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The Patient
To begin, I was a psychiatrist in a psychiatry hospital somewhere in America. I was one of the most respected psychiatrists there, and it's sufficient to say that I was the veteran one. Amongst my patients, there was once a middle-aged man whom newspaper was always found scribbled with sketches of flowers and butterflies.
He was a very different patient, a very unique one, and it was shown as early as his admission. Unlike other patients, he was very stable and calm and he never struggled or wrestled his way out of straitjackets – he never even needed any. He was admitted for chronic depression. But unlike other usual cases involving depression, which usually involve suicide attempts, it was reported that he stayed in his cubicle for one week without signing out of his office building. According to his colleagues, his marriage was shaken when his only daughter of 8 years old died in an accident, before her wife was diagnosed with breast cancer and parted away.
Apart from scribbling flowers and butterflies on newspapers, disassembling and reassembling stationeries, analogue cameras, and more complicated mechanical items and unusual fondness towards binoculars and shades, he was perfectly sane. When interviewed about his background and life journey, he, despite being admitted to a psychiatry ward, told his story with minute accuracy to his background report, plus outstanding usage of vocabularies, not to mention flawless grammar (yes, as a psychiatrist or even psychologist, verbal linguistic details are necessary for analysis).
When he was young, he was sent to a grammar school in Tennessee, until his father, a coke addict and violent alcoholic, was fired from his job as a cop. As he (my patient) grew through the years, his mother grew more ill. His father, of course, had long left them, and he also quitted school to work as a newspaper boy. His mother was reported to have suffered from brain aneurysm, and according to doctor, the curse was at critical stage and removal would not only cost money but also life. He also told me that every morning before breakfast, she would hug him and kiss him in the forehead and say "God is being one day more generous to us."
He ended up as a clerk who was married to a laundry woman, working fifteen blocks from her apartment under the train track. After marrying, he had to move out from his apartment to hers. His place was too full of gangs that everyday he had to figure out excuses when they approached. Three months after their marriage they had a daughter, and as she grew their financial security declined. Since her daughter's 8th birthday he started drinking, and it worsened when her wife was diagnosed with cancer in her breast. Then they both left him. Then he was here.
One important feature of psychopaths is that they are always imagining themselves as other people, or playing other roles apart from themselves. In his case, he was a "spy". One day I saw him with his typewriter, and he was inserting a cutout from his newspaper into the typewriter's paper feed. From afar I watched him, and he typed and typed, very meticulously, as how a pianist and his piano would. His eyes were rigidly fixed to what he was typing, sitting very still and tightly, with the typewriter on his lap. After he was finished, I approached him and asked. He mildly shushed me, halting me of my words. I began to wonder askance as he began scribbling loops and more loops which then become flower petals, then the stem and leaves, then butterflies and some ladybugs.
After a while he was finished, and he answered me. He took up his typewriter and he presented it to me, with a man-to-man intonation, "This, doctor, is Enigma. All this while I have not told you and kept secrets from all of you, but doctor, I have decided that you must know it one day and right now I'm telling you, that all this while Langley had been sending me messages through the newspapers, encrypted amongst the fine prints of each letter. Yes, doctor, I am indeed, a spy."
From that moment forward I began to understand his strange habit of disassembling mechanical items, looking out of his window with a binocular, walking along the corridor with his shades on and drawing flowers and butterflies on his newspaper. He was not drawing, he thought he was circling letters and deciphering "encrypted messages" from the CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. What is more strange to me is that he thought his typewriter was the Enigma, the code breaker machine used by the Nazi intelligence in World War II, while the actual Enigma was not to break codes — it was to form one, to encrypt messages, not to decrypt.
"Now that you have known my identity," he slowly walked to the door and locked it shut, then he reached for an object in his drawer, which was apparently a toy revolver, and pointed it at my forehead, continuing, "I cannot let you live anymore." Then he fired.
Click! Click! Click!
He shot me three times, and then I fell on my back. Then he ran out of the room and I heard screaming, "Get him! He's getting away!" The corridor was then, for a while, filled with hustles and echoes of daily recapturing operations, with series of familiar yells. "Get me the straitjacket!" "I got him!" "Pin him down!" "Sedative!"
The next day I revisited him. I handed him today's newspaper. But he made no reaction. He leaned back on his chair, staring rigidly out to the windows. Then I came to him, and whispered, "I'll get you a new pair of binoculars," he remained silent, not showing any signs of getting interested.
Then he suddenly stood up, and with light speed agility, he opened the window, climbed onto it and sprang out. I was really shocked. I looked down, eight stories below, and saw splatters and blotches of blood and internal organs. Flabbergasted, I stared down aghast with a gaping mouth. I could not believe what he did for he is a very warm fellow from the beginning and never was he so hostile.
From that day onwards I began wondering: why does the human mind create an illusion that tricks itself into believing it?
About the Author
A regular youth looking to improve his only specialty: language.
Criss Angel Mindfreak: Butterfly Cut Out Of Stomach
