The Monster WithinbyMattblackUK©
They say you should keep in touch with the child within. But what if the child within is a monster? Surely then the best thing to do would be to keep that child hidden in a deep, dark place? Or to try to kill it, some how?
My name is Steven Evers. Once, I was Dr Steven Evers, a respected psychologist and author of numerous textbooks and self help books for people who required help. But that was before I ruined everything.
I am in jail for rape. It wasn't just any rape, I raped the wife of my lifelong best friend, I did this by abusing my knowledge of psychology and I abused her trust.
I was able to convince her to cheat on her husband by having her performing horrible, degrading acts. But worse I sent video evidence of what happened to her poor husband and also (this brings me more shame) to their 18 year-old daughter.
Today is my first session with the psychologist that they have assigned to me. Well, this should be interesting! I have asked her to just sit and listen, with a recording device going, to say nothing.
She sits down at the table in front of me and introduces herself. Her name is Amanda Smith. She is young, dark haired and very earnest. Under other circumstances, I would have described her as pretty.
"Hello. I am here to help you understand yourself a little better." She started well, I'd have to say.
"Before our formal recording session starts, as this is our first session I would like to recommend two books." I thought that sounded ominous. Surely not?
"The two books I would like to recommend are: 'Acknowledging our Inner Selves' and 'Helping Ourselves to a Better Life' they are by..."
"Dr Steven Evers," I interjected.
"Oh! You have heard of Dr Evers?" she replied. "Oh, your name is Evers, isn't it? Are you related?"
I gave her 'a certain look' and said: "Look at my name, again."
She did, then her face blanched and her right hand flew up and covered her mouth. "Oh! Oh my God! I am so sorry! We'll dispense with the book discussion. We'll start our recording, now. Perhaps you could tell me about yourself, why you are here?"
"I am atoning for a crime. The crime of rape. How did this happen? I blame my mother. That's probably unfair, to some extent, but I blame her for ruining my childhood and creating what I call the monstrous child side of my personality. The evil child within, if you will.
Where to begin? My father was a good, kind, loving man. He was a university professor and taught English literature at Dugday College in San Francisco.
He'd met my mother when they were both freshmen (freshpersons?) at university. They'd dated and married whilst they were still studying. I came along very quickly afterwards. Only several months after the wedding.
My father was a fairly wealthy young man and he came from old money. Our house had been in the family for several generations and was part English country manor and part Disney castle. Actually, I exaggerate, though it was a fantastic place to be a child in. Until, that is, my mother began her cheating.
It was strange but she started cheating on me, first. Until I was five she was, as far as I can recall and as far as I could tell, a normal mother. As normal as a mother with a maid and a nursemaid to help her look after a child could ever be!
But when I was five she started cheating on me. Well, that's how it felt to me. She began seeing less of me, yet at the same time she was increasing her activities with charities that worked with third world children.
I was her son, her own flesh and blood, yet she spent more time looking after he interests of Inuit children, children in India, Africa and everywhere it seemed, but children in her home. Or, to be more specific, me. The only child in her home.
I saw her countless times on the TV reporting back for whatever charity she was working for, some thin brats on one side, a celebrity friend on the other, all looking towards the camera. All for charity. But what about me? Didn't I deserve some charity from my mother? Apparently not.
When I was about nine, my mother started cheating on my father. Oh, she was a master manipulator. (Was this where I got it from?) She was able to convince my poor clueless father that it was his all fault.
That if he'd done x, y, z, then she wouldn't have to cheat! So he did x, y, z and, yes, you've got it! She cheated some more! Why? Because she had his measure. And she then knew what she could get away with.
The fights were terrible. I would escape the house to flee the horrors of my home life. And money does not make you happy. My home life was proof if this. After all, we had money and we did not have happiness.
I spent a lot of my time at the home of my friend Dave Summers. His family took me in and looked after me like I was a second son to them. Incidentally I am glad his parents did not live to see my betrayal of their son.
It was at their home that Dave introduced me to his new girl friend, Susan. My reaction to this dark haired beauty with the tanned skin, the long legs, the perfect bottom, the beautiful breasts and the ready smile was instant. She was gorgeous but I buried such thoughts deep. A gentleman doesn't put the make on his best friend's woman, right?
Eventually things at home got worse. When I was 14 my skanky mother finally left my father for a much younger lover (not that much older than me, in point of fact) and my father's reaction was to work really hard at drinking himself into an early grave. Sadly when I was just a couple of days beyond my 18 birthday he was able to succeed in his desire, and died due to acute alcoholic poisoning.
I was 18 and I was arranging the funeral of my still relatively young father. That was so fucked up! I had it arranged in the Cathedral, with the Bishop officiating. What can I say? When you are wealthy, money can buy anything. Actually, that's not entirely true. Whilst it is true that the remains of the family money certainly helped, what really swung the deal was that the Bishop and my father had been at university together and were still personal friends right up to the end.
The funeral went well, mainly my father's university colleagues, some of his students and some former classmates of his from his own student days, and at the end of the service I had paid the organist to play some of my father's favourite Bach pieces. It went well up until the time I saw my mother and her lover lurking behind a column at the back of the chapel.
I walked towards her. She was elegantly dressed. She should have looked beautiful, but her face looked hard. It reminded me of one of those carefully crafted lines by Raymond Chandler. Philip Marlowe had seen a woman and berated her appearance as looking like: "The ice maiden after a hard night out at sea with the fishing fleet." That's what my mother looked like.
I looked her up and down. "Come to gloat? What? No wooden mallet and stake to drive through his heart? There's no need to bother. I can assure you that he is quite dead."
A look crossed her face. I couldn't determine what it was. "There's no need to be like that," she said. "I came to pay my respects."
"Your respects?" I spat out. "God! You had no 'respects' for him whilst he was alive. It's a bit damn late, now to find some 'respects' for him! And since you left home when I was 14, I have only ever seen you a couple of times for fleeting visits!"
She looked at me, sadly. "I should never have married your father. I was not right for him. I tried, but I was no good for him. I had hoped that when I finally left him he would find someone more suited to him, but he chose to drink himself to death, instead. That's not something I am willing to take the blame for. Although I am sorry about the way he died.
"I am sorry I did not see much of you. I was always too busy working for deprived children."
I glared at her. "Fuck them! What about me? I was a deprived child! I was deprived of your love!"
She looked puzzled. "But you had the nurse, the maid and your father?"
"But not you! Not my mother! I always wondered what I had done to make you hate me so much!"
She stared at me. "I am sorry. It's not your fault. Really! It isn't. It's just that you started to look so much like your father, my first real boyfriend, the man who took my virginity at college. The man who I cheated on and then dumped to be with your father! I'm sorry!" She turned and hurried off, her young lover in tow. His smirk had changed to a frown.
Fuck! Me! So my father hadn't really been my father? Had he even known? What fucked up horror was this? Just something else to squirrel away to add to a psychic maelstrom for later detonation. Sorry about that mixed metaphor, there.
Somehow, life continued. Dave and I went to college, Dave studied Business and I studied psychology.
I started dating Helen and we and Dave and Susan got married on the same day, in the same church. I was Dave's best man, he was mine, and the girls were bridesmaids to each other. Or matrons of honor, perhaps.
Life after college was good, Dave's business did really well, my psychology practice was doing OK, well, better than OK, really.
Dave and Susan gave birth to Sandi-Sue and we regularly met for barbeques, parties and the like. Helen and I did not want children.
We often vacationed together, I watched Sandi-Sue grow up to be a fine young woman.
One day everything changed because Susan volunteered to help me with a project I was working on.
I was helping to put together a program to help people with low self-esteem issues. I needed a normal control to listen to the sessions so that we could match the control against some other test subjects who were facing self-esteem issues in their lives. And Susan, who had helped me with other similar projects in the past, would be an ideal subject.
A couple of weeks in to the project Susan asked me for some advice. She asked me to sniff some perfume she had applied to her neck. She confided that I knew Dave's taste in most things. Would this perfume be one he would like?
I took a deep breath and it was as if I had received a karate blow to the back of the neck. I realised that I had caught a good, deep breath of Susan's sex pheromones. It was at that point that I made up my mind that I was going to, somehow, fuck Susan Meadows.
The details aren't important. But the basics are that I changed the hypnotic sessions for ones that I specifically aimed to train Susan to become my lover. I enhanced the effect of these sessions with a combination of several very powerful psychiatric drugs that I obtained on the black market. They were all in liquid form so that I could introduce them into Susan's food and drink whilst she was working with me. She did not know she was taking them.
Eventually, I had Susan trained so that she was, in effect, two personalities. A good, loyal wife and the slut who would do my bidding. Or the bidding of the monster child within, who had always wanted Susan?
It was strange that I had made Susan into what I already was, a person of two distinct and separate personalities.
I could have played it sensibly, had her as my lover for God knows how long. But I totally and completely blew it!
Looking back on the tragic sequence of events I can only come to the conclusion that I wanted to get caught! I mean, phoning Dave whilst I was having sex with Susan? And then sending a video tape not only to Dave but to their daughter, Sandi-Sue, having encouraged or made Susan say horrible things about them and comparing them unfavourably to my cock? I mean, please! Give me a break! My cock is, in all honesty, averagely average! It's not some gigantic phallus! So having Susan compare my cock to them, favourably, must have been some weird joke against myself.
It was lucky that Dave did not just ignore my lie, rush round to my house and beat the living shit out of me! Fortunately he had the presence of mind to call his lawyer, instead.
And how had I expected that my wife Helen would not find out about what I had done? It was utterly stupid.
I was in a fog of denial. When I was arrested I knew that I could bluff and lie my way through it, so I'd be all right. And I was confident of this right up until the moment I was arraigned in court and I saw Dave as I was ushered in. I smiled at him (why? How could I be so callous?) and then it all went wrong for me, as I saw the look of agony on his face and I saw him mouth these words to me, words that I'll never forget: "Why? Why? Why did you rape Susan?"
Suddenly my two personalities seemed to come together and I literally staggered and almost fell over with the sudden realisation as to what I was, what I had become and what I had done. I felt such a deep sense of shame that I decided that the only thing I could do would be to change my plea to that of guilty.
I have given myself some deep and searching analysis over the months after I was jailed and I can only conclude that I suffered some form of psychotic breakdown. But that doesn't excuse what I did.
I wonder if I was aware of my mental health issues a long time ago? Was that why I went into psychology? After all, there was a feature on the TV once about people with mental health issues gravitating to work in the mental health profession. And an elderly professor on the show said that this was because 'the best place to hide a tree is in a forest.'
I have concluded that the monster child within had issues with people. He, or it, knew that our mother hated us, that our father hated us to, so it wanted to try to test the people in our lives to the limit. Kind of: "OK, folks, well, if I do this and this and this bad thing, I'll bet you won't love us, then! Then you'll hate us just like our mom and dad and that will prove that we really are unlovable and evil."
Only trouble was, it did prove we were unlovable and evil. My rape of Susan caused her not just the mental trauma but also physical trauma, too, she had to have two operations to put the damage right that I'd caused to her vagina. As for my best friend Dave, Christ, how that poor man must have suffered! How he held it together, I'll never know. And Sandi-Sue, I feel sick when I think about what I did to that blameless little girl! And Helen? I destroyed the love of my life. I hope she'll meet someone else, I truly do. But how can she trust anyone, again?
And I betrayed myself. Everything I had ever professed to believe in, I betrayed. And why? Maybe I am evil?
I am here in prison because I am atoning for a crime. Just turn that damned machine off please, I think I'd like to stop there...
This is published in Loving Wives as it is part 2 of a Loving Wives story. It is told from the point of view of Steve Evers, so may be considered to be suspect, as it his from his viewpoint.