Sanity's Only Skin Deep

By Adam Aust

After years of therapy, promising New York City attorney Sarah Evans thought she had everything under control. But when a startling discovery reveals that her self-cutting problem is much worse than imagined, things unravel quickly as she struggles to reconcile her past with something even more fundamental—her grip on reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Aust
• Release date: Apr 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370752386

Adam Aust

As a litigator in New York City and Washington D.C., and as a neurogenetics and neuropyschiatrics researcher earlier in his career, Adam Aust had more fodder for stories than he could reasonably keep to himself. So, he started writing. A Glitch in the System and Sanity's Only Skin Deep (a novelette) are the first of his efforts, but other works are on the way. Be the first to experience them by connecting with Adam directly at adamaust.com, Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/AdamAustAuthor/), Twitter (@AdamAustAuthor), and Goodreads (http://goo.gl/mwA8T1).

Book preview

Sanity’s Only Skin Deep

Adam Aust

Copyright © 2017 Adam Aust

All rights reserved.

The mind is everything. What you think, you become.

- Anonymous

Contents

Acknowledgements

Parts:

I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII

Sample Chapter from A Glitch in the System

About the Author

Acknowledgements

I am forever indebted to Maggie Astolfi, who supports me unconditionally, even when I indulge in lunacy. Special thanks also to Matthew Sullivan; your plot feedback has been pure gold.

I

Sarah Evans closed the bathroom stall door, lowered her skirt, and rolled her leggings and underwear down below her knees. As she sat, she saw it—the new gash on her inner-right thigh. It was bigger and felt deeper than usual, and it must have been at least a week old, judging by the scab’s raised edges and the shiny pink skin outlining it. Dammit, she thought, tracing it with her index finger. I’d better not be doing this at work.

After finishing up in the ladies room, she strode down the hall to her office. Her frosted-glass door shut with a metallic clack behind her as she snatched her phone’s handset off the cradle and started dialing.

Maury? It’s Sarah. I’d like to come in for a session as soon as possible. I’ve apparently been at it again. Obligatory question about whether I’ve been going to my meetings in three, two, one . . . No, I’ve been too busy. I promise I’ll start going again after trial. But for now, I just haven’t had the time. Can you see me this week? She waited as he checked his schedule. Tomorrow night at seven works. I appreciate it. See you then.

She replaced the handset and exhaled through slack lips.

Sliding open her top drawer, she withdrew her scissors, splitting the blades and holding them up to the light. The tips looked a little rusty, but she had to squint to even see that. That could be blood. Wouldn’t there be more, though?

Just then, she heard two knocks and her door abruptly opened. David Marshall, the senior partner at her firm, was standing inside. Sarah, got a minute?

I—

David’s eyes jumped from Sarah’s face to her hands. She snapped the scissors closed and dropped them to her lap. Of course, she said, hoping she didn’t sound as guilty as she felt. What’s up?

I’m afraid I have some bad news about your role on the Omnicron case. . . .

II

Sarah pushed the buzzer labeled Dr. Maurice Wexler outside the quaint apartment complex in Manhattan’s East Village. She’d been nervous at first about seeing a therapist here; this place seemed so . . . unprofessional. Day or night, you might rub elbows outside with heroin-addicted skateboard punks, schizophrenic garbage-can scavengers, or hippy-era folk-musician types, ambling about in various states of sobriety, pontificating about bizarre political views. Once she got to know Maury, though, she understood the draw: this place fed his fascination with the human psyche in the same way the