The Criminal

Ch. 1: Stay away from me, Nicole Hudson.

WARNING: This story contains strong language, depictions of violence, and depictions of eating disorders that may not be suitable for some readers.

I'm going to die.

The knife feels heavy in my hands, passing between my fingers with increased accuracy. The stainless steel is warm as it shakes, prompted to do so by my nerves. Traitorous, a growl emerges from the deepest pits of my stomach, clawing its way through my insides. It demands more. But more is going to kill me.

"Is that your lunch, Nicole?"

Peter—my boss—means well, but I despise the pitying look he gives me.

"I had a big breakfast."

I hate that I lie.

That I need to lie.

"You must eat more than that, hon," offers Claire, sat opposite.

Her tight ponytail moves as she cuts into her lasagne, a dish which—moments ago—she proudly announced was last night's leftovers. I contemplate telling her how envious I am. How I'd kill to have normal eating habits. How I wish I could process the thought of food in a healthy, rational way. But I keep my mouth shut.

"I'm fine," I assure, lightning the mood with my usual laugh.

I'm not fine.

"I have extra lasagne!" delights Claire.

My heart stops.

"No, thanks."

"It's not a problem!"

"I don't want any."

My cheeks ache from smiling so hard.

"Well, the offer is there if you change your mind." She smiles.

I busy myself by spreading butter on my cracker, paying special attention to the corners. I can feel everyone watching me and there's no way in hell I'm eating with them staring.

"Staff meeting tomorrow afternoon," announces Peter, thankfully changing the subject.

I bite into my cracker and set the timer on my watch.

Thirty minutes.

"There's NLP training coming up for those who are interested."

The rest of his conversation is a blur as I mindlessly chew on my food which—let's be honest—might as well be fucking cardboard. I wash my final bite down with some water and head back towards my office. The room immediately offers me peace which—although intentional—never disappoints. As a therapist, it's important my office provides comfort, but what my clients don't realise is that it's as much for my benefit as it is theirs.

"Nicole?"

Hayley—the office manager—pokes her head around my door. She's a little older than me, similar features. We're both blonde with blue eyes, though her hair is a lot shorter. She claims she can't maintain long locks. I'll never forget the day she walked in with it all gone. I wish I was that adventurous. That brave.

"Your two o'clock is here."

I check my watch. "It's only one fifteen."

She gives a little shrug.

"Tell him I'll be ten minutes," I reply, rushing to gather his file.

My next client is new and despite last night's research, I was planning on using this next hour to study him further.

I fucking hate early shows.

I flick through the pages, scanning each word as though committing it to memory is my job. There's no image of this man. No medical evaluation. All I know is Hunter Scott is thirty-seven-years-old, recently released from Laywood prison.