Pen on paper, 2016

Twisted

'Some would say I'm sick and twisted,' I told the psychologist. He was a neat, middle-aged guy with a calm expression in his piercing blue eyes.
'Why would they say that?,' he asked.
'Well...I'm...I...'
'Take a deep breath. Try to relax,' he said, smiling.
'I'm in love with a dead woman,' I finally let it out. It felt good, but I was afraid of what he might say, what he might think. But it was too late to keep quiet now.
'Did you fall in love with her before she passed away?'
'No,' I said, unable to look him in the eye. 'I was at her funeral and it all happened so damn fast. I fell in love with her. I couldn't help it. It just happened all at once. Do you think I'm crazy?'
'No. I think you just need help, and I'm here to help you,' the psychologist said, trying to comfort me. 'How did she die?,' he continued.
'That's the other thing,' I told him.
'What do you mean?'
'Well,' I said, clearing my throat. 'She was murdered.'
'She was murdered?'
'Yes.'
'Do you know who murdered her?'
'Someone sick and twisted,' I told him, smiling.