The man tapped his fingers together, and a small chill racked his spine. It was a creepy thing to watch. Chester Schmidt had been around criminals before. The mentally ill. The drugged-up. The vengeful. This man standing in front of him seemed just like a crackhead. Unpredictable, uncontrolled. A loose cannon. And yet, worse than that? He seemed to be in total control of every movement he made and every thought that came through his head.

A small, almost dreamy smile painted itself across Cody's lips like his face was a fresh canvas. He reminisced to himself, pictures of his own twisted paradise. "You see, Mr. Schmidt, there's this urge that arises in a man. What one might call an uncontrollable impulse. A reason for insanity in my case, I suppose. Maybe just because it's different from that of other men?" He shrugged, hands on waist, with a quizzical expression on his face. As though he had no idea if his lawyer could even understand what he was talking about.

He decided to elaborate. "For some men, it's lust. A dozen girls in a room, topless. For others it's alcohol, and going to bars every night, avoiding their families and responsibilities. For some it's drugs, as they refuse to face the horrors of the world around them, and don't even realize how they contribute to the problem. For some, it's abuse that they take out on those around them." He explained, and glanced back at the lawyer. Then his smile softened. "Of course, for many, it's the joys of a newborn infant at home. The success of a promotion at work. The accomplishment of graduating with a degree." He gestured with his hand toward the other man.

"For me? I consider it a grey area. Not white or black. My impulses just happen to involve... a little bit of bloodshed, a little bit of pain, and a little bit of experience with my work. Anesthesia is such a calming thing. Truly. It's best to practice on successful people who already have so much going for them in life." He explained. It was his best reasoning.

"Most doctors practice on veterans in the VA. That's a horrible place, you know. They're miserable, old, and get a lousy check for the trauma they endure. So instead, I choose to practice on people who are happy. Better to die young and free than old and miserable, right? That's not wrong to do, comparatively!" He paused, and pinched the bridge of his nose. His expression was one that yelled 'are you an idiot? This isn't that hard to understand!' before someone got whacked over the head with a textbook.

"Did you know that in China, they pay doctors for when they're healthy because it means they did their job correctly, rather than when they're sick? There was nothing horrible about what I did to those people. They died loving everything they had." His arm lashed through the air. His fingers trembled as though adrenaline from making his kill had coursed through his veins. But the only terrified face he saw was that of his lawyer. And there was no anesthesia in here to keep him quiet.

"That means we could technically nab their attention with both u-uh, sorry," Schmidt cleared his throat, as an attempt to regain his confidence and voice. He feigned at best an anxious grin at his client. "We could claim the case of an uncontrollable impulse as well as you not knowing right from wrong in these particular incidents. I can make a case for you." The lawyer explained, eyes beginning to shine with anticipation. "You've got everything you need to at least end in asylum instead of a prison, if I can word it correctly. Are you sure that's a better decision than trying to get you off with a guilty?" The man asked through gritted teeth.

Cody only laughed, and shook his head. He was in utter disbelief at how foolish college-boy over here sounded. What did a man with money have to do to hire a good lawyer nowadays? "No. But let's be honest, the jury must have more of a moral compass than you do! They don't care if it has to do with work or not. They see bodies who look tortured, and scream bloody murder! Nobody cares for my side of the story, or my daughter's. All I did was fulfill my personal needs." He groaned, face in hands.

His daughter, goodness. Nobody would care about her side of the story. Her father was just another crazed psycho in the face of history. His little girl? Innocent of all crimes. He was guilty of everything he'd been charged of, and more. But his daughter was bright, successful, a glow of joy that filled the darkness. His life was a dark forest, with twisting vines that gripped at his throat, howls piercing through the night, and branches that clawed him to shreds with every step. She was the fireflies that twinkled down the path, guiding him away from rocks that would stab at his feet, holes that would trip him, ledges that would steal him away from life and into a sea of death with a jagged bottom.

His daughter was everything to him. His wife had once held a lantern to lead his path, but when that light went out, he followed the fireflies. Past crimson oceans of warm liquid. Blood had always been thicker than water. Though it was difficult to trek through, he knew the bond that held him and his daughter together was unbreakable.

(Why did I used to put soooo many adjectives in my writing!? Seriously, past-me was so excessive in my writing. SIGH. . . ANYWAY, have a blessed and frabjous day, dears! Try to take some YOU-time today!)