"I see so much of myself in you," she said quietly from the other side of the glass. 

    The man swallowed thickly as he looked at his mother through the interrogation room's one-sided mirror. 

    Why was she saying this to him? He was nothing like her. They had had the same horrible circumstances, and they had nothing in common. He had become a criminal psychologist, while she had become a criminal -- they were nothing alike. 

    "Who knows?" she said suddenly, and leaned her head back in the stiff-backed chair where she sat. She was grinning, and it unsettled him. "One day you could be here in this room in my place." Slowly, she turned her head towards him, her dark brown eyes meeting his even though he knew she couldn't see him. "It only takes a few crimes for you to end up here. I'm sure you could do it, sweetie."

    It was as though a hand had closed around his throat. 

    He was frightened of her. Of his own mother. 

    She had called him "sweetie," something he had wanted to hear from her for all twenty-two years of his life, and yet it seemed… wrong. 

    She had never been a loving woman. To him, she had always been cold, always ignoring him and shutting him in his room while she let strange men into their house. He had been too little to understand then, but she would always end up with their wallets at the end of the day. All of that money and she hardly fed him or took care of him. And now she dared to call him "sweetie"?

    How dare she. 

    Anger swept through him, casting his dread and discomfort away with reckless abandon. 

    After all this time, she only decided to pretend she loved him when it would benefit her? He had never felt so unloved.

    "Dr. Anderson, I think we're ready to begin." 

    His breath hitched for a second, and he whirled around to see a police officer standing behind him, holding a clipboard out to him. 

    He took it and said, "Ah. Thank you."

    The police officer eyed him for a second, frowning slightly. "Are you alright, Dr.?"

    He nodded. "Yeah. I'm ready to begin the profile."

    Even though she didn't look completely convinced, the police officer nodded and stepped to the side as he opened the door, coming face to face with his mother.

    "My son," she said sweetly, but her eyes conveyed none of the warmth of her words. 

    "Do you have "excess glibness" or superficial charm?" he asked her immediately, ignoring her question.

    "How cold," she responded with a smile. He took a deep breath as soon as the words left her mouth, fighting the roiling anger boiling inside him. He would not lose control. "Well, what do you think, James? I think the men I brought home would attest to that."

    "Is that a yes or a no?"

    "A no, of course, I'm very modest. They probably could've gone on and on about my charms if they were here, but I am quite modest myself."

    She was both lying and showing that she really did think highly of herself. Dr. James Anderson was sure she would score incredibly high on the Psychopathy Checklist.

    "Do you have a grandiose sense of self-worth?" 

    She shrugged. "What do you mean? No, not really. I'm just looking out for number one: me." She paused for a second before continuing, "But you're a close second, dear." It took all of his self control not to roll his eyes.

    He had never meant anything to her, and he certainly wouldn't start to now.

    They continued through the rest of the checklist, and the doctor became more and more aware of how much his mother's answers matched the ones expected of a true psychopath. The more she answered, the more disgusted he was of her. 

    "Do you feel any guilt for your actions?"

    She laughed. "Nah. That man deserved what he got. He denied me the money for my services, he got what he deserved." 

    The casual way in which she spoke of the murder she had commited shook him to the core. He had seen others like her, but she was his flesh and blood -- that made it even more real. 

    "I'll be back after a quick recess," he told her and stood up from the plastic and metal chair, unable to spend another moment with her. He pushed open the door and was greeted by the female police officer; she gave him a questioning look but he waved it off. He needed a little time to steel himself before he entered that room again. 

    In the men's bathroom, his pale hands clutched the edges of the porcelain sink and he glanced up into the mirror. 

    He could understand why the police officer was worried: he looked how he felt, with tired hazel eyes ringed by half-moons of dark skin colored by lack of sleep. His jet-black hair, so like hers, was slightly unkempt and he tried to smooth it with shaking hands. He needed to look calm and collected -- he would not show weakness in front of the woman who had given him hell for the majority of his life. 

    He exhaled and stretched his neck, rubbing his muscles where they had strained because of his terrible posture. 

    He felt better, more able to handle her. And so he headed back to the interrogation room, preparing himself for whatever happened next. 

    "Welcome back," his mother greeted him, and he only inhaled a deep breath.

    "What led events led up to the murder of Ryan Whitman?"

    The criminal in front of him frowned. "Come now, aren't you curious about me, my son?"

    A little flame of hate lit up in him. "No, I'm not," he answered, not looking at her. He refused to. "And don't call me that."

    "What, my son? You don't want to be called "my son"?" She snickered. "Well, it's true, isn't it? Are you ashamed of me?" He kept his mouth shut, glaring at the ground. "You are my son. You can't escape that."

    "Stop." 

    "You will follow in my footsteps, whether you want to or not, James."

    "Stop." He could feel her terrible brown-eyed gaze on the back of his neck.

    "You can't escape blood. You can't escape me."

    "STOP!" He slammed his hand on the interrogation table, feeling the sting as it connected with the cold metal. "Just stop! Please!" Finally, he looked up into her power-hungry stare. "You've tortured me my entire life, isn't that enough?!" 

    Unable to bear her any longer, he pushed back his chair with such force that it clattered to the ground; without another word, he rushed out once more, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. 

    He would give anything to be rid of her. Everywhere he went, she was there, always. He could never escape her. 

    The policewoman stood in front of him, her mouth moving but no sound reaching his ears. 

    His eyes zeroed in on the pistol strapped on her hips and before he knew what he was doing, he had seized it. 

    This was the only way he could escape her.

    "Hey, what are you doing?!" the police officer yelled at him. "Put the weapon down now!"

    Dr. Anderson shook his head. "No," he said, his voice shaking. Desperation and anger clashed in him all at once. "Every day, she haunts me. Every single fucking day. Do you know what that's like?" Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he couldn't even notice them. "I look over my shoulder every day, scared to death that she'll find me and lock me for days on end in my room again, scared to death that she'll hurt me again. I need peace, and I can't have that until she's dead."

    "This isn't the answer, doctor--"

    "Then what is? Jail? That's not enough."

    "Maybe not, but she hasn't had a trial yet." The police officer's conflicted look hardened into one of utter resolution. "I can't let you do this." She rushed forward, but he was ready. 

    Six bullets.

    Bang! 

    Five.

    He turned on the interrogation room, his pulse beating frantically as adrenaline flooded his system. 

    Finally, he was getting the revenge he had waited for all his life. 

    He opened the door and his mother looked up into his eyes calmly. 

    "I'm not afraid of you, James."

    "Why not? You should be." He raised the pistol so it was level with her head, and all she did was smile. 

    "I was right," she breathed. "You are like me."

    He glared at her with pure, unbridled hatred. "I'm nothing like you."

    She laughed. "You are blind, my son."

    "Shut up."

    "You want to silence me?" Every inch of her face was alive with insanity. "Then do it, I dare you. But be prepared to live a life like mine, my son."

    He clenched his jaw and said, "To get rid of you, I would do anything." 

    Five bullets.

    Bang!

    Four.