Whitzz/544K-RP-Datasets huggingface dataset:
Thread: Psychoanalyze Me

She was pretty. But the thought occurred to Martin in an abstract and distant way, like someone might think a painting was pretty. A pretty thing . Even though she seemed cordial enough, he saw through it to the tones and movements beneath. The weary defeat came off of her in waves, even as she went through the motions of at least looking through his file and introducing herself. Pitiful. Actually, not so good today, doc, he said, adjusting himself in his seat and moving his arms briefly, checking the give and take of the straps holding him down to the chair. He jerked his head lightly to the side to get a bit of hair out of his face and then gave her a solemn, serious look. The voices in my head tell me that they don't want to be friends with me anymore. He paused for a straight 10 seconds before breaking into a grin. Just kidding. No. I'm good actually. Can't complain. He shrugged with a breezy smile on his face. Although, the restraints are a bit troublesome. But I don't suppose you can do anything about that, hm? Even though his tone articulated that he understood right away that his request would be denied, the playful, relaxed attitude did not leave his voice. No. She wouldn't remove them. Not if she was smart. Martin had a reputation before he arrived - The Painting Butcher had been what the newspapers called him during his 6 years long murder spree and trial hearing. Capturing people and torturing them, he'd mixed his victim's blood with oil paints and made large pieces of artwork with each one of them, draining them of their blood and slowly killing them over a period of 7 days until their painting was done. He'd been declared incompetent to stand trial. It wasn't until a week after arriving here that he'd actually hurt someone else. But that orderly was a dick. A pencil to the eye was the least of the guy's flaws. He spied some pictures on her desk but they were faced away from him. Nodding at them he asked, Those of your kids? Or do you not have any? They weren't supposed to reveal personal information like that, but Martin enjoyed testing the waters with each new person he met.
Thread: Psychoanalyze Me

Rebekkah usually was not surprised by the victims stories. This man story was no different. She had talked to serial killers, rapists, pedophiles, you name it. Although the way he used the victims blood was a little creative. She listened to his every word, her eyes staring intently into his. Reading his movements thoroughly and taking mental notes. She may have been tired of this work, but she took her job seriously. Her face was emotionless, and no matter what he said she didn't so much as twitch. Some would call it a poker face, but Rebekkah always looked this way when talking to her patience these days. She was relieved however....he made sense with small talk. She wouldn't have to decipher anything to have a proper conversation. At the end, when she was sure he was finished she forced a smile on her face. I really wish I could help you with those restraints, but for my safety as well as everyone in this facility, I'm going to have to deny your request. She was already beginning to scribble down notes that only she could read, as her hand writing was very small. She pressed her lips together, a small habit that she had picked up while trying to focus. As a result, her purplish lipstick smudged a little. She wasn't worried about it enough to check. Finally, lifted her head and adjusted her glasses, her eyes locked onto his again. There was one thing that was echoing through her head that kind of bothered her. He had asked if she had kids. She took a breath and then sighed, the empty smile still plastered on her face. I do not have kids. Was all she said. She would not speak more of it. She was twenty seven years old, and was single. Her dream was to be married by now and to at least have one on the way. However, it did not work out this way, unfortunately. Her eyes shifted a little as she nearly lost herself in thought. So, I'm glad that you are feeling well. How often do you find yourself depressed? Angry? She placed her pen down and leaned back in her chair, crossing her long, stocking clad legs.
Thread: Psychoanalyze Me

Yeah, he thought not. Still, it was on his to-do list to eventually get her to take them off of him. That weariness and robotic demeanor did not leave her, even with the question about children. Technically, since she did not have any, it was probably not that big of a deal, but it was still a personal revelation and it filled him with a sense of triumph. Then a stock question was flung his way and he found himself simultaneously annoyed by her obvious apathy and entertained by the challenge to spark her interest. Depressed? All the time, he gave her a boyish grin. I'm surrounded by idiots and it really brings me down. I just don't have the motivation for the things I used to enjoy - painting...violence... it completely takes the fun out of it when I find myself sitting inches away from a senile old geezer who doesn't even know where he is let alone is aware of his surroundings. Death would probably not make any difference to him at all. I've lost my ability to have an impact because I'm walking among the dead. And it makes me sad. Very clearly it didn't and he shrugged. And angry? Seriously, I don't know what that word means. He gave her a mocking grin, watched her write and leaned forward as much as the chair restraints would allow. Ask me if I'm in any pain next. Or maybe, you could ask me about my childhood or whether I'm plagued by guilt over my victims. How about I give you a few dreams and you can stick them in that nice little folder there. That'll be nice. And then we can all give ourselves a nice pat on the back about how much 'work' we've gotten done. Another smile crossed his lips as he sat back in his seat, releasing a satisfied sigh. When he spoke again, the mockingly sweet tone left his voice for a more personal one. Does that make you sad - not having any kids? Is there a void in your life because of your lack? Is it because you can't have any? Do you blame your husband or do you blame yourself? Martin was just shooting in the dark now, hoping to hit something.
Thread: Psychoanalyze Me

At this point she was a little interested. Most of the time her patients gave her short or very exaggerated answers, but it seemed like this man was being honest. Well, about most things. Showing any sort of sadness for anyone around him...well she didn't really believe that. Her face remained the same up until the point where he changed the subject back to her. When he mentioned a husband, She bit her lower lip, once again smudging that violet lipstick and her eyes lowered. I do not have a husband, however Mr. Creasy, this session is not about me. It's about you. If you find my normal questions to be too predictable, perhaps we can start somewhere else. Uncrossing her legs, she opened the drawer in her desk and fumbled with the papers inside. It was apparent he had shook her up a little. She got her Rorschach inkblot cards and set them on the desk. Before she would show him the test though she needed to continue her notes. There was only so much information that she could store before she forgot. Sticking her tongue out and licking the tip of the pen, she began scribbling once more. The whole while she was avoiding contact. A few strands of hair became loose as she did this and she pulled it back behind her ear. After a few moments she found herself unable to make contact with his piercing eyes. For some reason she was looking at him now instead of through him. More features became apparent. He was young, he was handsome, he did not look like any of the mental wards she had previously encountered. She knew there was a possibility that this might have just been one of his personalities, but he seemed calm. Together. Collected. She cleared her throat and then held up one of the cards. Tell me, what do you see?
Thread: Psychoanalyze Me

Another revelation. Granted the information she let slip wasn't much more to go on, but her body language was giving him clear signals for how she felt about what he was asking her. The more bothered she became, the more vulnerable she seemed and he couldn't help getting excited by it, his twisted urges growing more insistent for relief. The best part of it was, as much as his needs were suddenly fixated and targeted on her, he could feel her own eagerness to reach out. But first, he had to make her realize it. Are you sure this is about me? he asked, ignoring the inkblot for the moment and staring straight at her with a penetrating look. Because it feels an awful lot like this has been about you since I walked in here. Martin let out an irritated breath and shook his head a little, languidly glancing at the card in her hands. I see a beautiful, bright young woman who has given up. Her life put on hold for the job she no longer believes in, going through the motions of engaging with the people around her. Consumed by this helplessness until she's come to resemble those that she deals with every day. His eyes drifted back up to hers and he glibly said, I see a ghost. I have to be honest with you, doc, he said adjusting himself in his seat, uncomfortably twisting his arms in his restraints before settling for his immobility. I don't think you can help me. And you won't so long as you continue to agree with that. Boredly, he looked away from her. I'd like to return to my room now, please. We can talk again when you're willing to stop being so wrapped up in you. How eager would she be to salvage this? How eager would she be to please him?
Thread: Psychoanalyze Me

Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the cards tightly, struggling to keep a composed face. The corner of her tightly pressed mouth twitched a little, and as soon as he finished she sighed and placed the cards down. Not once did any of her patients notice anything about her. Not once had any of them saw though her fake and composed demeanor. She had been taken by surprised, enough to feel as if she needed to prove herself to him. She had gone into this field to help people, and she had lost sight of that. She wondered if he was intentionally making her feel this way I'm sorry, she began, forcing herself to look into his eyes. I'm sorry that I gave you that impression. From now on I will try to be more real with you. Being polite and following protocols clearly will not work on you. She closed her note book and set it on top of her cards and then turned her chair towards the window again. You may have just saved my career. She said quietly, admiring how the sky was getting darker with each passing moment. It was ominous. It looks like it will rain. The blonde turned back to him and then smiled, this time it was sad but sincere. I cannot let you go back to your room as this session is mandatory. However, I can work with you. Help you. And I'm willing to break a few rules to do that. I want you to feel comfortable. I want you to take down that wall for me so we can make some progress. She took off her reading glasses and placed them on her desk. Not many people stop to read me. Usually people do not like looking past whats on the outside, even if they can pick up on it. Have you always been able to do that?
Thread: Psychoanalyze Me

As soon as he heard her apologize an intense blossom of satisfaction filled him. Especially as she also set aside her notebook and promised to be more personal and real with him. Protocol was there to protect her and other doctors from people like him. Needless to say, it was an incredible ego boost to see her rejecting these habitual rules of distant and professional etiquette, just in an attempt to get closer to him. But his triumph wasn't complete until she actually confided in him a few seconds later. Even her comment about the weather seemed real and intimate to him, separating her from the cold, analytical race of medical professionals and making her seem alive to him. A living thing. A jolt shot through him when she smiled at him, the expression all of a sudden articulating something deep and personal between them and displaying her vulnerability more clearly to his gaze. Keeping the easy smile on his face, he shifted in his seat slightly, briefly adjusting his arms in the straps again. And this wasn't like the calculated hunger he'd felt towards his victims - the ones that he'd made the paintings for. Martin may have been a monster but he was first and foremost a man. Sitting here in her office with her like this was making him remember that - a fact he'd tried to deny by being entertained and amused by his imprisonment, still seeing everyone like victims and prey. She wasn't prey. She was a toy and her new questions encouraged this desire to play with her. Yes, I have, he said, nodding his head and smirking as he remembered. Even as a little kid. I remember always getting in trouble, my mom called into the principal's office because I'd made my teacher cry. Everything was so boring - and it was back before they realized most ADD kids were just really smart kids needing bigger challenges - and she was getting upset with me because I kept drawing while she was talking. When she got in my face about it and took my papers away, I confronted her about her recent marriage troubles and the miscarriages she'd had and told her not to take it out on me. During this story, he'd kept his eyes on his doctor, keeping his smile calm and relaxed. Then his eyes drifted away from her. After several more incidents like that, my mother finally agreed with the school's suggestion - more like threat - to put me on medication. I was eight years old. He sighed heavily and shrugged his shoulders looking back up at her. So, yes, I've been able to see deeper into people than others would normally look for a long time. Sometimes it has benefited me but other times - especially when I let my temper get away from me - it causes me problems. That'd been a nice trip down memory lane. Normally, Martin didn't tell the truth with these things - he'd lied his ass off with the court therapist who'd tested to see if he was competent to stand trial but that had been for a specific purpose because he didn't want to go to jail. This time, however, he found himself reaching into his real past, hoping that she would see that he was being truthful and opening up to her.
Thread: Psychoanalyze Me

Rebekkah sensed no lies, but general sincerity with this mans story. She mulled over his story over and over in her head, before she turned back to the handsome and troubled individual. Her green eyes, which had been dulled and listless when he first came to see her were now sparkling with fire..she really wanted to help this man leave here and live a normal life outside of the asylum, even if it took her years to do it, she had decided to make it a mission in her life. Martin, its not uncommon for our more intelligent patients to feel alone in the world. You said you found yourself bored when you were eight years old. Have you always felt that way about life? Bored? Needing a challenge? She leaned back into her chair and had her hands folded in her lap, making no move to open that notebook up. This patient was real enough to her where she would remember all the personal details. And, you like painting? How long has it been since you last painted? After that question she noticed the rain tapping outside the window. For some reason the sound soothed her. It only took a few moments for it to pick up and create a larger noise.
Thread: Psychoanalyze Me

The sound of the rain irritated him, the tapping of it against the window uneven, like there might be a bit of wind blowing outside. It fell lightly and repetitively enough, but he noticed the inconsistency in the pattern and found it difficult to focus on her questions. Other than a light bouncing of his knee, he remained cool and relaxed, even giving her another pensive smile as he responded. Pretty much, Martin said with a sardonic sigh. I told you, I'm surrounded by idiots. It's not a unique condition of this place. Although, things are definitely a lot worse here than they've ever been anywhere else. Everyone is so vulnerable and ignorant of their own flaws... It used to piss me off, especially with people in charge who don't listen and think they're right. He thought about that for a moment, remembering how intimate he'd get with his victims - usually people he knew and interacted with on a regular basis who for one reason or another deserved to die. Over seven days leeching each of them free of blood while talking with them, exposing their weaknesses and breaking them down. Sometimes, it was like a puzzle, getting them to separate their fear of death from the actual realities he forced them to face. Other times, it wasn't a challenge at all, figuring it out, but he made it a game anyway, seeing how long he could draw it out before giving into the temptation to destroy them. 7 was always a good number. I make my own challenges, he said distractedly, focusing on her again as more rain splattered against the window suddenly, making him cringe inside. Yes, I like painting. It's a very personal and intimate experience...creating something, the paints like bodily fluids, breathing life into the subjects. Like a God, building my own living being layer by layer as they dry. They didn't let him paint here, which seemed like another bizarre display of fear to him. It wasn't like he needed to mix the paints with blood. That made him think of the paintings he'd created over the years. His trophies. Each one of different scenes, painted and inspired by the victims who's blood was part of it's construction. The police had found them collected in the basement of his safehouse - 15 of them. My paintings. They were taken away when I was arrested. Do you think I could possibly get them back? He paused and shifted in his seat, giving her a crooked and modest smile. They're important to me.
Thread: Psychoanalyze Me

She noticed the light vibration of his knee shaking it. The way he looked at the window she already knew it was the sound of the raining irritating and distracting him. She got up from her chair and then walked to the window, closing the curtains shut. It was dimmer in the room now. She always had the window open because the cheap light bulbs never did light up the room the way she wanted. However, there were complaints from some patience that the light scared them, or bothered their eyes. She sat back down and then smiled at him once more. The sound was not so loud anymore, as the curtains were thick and specifically made to block out noise. It was still in the background though. I hope that makes you feel comfortable. she began, and then scooted up to her desk. I can tell that you are a truly gifted individual with not only knowledge but art. The way you described how painting is to you was beautiful. Her eyes were sad once more. She wished that she could be that passionate about something in life. She really did feel like an empty husk most days, not having an special interests or talents. None that she could see anyway. No family to love. After all, her mother and father were immigrants and had moved back to their home country long ago. Anyone she was related to was thousands and thousands of miles away. I will do my best to see if I can get those paintings back for you. They probably...they probably won't let me take the ones mixed with blood...but any others I will bring back to you. I'll even see if I can convince the ones in charge of your security to let you paint. Its not like you can stab someone with a blush. She chuckled slightly.
Thread: Psychoanalyze Me

Fuck. Those were the ones he wanted back the most. He wanted to see them and touch them again, remembering the beautiful time he spent draining the life from his victims and filling the canvases with it. Martin wanted to relive the thrill of his murders. Well, no matter. He was confident now from the demeanor his doctor adopted, the somber looks she allowed him to see and the eagerness to please him, even going so far as to exchange a joke with him, he would eventually get her to bring him what he wanted. And the sound of her laughter excited the internal fires within him, the voracious flames eager to consume her joy, and he gave her a boyish smile in return. Thank you, he said with a gracious nod. It will help my stay here be more bearable to be able to express myself. And also, thank you for covering the window - it's much better now. And darker in here as well he liked that, the feel of being almost physically closer to her with the dimness the room now possessed. As an afterthought, I dislike rain. He paused a moment, shifting his wrists in their straps again, before he finally asked, Do you paint or anything like that? Is there anything you do other than talking to patients all day. He glanced down at where her legs were folded behind her desk, remembering the smooth curves of her calves as she crossed the room earlier. You strike me as a dancer, he said with a smirk, tossing hair out of his eyes again. Again, Martin was shooting blindly, implying with the compliment that he'd been looking and had noticed her body and hoping to get a specific reaction to the comment. Then he grew serious and looked away. I'm sorry. I know you said we're only here to talk about me. I didn't mean to pry.
Thread: Psychoanalyze Me

She was happy that she was able to please him and make him feel more comfortable. This new burning desire to help him and all of her future patients made her feel refreshed. She decided that she would get his paintings to him no later than Friday. She knew exactly what police department had the evidence just from his report. It seems we're too different people. I love the rain, and the darkness is kind of scary. She was hesitant to answer his previous question. Her entire memories of child hood were sparked, what she enjoyed and what she had worked for in an effort to become recognized by not only her friends but family. The dream was shattered by her own father. He had worked her and worked her to get straight A's and to go to college, and when she finally had an opportunity to pursue her own life goals, he forbade it. She wouldn't make a living by doing what she loved. Well, not quite. She smiled, her face beginning to redden. She did not like talking about that broken dream. It was now silly and childish to her now that she was an adult. I used to be a singer. Sometimes I did dance, but it was the music that moved me. When I was in high school both of my extra curricular activities were Chorus and Performing Arts. I loved music. I even learned German to sing to my parents. Her face that had once been warm was now defeated looking as she relived her past that she had tried so hard to forget. They didn't like it. After all, there's a million singers and I'm no one special. So I decided to stop and focus on college. By the time I graduated with my Bachelors, they were long gone back to Germany. A smile slowly spread across her face, but her eyes were still hopeless. I did what they wanted me to. In the end I just wasn't good enough, I guess.