rhienelleth | Drabble the third

quiet_rebel gave me this picture as a prompt which I could use as either a setting, or a mood or a feeling. I chose mood or feeling, and for some reason the picture, which is beautiful, had a very dark, somber feel to it for me. Hence a rather dark and somber Sark. Though maybe "disturbing" is a better word.

I should warn the faint of heart -- this is a dark drabble fic. If you're easily squeamish you may not want to read. And, er...sorry?

“Why don’t we talk about your father?”

Why did psychiatrists always ask that? Sark stared back at the woman in her unflattering grey suit, and affected a bored expression. He wondered idly if the CIA had specifically chosen a female shrink. Probably. A less threatening figure, someone he might feel safe with, blah, blah. As if that were possible while he was locked away in this concrete prison. They should have sent someone prettier – stunning, even. Then maybe he’d consent to speaking.

“You don’t want to talk about your father?” she continued doggedly, and he suppressed a sigh.

What, did they read from some sort of shrink handbook on questions to ask homicidal prisoners? These weekly sessions were truly an exercise in predictability. Maybe it was time to shake things up a bit, if only for the sake of his own sanity.

He stood up, and the shrink gave a startled gasp and dropped her pen. He’d never moved or spoken during any of their previous sessions. Sark had to turn away to hide his smirk.

“Let’s talk about my father, then,” he said into the ensuing silence. “What would you like to know?” He could just imagine the CIA’s answer to that. Everything. They were just going to have to settle, then.

“Were the two of you close?”

He shrugged, kept his face as empty and bored as ever.

“Not really. Good old Dad didn’t invite intimacies with people, not even his own family.”

“Intimacies. What do you mean by that?”

“Conversation. Family dinners around the kitchen table. Watching the game on television. Playing catch in the back yard.” This time he allowed the smirk to show. “Isn’t that what you Americans consider the perfect family portrait?”

“And your mother? Did she like family dinners and conversation?”

His smile faded. He was not going to discuss his mother with this woman, now or ever. He ignored the question as if she hadn’t spoken, and started pacing slow circles around the walls of his cell.

“I remember one time,” he said. “I was about ten, I think. Our dog had just had puppies, much to my father’s disgust and my adolescent delight.” He paused, but the shrink didn’t say anything. She watched him in silence, scribbling God knew what onto the legal pad in her lap. “I’d already picked out the one I wanted to keep, when my father took me aside and put a shotgun in my hand.”

The pen froze, and Sark frowned down at his hands for a moment.

“A shotgun?” she prompted him, and he turned toward her.

“Yes. He told me we couldn’t afford to keep them, to feed them, and that it was my job to take them out and kill them quickly. A mercy, you see, so they wouldn’t starve to death.”

“Why didn’t your father kill them himself?”

Sark sat back down, steepling his hands before him. He shrugged.

“Because it was a lesson I needed to learn,” he said simply. “He told me what to do, where to do it. So I took the shotgun and a shovel, and I dug the puppies a grave. Then, one by one, while they wriggled and cried and licked my face, I put them in it.” The pen wasn’t moving anymore, and the shrink sat silent, staring at him. Sark’s gaze never wavered. “I picked up the shotgun, and I stood above them, and I fired it. Then I filled in the grave and went home.”

“You went home.”

“Yes.”

“Did you cry?”

“Not then. My father didn’t approve of tears.” The pen flashed silver under the fluorescent lights as the shrink made a notation.

“When did you?”

“When did I what?”

“Cry.”

Sark closed his eyes, and let the seconds tick past.

“Mr. Sark?” she said finally. “Are you going to answer my question?”

“That night I couldn’t sleep.” He cleared his throat. “It was late when I heard it, this pitiful mewling sound coming from the front of the house. I got out of bed and put on my robe, and went out front to see. It was one of the puppies -- my puppy, in fact. I'd only wounded it, you see. It was bleeding all over and crying in pain because I’d failed in my duty. My father heard it as well, and when he came and saw, he made me take the puppy back out to do the job right.” He paused, opened his eyes, looked at her. “I cried then.”

“I see.” She scribbled more notes until one of the guards approached and touched her shoulder lightly.

“Dr. Sorensen, it’s time to go.”

Sark could hear her arguing furiously that she needed more time, this session, but the guard was immovable.

“Director’s orders, Dr. Sorensen. Time’s up.”

She gathered her things and stood, looking at Sark with her lips pressed tightly together. She took a step closer to the glass separating them, waving off the guard’s protest.

“Quite a story, Mr. Sark. Amazing, really, after all these weeks of silence.” She paused. “Is it true?”

Sark smiled. So she wasn’t quite as pedestrian as she seemed. He stood up, stretched.

“It did make the hour go by more quickly, didn’t it?” he said thoughtfully. “But your question does have merit. Is it true, or merely some play for sympathy on my part?” He leaned against the wall of his cell, hands in his pockets. “I guess that’s a question you’ll have to answer for yourself, Doctor. Do have a nice day.”