This couch is terribly comfy, doctor. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t want to be here in the first place so could you please stop looking at me like that? You know that they forced me into that ambulance? To bring me here? I know that I was covered with her blood, but it wasn’t anything that I did. I had won the contest for the first time since she transferred here. I was proud. ‘Eat your heart out, Jenny,’ was all I said. It’s not a crime to gloat. It’s just that I rubbed it in a little and she took it too far. The police and the ambulance people—look at these bruises on my arms from where they shoved me in it—act like everything is my fault. Like I forced Jenny to do it.
I was just proud of myself for once. I had done something so good that she’d eat her heart out after seeing it. Jenny is an artist, you know. Was. She won all of the art awards in school. Every year, the Hoover Prize, and the $100, went right to her and her beautiful, perfect, splendid oil painting. Sue me if I couldn’t afford the oils her parents bought her. I won the contest freshman year and I should’ve won sophomore and junior years, too. But then Jenny showed up in the Spring of sophomore year. She hadn’t even been going to the school for a full semester and they picked her over me. Or her painting. You know what I mean. She already had some paintings up in a few galleries, too. It was stupid, she wasn’t all that. I asked her last week: ‘Jenny, how do you get your lines so clean?’ because she did this piece with horribly jagged lines, and she offered me lessons. She really thought I was serious. She really thought that I needed to learn from her. I wanted to beat her this year, sure. And I did. But I didn’t need her help.
I’ll admit that I was a bad winner. And that I gave Jenny a hard time since the first time she beat me. She was shy. Her glasses were shaped like spoons and were thick as plates. Sometimes her voice cracked during presentations. Sorry for laughing, I know I shouldn’t since she’s gone. But she really sounded like her voice had gone through the shredder sometimes. All that came out were a few squeaks just as mousy as her. I didn’t know how seriously she took things. ‘Eat your heart out, Jenny,’ was all I said. And she did. Simple. She was always the performer, even with how shy she was. Us artists are. You can quote me on that if you ever write a book like some shrinks do. Nap time! Let me know about that book.
Patient Notes: Patient is delusional, narcissistic, and overly jealous. The incident that she describes is the murder of classmate Jenny Prescott, 18. After losing this year’s Hoover prize, the patient lured Prescott into the art room after school hours. The instructor failed to lock up the sharp cutting devices and the patient accessed them before luring Prescott into the room. It is my opinion that this was premeditated. The patient took an Xacto-knife and cut Prescott’s throat. She then used a box cutter that had also been left out to carve into Prescott’s chest. A lunch lady walked in as was attempting to cut through a rib with the box cutter. The patient was stopped before she was able to remove the heart, as I believe she intended to do. Authorities reported that she was screaming and had regressed to using her fingers in an attempt to tear out the heart. The lower half of Prescott’s face was covered in blood at the time the authorities arrived. This was perhaps a reference to the patient’s repeating of the phrase, “Eat your heart out, Jenny”. At this point, I do not know what to recommend other than daily visits from myself as well as the list of medications that I have detailed below. It is my hope that further interactions with the patient will bring her out of her current state, which I believe to be a severe mental break, and that she can be rehabilitated and transferred to a juvenile facility. At just 17, I do not recommend that she be tried as an adult.