Dan's fingers traced the edges of his desk, adjusting pens and coffee mugs with microscopic precision. The late afternoon sun caught the brass pendulum of his Victorian clock, casting long shadows across his mahogany-paneled office.
At 6'2", his frame filled the custom three-piece charoal suit with an athlete's grace. His full beard, neatly trimmed, framed a clean-shaven upper lip. Behind gold wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes held that perfect balance of authority and empathy – a look cultivated through years of practice. His smile, when it came, revealed teeth so perfectly aligned they seemed artificial, gleaming like fresh pearls under gallery lights. A smile that made confessions feel like absolution.
Three sharp knocks echoed through the room at precisely 4:00 PM. Dan's lips curled slightly as he glanced at the swinging pendulum. "Punctual" he mused.
"Please, come in," he called, settling into his leather armchair. "Consider this a sanctuary." He gestured to the couch opposite him."
The man who shuffled in was entropy personified. His Savile Row blazer, wrongly buttoned, hung askew over a silk shirt bearing testament to several meals. Designer trousers stopped short of bespoke Oxford shoes caked with dried mud, revealing mismatched cashmere socks. It was wealth wrapped in chaos.
The client collapsed onto the leather couch like a puppet with cut strings. He stared at the ceiling, chest rising with a deep breath that seemed to pull from his very soul.
"Where to begin," he whispered, more to himself than Dan. "I see things others don't. Conspiracies. Not the usual ones about governments or aliens. No, this is worse, much worse”
He laughed mirthlessly. "Children are a blessing, children are a gift, they are bundles of joy. They are adorable. A family is complete once it bears children.” “How is any of this true? From conception, they begin their crusade. They tear through their mothers like cosmic horror, leaving physical scars that mirror psychological wounds. Some mothers don't survive the birth. Others don't survive the aftermath." The amount of discomfort and trauma caused by childbirth is supposed to be worth it” he chuckled sarcastically.
Patrick sat up suddenly, eyes fever-bright. "And fathers? Those little demons become black holes in the pockets of their fathers. From the point one of those monsters is born, the parents are like donkeys tied to mills, forced to move in a never ending cycle. Their lives become centered around the ungrateful needy little things, their very beings defined by those things. Perpetually tied to the child while they struggle to appease it.”
He collapsed back, energy spent. "The moment a child is born marks the end of the lives of its parents. They become mere background characters in their own life's story, slowly fading away, giving way to the offspring. “The joys of parenthood! What Joy is there? The child eventually forgets the sacrifice of its parents.” “ In its defense, it owes no allegiance to anyone. It never asked to be born. It was just thrust into this world, responsibilities shoved on it. The crushing weight of reality a permanent reminder that there is no escape, no freedom from the cycle.”
With a look of complete defeat in his lightless eyes, he said: “with the rate at which we are going, each generation producing more offspring than the last, we would bring about our own demise. Like a plague of locusts breeding unchecked. Eventually there would be nothing left.”
He lay back down. Looking up he said “imagine that, your supposed ‘bundles of joy will only bring pain and suffering”.
“I wonder if they will consume themselves when there's nothing else to consume
Sitting upright, Patrick locked eyes with Dan. “And that's just the beginning of what keeps me awake at night.”
Dan rose smoothly, moving to close the door that had stood open like an escape route. "I hear you, Patrick." His smile returned, but different now – a scalpel instead of a shield. "Let's begin.”
