My Boyfriend is A Murderer?

"Dr. Davenport, you claim that you killed your boyfriend in self-defense because he was trying to kill you," Donald Livingston, the police officer, said with a subtly skeptical look in the interrogation room. "It's really hard to believe that."

Seeing me silent, he changed the subject. "Why don't you start by telling me how you and your boyfriend met?"

My name is Melissa Davenport, and I'm a psychiatrist. Psychiatry is a particularly nuanced field within clinical specialties. Most of my classmates advised me against it, suggesting that internal medicine is more appealing and that obstetrics and gynecology are better options than this even though they are a bit more demanding.

However, I can work as a psychiatrist at a top-tier hospital with just a bachelor's degree, without needing a master's. Besides, the salary is much higher compared to my classmates who are still pursuing their graduate studies.

My family isn't wealthy, so psychiatry is the most suitable option for me.

It was at the hospital that I met my boyfriend, Zack Berger.

It was my second month on the job when the director finally allowed me to see patients independently.

"Dr. Davenport, do you know why the chairs in this consultation room are always against the wall?" the director, Dale Donovan, asked.

I didn't understand the director's point, so Mr. Donovan chuckled and said, "Never turn your back on a patient. You never know if the patient you're seeing is dangerous, even if he has a mild condition. Here, safety comes first."

Later, I knew that Mr. Donovan was telling the truth. The first patient I saw was a young girl in her early twenties. She looked delicate and claimed to be an illegitimate child of a wealthy family that would eventually take her in and bring her home.

When I was writing the medical record with my head down, the girl suddenly and without warning poured water from her water bottle all over me!

As I heard the girl's hysterical laughter and my mind went blank, a tall figure in a white coat stood in front of me, and I snapped back to reality.

That was how I first met Zack. He embodied everything I had ever imagined in a partner. He was refined, gentle, and handsome, looking exceptionally good in a white coat.

"Be especially careful when seeing patients. What if that bottle had been filled with hot water?" said Zack, looking a bit disheveled from the wet clothes, as he handed me a tissue.

After that incident, he had taken great care of me. It was natural for the two of us to be together. He even teased that because of his profession, he hadn't had much experience in relationships, even though he was almost 30.

"So, before he tried to kill you, you and Zack had a good relationship?" Mr. Livingston asked, tapping his fingers on the table.

I nodded. "Yes, very good. I was infatuated with him."

"Then how did you realize that something was wrong with him?" asked Mr. Livingston.

I paused for a moment, and answered with a wry smile, "Officer, I know it's hard to believe, but this was actually something a patient of mine told me."

Mr. Livingston raised an eyebrow. "A mentally ill person?"

The patient was a 14-year-old boy named Timothy Norris, who attended the junior high school in our city. His mother was very anxious when she brought him in.

Timothy appeared expressionless, staring at the ground and avoiding eye contact. His mother was extremely worried and said, "Doctor, something is wrong with my son. He's in the third year of junior high now, and suddenly he's like this!"

Such situations were not uncommon, so I offered some comfort and began to inquire about his condition. "When did he start showing these symptoms?"

"Since September last year, after school started, the teacher told us Timothy had become less talkative and had fought with his dorm mates. We had no choice but to bring him home and hire a tutor.

"Six months later, he finally improved a bit. But as soon as he went back to school, he... My son used to be a good kid who never caused trouble! If it weren't for..."

"If it weren't for what?" I pressed.

Before his mother could respond, Timothy looked up, staring at the white wall beside him, and said in a low voice, "The woman in the red dress always follows me."

His mother's face turned pale. It was bright and sunny outside, but I felt a shiver.

Timothy continued to fix his gaze on the white wall. I asked cautiously, "What... what does she look like?"

"In a red dress, right there on the white wall," Timothy said. "She tells me to 'go die.'"