ʀᴀᴠᴇɴᴄʀᴏғᴛ

(He wonders if he falls into that category.)

What if this one is seeking help, a way out?

    Doctor, I've been dealing with these "special cases" all of my life. It's extremely rare for individuals to be beyond rehabilitation. After some time, most embrace the therapy. 

No..I guess not..Well, maybe..

    You do?! Holy shit! What gave it away?!

    ( she clears her throat. )      That's enough.

    Cool. I’m Bullseye.

     I know.

Can a criminal be completely rehabilitated?

    Individuals who are so far gone, who are so broken and twisted, that they can't be repaired are extremely scarce.

Dr. Bruce Banner.

    It's a pleasure.

    This is interesting. My last therapist was a model-figured super-villain who let me do the dirty with her. What’s your name, princess?

drkafka

    “Can I have a new book?”

    Dmitri isn’t talking to Kafka, more like talking at her general direction. Stretched out on the floor, pillow under his head, arms folded over his stomach, and knees drawn up, he stares up at the ceiling. A copy of The Fault in Our Stars lays beside him. He picks it up, waving it above him in a slow arch.

    “I’ve read this one before,” he says, “Oh, and how’s your throat?”

     Ashley looks at him, studying him. It's subtle, but it's her job. There's a moment where she wonders whether or not he's going to play games today. Who will he pretend to be today? Much to her pleasure, there's nothing yet. 

     She cants her head to the side, not being able to resist the urge to feel her throat and clear it. She would prefer not to entertain him with that. 

I do hope so. Are you familiar with a Dr. Kafka?

    Cletus blinks rapidly. His vision moves as if consciousness is a switch and someone has flicked it on. He sees Ashley in strange colors and he realizes, belatedly, he must have been injected with something. There is a dreamy awareness of gliding, a distant sense of static roaring.

    “That’s good,” says Cletus, with his cheek pressed to the side of the metal slab he’s laying on, eyes turned up to leer at her with all the accusation of a prisoner and a judge.

     ”That must mean you’re the idiot. I said it last time ‘n I’m sayin’ it again — you ain’t gettin’ shit from me until you give me back Carnage.”

      There's a slow nod as she listens to his words. She doesn't have a pen and paper. She doesn't need those.

      Ashley looks Cletus over one more time. He is exactly the same as he's ever been: uncrackable. In all this time, in all these years, she hasn't made the slightest dent in Cletus' psychopathy. It feels almost like a failure thus far, but she's determined. 

    Cletus didn’t attempt to struggle in the clutch the bed has on him. He hates this — when the woods beside the facility were full of the lunatic shrilling of summer insects and the air wobbled with liquid heat. Thunder hammered at the afternoon. He wanted so desperately to be out in it. Not in a clinical state, with some ugly girl staring down at him like she could change him.

    “Tell me something, Doc — do I look like a damn idiot to you?”

    The days are long and the hours are consuming, but she cannot complain. It's all she's ever wanted: to help others. It's just that sometimes it's more difficult to help certain people. Today's certain person? Cletus Kasady. The camera clicks on. The recording for today's therapy session has begun. She takes a seat beside Cletus' bed and clears her throat. 

    "No, Cletus. I think you're the opposite of that."