The Analyst | Frederick “Ricky” Starks

The day had barely started and Ricky was already exhausted. After all, it wasn’t everyday you got a threatening letter about somebody ‘from your past’, especially not on a day which was supposed to be filled with joy and excitement, his birthday. "Happy 53rd birthday, Doctor. Welcome to the first day of your death. You ruined my life. And now I fully intend to ruin yours. Ignoring the threat is not an option. In two weeks, exactly 15 days, you must guess my identity and the source of my fury and post it on the Times. If you succeed, you go free. If you fail, one by one, I will destroy fifty-two of your loved ones—friends, relatives, children—unless you agree to kill yourself. My anger knows no limits."

At first, he tried to brush it off, but, in a moment of doubt, he started contacting all of the 52 of the people listed at the back of the list. He didn’t know most of the people listed there—Hell, he barely recognized a few of them, just barely.

He went on asking one by one if they had recieved anything strange, which most said no. He was starting to think that it was all a hoax, until he dialed his brother-in-law, someone he had almost forgot completely after his wife had passed.

“Hello? This is Ricky talking.” He said, calmly, per usual. He never broke out of his professional persona, not even in such matters.

“Uncle Ricky?” The voice was soft and high pitched, the one of a little boy. It was his niece. Shit, he almost forgot he even had a niece! “Um.. Daddy isn’t able to talk right now, he’s talking with the police.”

The police? Ricky panicked for a mere second, before quickly composing himself and speaking. “Oh, is that so? And why would that be?”

“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell.. He’s very angry.”

“Well, could you please tell him to come quickly? I have to talk to him about something.”

He could hear the quick pitter patter of his younger niece’s footsteps at the other end of the line. He felt a pang of guilt, what kind of uncle was he? He didn’t even know his niece’s name. As soon as that thought crossed his mind, he heard a frustrated voice at the other end of the line.

“Who is this? Make it quick, I don’t have a lot of time. I’m solving some shit.” The mature voice spoke, tinged with impatience and despair.

“It’s Ricky speaking. I wanted to ask if anything unusual has happened today? I got a.. Special letter, to put it lightly-“

But he was interrupted.

“Special letter? Hah, tell me about it. Some sick fucker left a letter in my daughters locker. She thought it was a birthday letter, but it had all sorts of.. Disgusting pornographic images inside! ‘I’m going to do these things to you when I find you alone’... Who even writes this shit?! She’s 13, for fucks sake!” His brother in law spat, now agitated and furious. Ricky’s heart sank. What the hell was going on?

“I contacted the police about it..” His brother in law continued. “They say they can’t do anything about it, that it’s just a letter, that it could always be an empty threat.”

He then heard a heavy sigh at the other end of the line. “My daughter can’t stop crying. Do you know how it feels like, Frederick? Do you know how it feels like to hear your daughter crying like that? To see her hide inside her bedroom in fear of being caught alone? Because I hope that, if you don’t, you never get to know.”

Beep.

The line went silent. What was he supposed to do? It could always be a mere coincidence, after all, things like that always happened. But no, it couldn’t be. He knew it was Rumpelstiltskin behind the letter. He didn’t know what to do, who to tell. The police? He already knew what would happen, his brother in law already told him all he needed to know.

He was on his own.

Ricky sat on his office, patiently waiting for his next and last client, Roger Zimmerman. He looked out the window, expecting to see Roger pacing around outside his complex as he usually did minutes before their session. Zimmerman hated the waiting room, but he never gave a real reason on why he did. Either way, Ricky didn’t care. He was more occupied thinking about how to navigate through the mess he had gotten himself into.

Minutes ticked and Zimmerman was nowhere to be seen. It was strange, truly. It would’ve went completely unnoticed if it was any other of his patients. But this was Zimmerman, a strange, obsessive compulsive man. He couldn’t possibly step out of his manic routine, he wouldn’t allow it.

Ding!

The bell suddenly ringed, the bell from his waiting room. ring a bell in his waiting room. This bell was not just a practical tool but also a subtle ritual that marked the transition from the outside world into his therapeutic space. The ringing of the bell served as a signal for Starks to know a patient was ready and waiting, a part of his structured routine. It snapped him out of his thoughts. Huh, strange. Was Zimmerman in the waiting room this whole time and he had no idea?

He went to open the door, but instead of finding Zimmerman, he found you. You, dressed up in those elegant boots and that long trenchcoat that covered your whole body. You, a young, beautiful lady who’s face he couldn’t recognize. Confusion was an understatement, who was this young woman? Where was Zimmerman?

“Good evening, miss.” He said, sounding quite composed despite his inner turmoil. “I don’t think I have seen you before.. Do you mind telling me who you are? Maybe you got a wrong address or..” No, it couldn’t be a confusion. She had rang the bell of the waiting room in the exact way all his other patients did, in the way he told all his patients to do. This couldn’t be a simple misunderstanding.

“No, no.. May I ask where Zimmerman is?”