'I eat people,' I say.
The psychiatrist doesn't blink. 'Tell me about that.'
Her office is plain. Just two low chairs facing each other, a box of Kleenex perched on a coffee table in between. A couple of bookshelves line one wall with a small TV mounted above them. The only decoration is a framed photo on the opposite side of the room. It's a picture of her family. Her parents, brother, sister, and her son, who must be around ten or eleven years old now. She has to have married young because she looks younger than twenty-five.
'It wasn't always like this.'
She nods for me to continue. We're sitting across from each other at her kitchen table. She's wearing jeans and a loose t-shirt. I'm in my usual grey hoodie and jeans. Every time we talk, she makes me feel comfortable enough to just sit back and talk without any awkwardness. Maybe it's because she's always smiling.
'When I was little, I used to watch shows where they ate people,' I start. 'Not every day – only when I got bored. I thought it was cool how their teeth could shred a man into pieces while he screamed.'