such as this requires the right presentation. I don't actually believe that I am insane, just merely, abnormal. It's just a slight twist in my character. Not necessarily a flaw but an uncommon eccentricity.

"I don't know exactly. It started off as a curiosity I suppose," my words trailed off lamely. I didn't really care if he does believe me but it would make this conversation less awkward.

He nodded slowly, "They often do. Have you told anyone of this...craving?"

I couldn't help but laugh softly. "No, no. It's not really something that's pleasant to talk about." I leaned back in the chair to look at him once more.

His glasses had slipped back down his nose and he inspected me over them. "I can imagine."

"It's never provoked by anything. Every once in awhile I'll see someone and the thought just strikes me. As far as I can tell it's not any specific type of person." I stared at the carpet again. His gaze used to unnerve me but over time I grew accustomed to it. At first it felt threatening but it's merely his way of observing and understanding.

Resting my chin on my hand I continued, my gaze trailing over the stitching in the chair's seams as I spoke.

"I don't remember when the thoughts began but when I was young I had a...bad habit of peeling the bark off of the trees in our back yard. It helped I suppose. Eventually I had to stop because my parents yelled at me. They said it was harmful. My brother was a Boy Scout and I liked looking through his handbooks. From that I learned how to whittle and that didn't harm the trees as long as they weren't live branches. Only once or twice did I actually make anything out of the branches because peeling the bark off with a knife was enough to satisfy."

I traced the stitching with my fingertips. Its even machine-quality texture whispered silently to me. I resisted because I didn't own the beautiful upholstery. I glanced up at him and he was watching my fingers. My hand stopped and he returned to studying me.

His own fingers pushed his glasses gently to the bridge of his narrow nose. "Where did it go from there?" he inquired. The man has always been able to make me feel at ease no matter what the subject. It's a talent I suppose. I've always been envious of his level of skill and hope someday to match it.

My eyes slipped to rest on his desk to the right. I've always been impressed how the small room could hold so much yet still feel comfortable.

"One day I got too into it, I guess. I ended up slicing into my thumb. My father saw the blood and took away my knife. He said that I should stop whittling because I was being careless. I honestly think that if I had been my brother, he would have just given me a band-aid and told me to be more careful." A shiver of resentment ran down my spine.

"After that I got another knife and kept whittling in private. The only difference was I couldn't get the image of blood out of my head. It seemed so...wanting. For a few years I was able to ignore it and resorted to bigger and bigger pieces of wood. At one point I had a beautiful piece of oak, tall enough to be a staff. It was bleach white. It reminded me of bone."

At some point I had started staring at the burgundy armrest and was tracing the stitching again. They felt comforting to a degree. Another shiver ran down my spine as I remembered that beautiful piece.

"I kept it in the garage, hidden out of sight. Sometimes I took it out just to hold. To feel it's smooth milky surface. Eventually my father found it as he was searching for his tools. He yelled at me, telling me knives were not toys. I said that I knew that and that it was my staff. He broke it in half and tossed the pieces out with the garbage. He also took my knife. For a long time I didn't buy another one in case he was watching what I did."

My fingertips continued to trace the stitches. Slowly, they savored the texture. The upholstery felt so familiar. I'd noticed it before but I couldn't help myself this time.

Roger watched me silently. His pen hadn't moved the entire time. I couldn't tell whether it was a sign that he believed me or not. My fingers stopped over a single stitch. Delicately touching, it lingered.

"When I did finally give in and buy another knife, I found that the trees no longer satisfied me."

His eyes narrowed slightly at the admission. He shifted in his seat but I could tell he wasn't nervous, simply curious. He carefully resettled his glasses and waited, knowing that I was not done speaking.

My short nail sank slightly into the upholstery. The little stitch was cradled between skin and keratin. Gently, I began to pry into the armrest.

"I haven't ever intentionally killed anything, if you're wondering, Roger. I have told you that before and I won't lie. I've been tempted. Oh, countless times but with all my intelligence, murder is never a mutually beneficial act. I don't really care but it's a rather serious offense if uncovered."

I tilted my head up from staring at the armrest and glanced over at him. His steady blue eyes, lightly lined with the effects of early aging, slid up to look at me.

"It's a temptation none-the-less. It isn't my intention to completely end these thoughts. I'm aware that they are so ingrained into my mind that trying to get rid of them may be counter-productive." My fingertip was still embedded in the stitchwork. Motionless, it held the segment of thread gently.

His gaze rested thoughtfully on his clipboard. The pen was still motionless but his mental notes have always been better than anything written on paper. I don't doubt that he remembered every detail of my revelations over the course of our talks. I have seen him scribble things down but more often then not, he just listens.

"Then enlighten me," Roger finally offered. "Why do you tell me this now? What is the benefit of waiting when we could already be working to fix it?"

"Roger, I don't mean to fix it. But in response to your question, because I know I can trust you."

The man's eyes darted up in surprise. I think that was the first time he'd ever shown that emotion in front of me. His forehead crinkled gently, "Of course you can trust me. I've been your therapist for how long now and you never felt you could trust me?"

I sighed slightly, "It's not a personal thing, Roger, so don't take it so. You know of my past experiences with therapists and why I have a hard time trusting anyone. This is the first time I've divulged this particular secret so if anything, I suspect you should feel privileged that you have such a level of my respect." I smiled faintly and his brow softened briefly before crinkling again.

"Well, if you don't seek to fix it, then why tell me at all? What is the purpose?" The blue eyes blinked and Roger's head tilted a fraction to the side. My finger slid out from beneath the stitch and smoothed the slack against the burgundy fabric.

Before I answered him, I made sure the damage done to the threading was unnoticeable. My gaze returned to staring at the crisscross carpet. The lazy lines were beautiful in their own way. "I want to learn how to control it better. Even though I don't whittle anymore, the thoughts are beginning to...interfere with my ability to focus at work. All I have wanted to do for the last few months is paint skin. Muscle and bone. For one who writes for a living, paintings such as that won't help my career and only take up valuable time. I am concerned that if I don't learn a better way to control it, I may end up slipping."

With one hand lying upon the stitching, I massaged my temple with the free hand. My head rested on it and I began staring at the other armrest.

"When I was younger I would try to stave the cravings by harming my own skin. The bottoms of the feet worked well because the pain was less and it came off easier. Whenever I found a dead animal, I couldn't help but strip it clean. The temptations have slowly developed."

Roger watched me, fascinated. "Into an obsession," he tentatively observed. He doesn't bother pushing his slim frames back up onto the bridge of his nose. Thoughtfully, he removed them and closing his eyes, began wiping them with a tissue he always kept in his pocket. This was always a sign. He had absorbed enough information to form an opinion and was preparing his words.

The care that he takes in his hypotheses never ceased to be a curiosity of mine. When I first met him I thought that maybe he was a little slow but first impressions are often wrong. He is simply methodical, practical.

"I do believe I can help you," he stated after a minute. "This is the first time I have ever had a patient with this particular problem but with the proper steps, I believe we can see improvement. In the time we have known each other I know that in the meantime I can trust you to keep a close eye on how things develop and to be painfully honest," he stopped rubbing his lenses long enough to settle them neatly on his sharply angled face. "I must be honest in that originally I did not want to believe you. It was a very strange claim but I know you do not joke about such serious things. At this moment, even though it is not my style, I have no advice for you other than to continue curbing those urges as you have. At our next meeting, expect a more detailed and more helpful mindset."

Roger smiled softly and, as always, ended our session with, "Is there anything else you wish to cover at this moment? I do believe our time is at an end."

As always I smiled back, "No, sir. I do believe that is all."

"Well then, if you would kindly meet me next week, same time, we can continue where we left off," the man stood to shake my hand. His unused pen glimmered faintly from his chest pocket.

Standing, my fingers once again brushed the burgundy stitching. In all the times I have sat in it, I have always wanted to remove those tiny threads. I tipped my head to the man. Even though we have always been the same height, I have always felt that I look up to him. Taking his slender hand in mine, I shook it firmly.

"Good day, Dr. Forbis."

On my way out the door, the late afternoon sun was still glowing. As I walked leisurely to my car, my hand slipped inside the pocket of my coat. There it met the soft fabric and enclosed around hard steel. The cold metal soothed my nerves, left sparking from Roger's touch. I couldn't help but smirk.

One day, that skin will be mine. Until then, I must wait.