The Complexity of Insanity

"I call them clients, not inmates. The sessions usually go over better if you treat them as humans. Isn't that crazy, when you don't call them animals, they actually want to talk to you?" Rather annoyed I pulled out my phone and checked the time, "Speak of the devil, I have an appointment with one right now." As I turned around and headed back, Ryan stressed his apologies from behind,
"Beverly! Hey I'm sorry." I didn't even turn around, I just pushed up my glasses and quickened the pace. He relentlessly pursued me though, antagonizing my innermost passion, "This is a psychiatric ward, not the stock market slow down."
"Don't tell me where I work Ryan." I put my keys in the door, turning the cold handle, "Just- go sort some paperwork or something." At that point he gave up, and I walked in. As the heavy iron heaved shut with a thud, I barely heard a muffle,
"Apparently that's all I do around here." I rolled my eyes and went to the center of the room. There was one metal table and two chairs, one on either side. The room had four corners, and four walls. Each wall was slated in white with a few dents and claw marks to show for it. The air was thick and heavy with a light aroma of dust. No windows, one light, and completely private, this was home.
Discreetly I reached into my purse and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, latching them onto my wrists. Then I took a seat. On the other end of the table a bald headed man in a white shirt and pants stared right through me. He placed his hands on the table and the small metal chain jingled. "Good evening Mr. Hawthorn." I said shuffling through my binder. He was unresponsive so I took another look up at him. "Charles? Can I call you Charles? How are you doing?" I was testing the waters, an easy question, and an easy response.
"Fine-" He said quietly as he looked into the distance. He was so calm; generally the handcuffs frighten the clients, which is why I always wear a pair. It suppresses their feelings of incarceration. They feel as though they are speaking with an equal. I have handcuffs, so do you. Though Charles remained steady he studied me as I studied him. I looked into his eyes waiting for him to identify me, but he didn't give me the pleasure. He spun his head slowly and looked each way.
He shook his right knee and kept staring. Then he redirected his attention to me. Occasionally he did this inconsistent head bob, most often when he was in deep thought, similar to a twitch. Patients use their ticks to concentrate.
I noticed the redness in his face, the drooping sagging bags beneath his eyes. "Would you mind telling me what you're thinking about?" I asked with genuine curiosity. He lifted his hands and rubbed his face like a child.
"I was thinking how similar our lives are to plays." He muttered in a depressing tone.
"How did you come to that conclusion?"
"Have you ever seen a play Beverly?" Startled I looked down at my chest to see my ID hanging down. I read my name upside down and sighed.
"Yes. I saw a Broadway performance of Cats once. I had no idea what was going on; but I've seen other local performances."
"So you would understand how a production works?"
"I suppose so."
"How many hands does it take to make a play?"
"Well there's of course actors-" I started, "A set designer, costume designers, and um-" I had to think for a moment, I wasn't quite the expert on this, "Stage hands, the guys who move the boxes and stuff, then there's sound technicians, lighting, and director, writer and producer."
"Beverly, are we all actors? Why are you here? Why am I here? Are we here out of free will, by the choices we make? Or are we here because someone already wrote our destiny? Our lives intertwine in ways we can't fathom. The way I dress, I don't choose it, I wake up in this- this monkey suit, and I go to sleep in it. The asylum decides for me. They are my costume designers.
There are also these stone walls, made for privacy, or made for isolation? No windows either. Done by the works of set designers. The flickering of the lights, need I say who makes those?" He waited for an answer then politely frowned. "The lighting director. Then there is the silence, it's constant, there is nothing but silence. Now I can hear my thoughts above a normal voice. Conversations are meaningless to me. It's like music, and I hear it everywhere.'
"Why is there only one clock in this room and nothing else, probably because it's just loud enough to make me nauseous. The only sound, Tick, tick, tick, tick over and over. The uneasy repetition, the creaking of your chair, all by sound technicians and composers; the head warden, he is the producer, his henchmen or vice wardens, assistant wardens, whatever you call them, they are the directors. Which leaves stage hands, the writer, and the actors. So who is who?"
I took a deep breath and pondered about it. He rolled his head around seemingly lost again, but I answered anyway, and he was listening,
"I suppose the guards are the stage hands, you are the actor, and perhaps God is the writer." I was pleased with my response. He smiled, appreciating the answer,
"No. Not at all." He laughed, knowing something I didn't, "The guards escort the inmates from room to room, much like props on a set. I am nothing but a shrub, a wallflower, a background ornament, because you, my dear, you are the actor. I am in your play, and the devil wrote it." He let out an uncertain chuckle and looked around the room. It was as if he was waiting for someone to hear him; but it was just me.
I remained silent. So he filled the void with his own statements again, "So Beverly, what comes next? What is your next act? Look at your past, that will reflect your future. Writing always has its clichés. Find what clichés your life holds." I slowly shook my head,
"No, no, Mr. Hawthorne, I ask the questions. Remember?" He leaned back arrogantly,
"Right, right, I'm forgetting my place. Ask away." I studied him for a second and recouped my brain,
"As you know I'm here to evaluate you, based on your-"
"Erratic criminal behavior."
"I was going to say conditions."
"Yeah that was my second guess." I continued,
"So you're very aware that you do have a tendency to promote violence, as you've stated multiple times."
"Yes I am aware." He said. "That’s why I'm in handcuffs. Why are you in handcuffs?"
"My question to you would be, if you claim to be in control of your mind, then why are you okay with murder?" He bobbed his head again, and mockingly bit his lip. He was trying to make it seem like he was thinking hard on the subject,
"We'll I feel like I've been very clear on this. Don't you speak with the other therapists?"
"I like to start fresh." He wiggled his finger and groaned.
"I do these things because others make me do it, I'm put in situations that I didn't decide for myself. As we've established, this is your play, I'm on your stage, everything I do, because it's a part of your story."
"How do you figure that?"
"I suppose the crazier I become the more sane you get. I mean a protagonist is only as good as the threat of his antagonist. Or something like that."
"Is that how you see yourself, a villain?" He didn't answer the question. He just gave me a cold shudder and redirected the conversation,
"Penguins are interesting creatures don't you think? They stand at the edge of icebergs and push one bird in. If there's no blood, it's okay to swim. I think penguins are a lot like people. Take you for example Beverly, no one else wants to talk to me. Some are too scared, I'm too manipulative, is what they say. I'm going to get into your mind, and turn you into my puppet or something; but you, you gave me a chance, I'm the water, and you’re the first penguin. So is there blood?"
I pushed my glasses up on my nose and sneered, "Not my blood. Tell me about your childhood. Tell me what made you tick. What made you do what you did?"
"What made me tick? The only thing ticking here is that incessant clock."
"I can turn it off-" I started.
"No, please, it keeps me rational."
"Okay let me rephrase that, when did you begin aggressive tendencies."
"I spent too many long years wasting my life away on violent video games."
"I don't think you're being entirely honest with me."
"Nor are you. So you tell me a secret and I'll tell you one."
"What do you want to know?"
"Tell me the worst thing you've ever said to anyone." Looking back into resentful memories I pulled one loose and gave it to him,
"Get out of my life, I don't want to look at you ever again."
"That's it? Wow, I thought you were a ritualistic pacifist, but-" He smiled. "Conflict. Might I add as well how quick you responded. It's quite amusing really. I almost want to believe you haven't entirely let those feelings go."
"Your turn." He grinned.
"I did promise. Well my mother died when I was thirteen, my father was an alcoholic, a few bad relationships later, being betrayed, insulted, losing everything, sleepless nights, I eventually developed what you called aggressive tendencies."
"Do you regret anything?" There was a very long pause,
"Of course." He put his hands up on the table and held mine, "You must miss your husband terribly Beverly. What a way to die." The sudden and abrupt statement was like a knife to my heart. I slammed my fist on the cold metal. He just loved to push people over the edge,
"How do you know about him?" He bent down and began fiddling with the chair leg.
"I have my ways. I wouldn't be concerned about that, this chair is quite a nuisance."
"Who told you?" I stammered once more, but he just kept on,
"Do you miss him or not?" I rolled my jaw and sighed,
"No, he had what was coming to him. Leave it at that."
"No sympathy for the dead, and I'm the psychopath."  Angered by his persistence I quickly retaliated,
"It should be easy to understand, you have no sympathy for the living. How many times did you cheat on your wife? How many times did you beat her? How many times-"
"Enough!" He shouted. He laid his head on the table and whined.
"I'm sorry okay!" He kept beating his head down, "I said I was sorry." There was an uneasy easy spirit in the air as we both awkwardly waited for one another to speak. I opened my mouth but he got to it first, wiping a single tear from his eye he said,
"I don't kill people for fun. I feel terrible afterwards. Why do you kill people?"
"I don't kill people Mr. Hawthorne."
"There are many forms of murder, the worst is the kind we do in our heart. Tell me you've never killed anyone in your heart, tell me you've never wanted someone to die. Why, I'm willing to bet that you've tried to kill me, in your mind.” His demeanor changed and his smug grin came back. “Careful though, you might just succeed."
"I'm not trying to kill you, but I do want you to listen." He scooted closer and turned an ear to me,
"I'm listening sweetheart."
"You're sick and need help."
"Oh but aren't we all?"
"You're unstable and insecure."
"One might call that, a mid-life crisis."
"You are contagious."
"So contagious."
"That's not a good thing. I can help you."
"No, no you can't."
"Why not Charles?"
"Because you're already infected." With that the door began to creak open. It was slow, and deafening. I seemingly growled at the noise. The lining of a briefcase peaked through and in walked Ryan. His face was solemn and grey. Standing by the edge of the table, still without a glance, he set down his stuff. He began to pull out papers, placing them strategically in piles.
The atmosphere seemed to have changed slightly, the air was thicker than usual, it smelled moldy and dusty. The lights seemed dimmer, but the major difference was the sudden disappearance of my client. I didn't think much of it, they had a tendency to vanish.
Ryan sat in the adjacent seat. He put his hands on the table, they were free from any bondage, I put mine on the table too. I felt around but couldn't find it. I gave Ryan a confused look,
"I seemed to have misplaced the key to my handcuffs." He jotted something down on paper and said,
"I'm not giving you my keys Mrs. Hawthorne."

Reviews

[barleygirl]

The most successful aspect of this story is that I felt like I was "on edge" the whole time, everything felt like it came out of the blue, realistically so. Alot of the time I was reading & thinking: this does NOT sound right for this character. But that's actually what I came to appreciate about your story. Many have written therapy back-and-forth sessions, which can be quite boring to read. This is definitely NOT boring! Of all the things I felt were just a little out of balance, the one I would change is this. The patient seems to launch into his spiel too quickly. I would put in some sparring between the two, to loosen him up first. You had not yet established his forward & condescending nature, so his initial spiel feels unlikely from a patient. If there was some tension-filled lead-in between the two, then it would make this "lecture" from him feel more authentic. Otherwise, good job using intense back-and-forth in dialogue & having it mostly feel right between the two (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[J.M.Fields]

Awe, thank you very much. Yes I might just extend the story a out a bit, since you've suggested it, that's a good idea. Thanks for taking the time to read it, I'm glad you enjoyed it. That's the whole reason I write, just to give people a good time. :)

[barleygirl]

I try to make people laugh . . .*wink! wink!*

[Lyanth]

Love this, especially the twist at the end. Very intriguing, would love to read more. Great dialogue and accuracy. Also, a good balance of description. Well done.

[J.M.Fields]

Thank you very much I appreciate this!

[Lyanth]

Thank you for sharing it. I haven't read anything this engaging in a while.