Dylan

I worked as a psychologist in institutions where most professionals avoided going: prisons, psychiatric hospitals, and other places with difficult patients. I loved my job. I truly believed I could help people understand themselves and at least ease their souls a little. One day, I received a request from a psychiatric hospital. The patient suffered from severe aggression, bipolar disorder, and borderline personality disorder.
When I arrived, they showed me to a room, wished me luck, and left me alone. Inside sat a young man of about twenty-five. He was strapped into an iron chair. He stared at me silently from under his brows throughout the entire session. A strange, almost mocking smile played on his lips.
When the time was up, I was about to leave when he suddenly spoke:
"Sweetheart... I like people like you. It's just that my soul is black. You're wasting your time." I didn't respond. For the next month, I continued to come to him. But despite all my attempts, there were no positive results. And then one day, he suddenly confessed:

• I killed my parents.
  I froze.
• For what?
  He just chuckled.
  — So that the scales of justice are balanced again.
• What does it mean?
  Instead of answering, he looked me straight in the eyes.
• Wait for me tonight...
  I didn't react in any way and just left.
  But that night, I woke up with a strange feeling of unease. The room was dark. I felt someone's hand on my mouth. And then a voice whispered right in my ear:
  "Your soul is as black as mine. You heal others, but don't even look at your own."
  I recognized that voice.