[ WP ] Your a therapist and Satan 's just turned up to your door .

“ Mr. El is here to see you. ” 
 
 My receptionist ’ s voice woke me from my reading. You ’ d think being one of the top therapists in town I could hire someone with a more pleasant voice. But then again, you ’ d also think I ’ d be able to refuse taking on a client who insists on meeting only after hours. I guess some things are not meant to be changed, regardless of how much money you make in life. 
 
 The aforementioned Mr. El is, and there is no other way of putting it, a beautiful man. I don ’ t usually notice other males ’ looks, but as he steps into my office, it ’ s difficult not to notice the striking jawline, the expressive dark eyes and the glowing, full blond hair. He ’ s wearing a suit, but you can tell by the way the fabric clings to him as he moves that there ’ s muscle under it. This guy could give Brad Pitt a run for his money. Heck, any movie star. At their prime. I snap out from my thoughts. Why am I paying so much attention to this guy ’ s physique? Maybe this is something I should discuss with *my* therapist. 
 
 “ Mr. El, I presume? ” I recover to greet him just in time that it ’ s not too awkward. “ Please, have a seat. ” 
 
 “ You can call me… Sam. ” He says. Was there a pause there? 
 
 “ Is the couch ok? ” he asks, his voice is deep and very pleasant. For some reason I think that it ’ s the vocal equivalent of dark chocolate, melted and dripping, sweet and bitter and intoxicating. Again, I need to snap myself out of it. 
 
 “ Anywhere you like is fine. ” I say. “ Would you like a drink by any chance? Coffee, tea? ” 
 
 “ Scotch please. No ice, just a dash of mineral water, if you would. ” I ’ m not even aware that there ’ s any liquor in the practice, and I never allow patients to drink during sessions, but I find myself repeating his instructions to my receptionist, and ordering a cup of tea for myself. 
 
 “ So tell me why you ’ re here. ” I tell the mysterious Mr. El. It ’ s my favorite way to open a session. 
 
 “ It ’ s my… job. ” He answers. Again, a pause. Is this a speech impediment? 
 
 “ please, continue, ” I urge him. I try to remember what his job his. Tina gave me his business card when she told me of the appointment, but I was too livid from the thought of having to stay over late, I didn ’ t really pay much attention to it. All I remember is that it was black, and had the name “ Sam A. El ” written in red on the front. 
 
 “ I ’ m… Assigned to this… what ’ s the word? Where you punish people? ” 
 
 “ A prison? ” I offer. 
 
 “ Sure. Let ’ s say that. I ’ m assigned there, but that ’ s only part of it, mostly, I would say that my job is taking the blame for everything. ” 
 
 “ What do you mean? ” I ask. I notice that he said all that without any pauses. Not a speech impediment, then. He ’ s choosing his words carefully. I make a note in my notebook. 
 
 “ It ’ s like… When someone does something wrong, they ’ ll say I made them do it. Sometimes people believe it, sometimes no, but it ’ s the oldest excuse in the book. ” 
 
 “ And have you? ” I ask. 
 
 “ What? ” 
 
 “ Made them do it. ” I clarify. 
 
 Just in that moment, Tina chooses to come in with the drinks. She hands me my mug and then gave Sam his glass with the amber liquid in it. He thanks her and she giggles. *giggles*. That woman is incorrigible. I take a sip of my tea and spit it out almost immediately. It ’ s coffee. Again. I compose myself, not wanting to scream at Tina in front of a patient, and say to her. 
 
 “ Thank you, Tina, now please return to the reception so that we can continue this session *in private* ” I emphasize the last two words, to let her know she ’ s unwelcomed. 
 
 “ No. ” Mr. El says after she leaves. 
 
 “ No? ” I ask, wondering what he means. 
 
 “ No. I never made them do anything. I ’ m a scapegoat. They are the ones who do wrong. They choose their own actions. They blame me because they can ’ t face the fact that they are the real demons. ” 
 
 “ And how does that make you feel? ” I ask. It ’ s a cliché of a question, but it usually works. 
 
 “ I ’ m sick of it. I ’ m not in charge of them. I don ’ t care what they do one way or the other. I just feel like I never get my side of the story told. ” 
 
 “ So tell me, ” I say, “ I ’ m listening, what ’ s your side of the story? ” 
 
 He seems taken aback by this. As if he never thought that someone might ever hear his side of the story. After a minute he says: “ You know humans are a not perfect. They have ideas, urges. Somewhere down the line someone decided that following some of these urges is wrong, and so people try to keep up. They want to do so many things, but they are told it ’ s wrong. I say who cares? Those rules are just an illusion anyway. But for saying that the rules don ’ t matter, I get punished, and now whenever someone does something wrong, they say I made them do it. My name, my reputation, it ’ s all mired now by the very worst people you ’ d ever meet. Is that fair, I ask you? ” 
 
 I ’ m trying to deconstruct what he ’ s telling me. “ Let me see if I get it right. You ’ re on the side that thinks that there should be no limitations to human actions, correct? Sounds to me that you ’ re a liberator by nature. Perhaps by blaming you, people say that they are just not ready to accept the type of liberty you offer. They lash out on you to make themselves feel better, yes, but that shouldn ’ t hurt your reputation. If anything, they ’ re promoting you. Telling the world how your way liberated them. ” 
 
 He seems to take my word into consideration. “ Liberator… ” he mumbles under his breath. “ I never thought of it like that. That does sound better. Thanks doc, I feel great! ” He gets up to leave. 
 
 “ We still have time in the session, ” I point out. 
 
 “ No need. You ’ ve made things much clearer. ” He heads towards the door. 
 
 “ Won ’ t you like to schedule a follow-up? ” I ask right before he leaves. 
 
 “ Oh, that won ’ t be necessary. I ’ ll see you pretty soon. ” He says as he leaves the room. 
 
 I find myself alone in the office, not quite sure of what just happened. I decide to go over my note as I do after every session. I call Tina and ask for another cup of tea. 
 
 I sit down to read my notes. There ’ s not much to go on, but I try to understand what Sam has told me. Tina walks in with the tea, and leaves even before I manage to say “ thanks ”. I take a sip as I read my note again. 
 It ’ s coffee. 
 
 The cops come in an hour later. They won ’ t be able to do much for poor Tina. I smashed the pot over her head and poured hot tea down her stupid throat. When she protested, I smashed her head again. And again. It felt good to finally let go of my frustration. There ’ s quite a bit of blood in the office by the time the cops get here. I called them myself. I ’ m not worried that they ’ ll arrest me. After all, it wasn ’ t really my fault. 
 
 The Devil made me do it. 

