Dr.
Walter Hausfeld scratched a few words onto his notepad. October 12,
afternoon session. Carlisle, Dwight. He looked up at his patient, a
scowling thirty-year-old man in prison grays, seated in a folding
chair. For some reason, Dwight refused to even sit on the couch.
“Dwight,
I'd like to start with--” he began, before Carlisle interrupted.
“It's
Loudmouth.”
“...of
course. Loudmouth, I'd like to start with a question. Why are you so
angry?”
“I
dunno. Probably because you're such a dipshit.”
Dr.
Hausfeld sighed. His sessions with Carlisle were always
difficult—Dwight tended to start with insults, and then stay there.
Worse was that he seemed to do it reflexively, as if he didn't need
to think about it at all. The doctor once asked Dwight about his
preference for abuse over conversation, and Dwight told him to “take
the train to Fuck You Junction.”
“I
want you to listen to something.” Dr. Hausfeld pulled up an audio
file on his computer. “I trust you're familiar with Signora
Soprano?”
“Yeah,
I watch the news.”
“Recently,
someone was able to record her sonic cry in action without completely
destroying their equipment. With careful editing, they managed to
filter out its destructive qualities, as well as reducing the volume
and pitch to something the human ear can handle.” From the corner
of his eye, he could see Loudmouth making the “jerk off” hand
gesture. “Anyway,” he said, “let's take a listen.”
The
doctor played the clip, which was a female voice hitting a high C
note and holding it for almost a minute. While there were slight
vibrato flourishes, it was otherwise pitch perfect. Dr. Hausfeld,
being a fan of the opera, had to wipe away a tear, and even Loudmouth
was impressed (though of course he'd never say so.)
“Impressive,
no? Now, here's another recording.” He pulled up a second file and
played it.
The
difference was like night and day. This new voice was guttural,
jagged, and ugly in every sense. The pitch fluctuated wildly,
completely out of control, and even though it was nowhere near the
edges of vocal range, it was still painful to listen to.
Whereas
the first voice was singing...this one was screaming.
“What
the fuck was that?” Loudmouth asked.
“That,”
the doctor replied, “was you.”
Loudmouth
sat back down in his chair, a look of shock on his face. Walter
Hausfeld leaned forward over his desk, his fingers steepled.
“So
I'll ask you again, Mr. Carlisle. Why are you so angry?”
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