The metal table begins moving now. The open file that was placed near the end of the table, inches closer and closer to the edge. The man's eyes roll back into his head. Only for a split second until the shaking stops. The file, in the abruptness of the man's movements, falls and scatters on to the ground. Dr. Thorne remains standing, collected. Just as he had been the whole time. He approaches the table where the man, half conscious, sits, unmoving.
"Jonathan, what did they say?"
The patient opens his eyes slowly and frees both his hands. One now hugging the nape of his neck, his fingers trailing, sightlessly, a faint tattoo.
"They say you're a bad person. That you hurt people. I said I don't believe them. You never hurt me. I come here all the time and you help me. It's because of you that I'm leaving here. It's because of you that I can sleep again. You fixed me, sir. You're a good man, sir. I swear to it."
"That's very kind of you Jonathan. And it is true, I would never hurt you Jonathan. You are my favorite patient."
Dr. Thorne turns back to his chart, removing a pen from the his shirt pocket, it grazes his gold name tag slightly. He sees on the ground the papers that have fallen out of the file. Jonathan T. Carver, written in large black letters grace the top of the page accompanied by a very old mugshot of a very young man. Dr. Thorne remembers the first time he ever read this file, the first time he ever saw this man. The picture at the top of the page was freshly taken and the boy on the page looked the same as the boy that once sat in front of him on the long metal table. He remembers the first time he asked the boy what his full name was.
"Jonathan Thomas Carver. Thomas after my grandfather and Jonathan after..." The boy stopped mid-way through his sentence, eyes staring at the blank wall in front of him but his sight never leaving the inside of his head. His mouth hung open as though he had been telling a long rehearsed joke and just discovered that he had forgotten the once revered ending.
"Just Jonathan." He said slowly, ashamed, with his long southern drawl.
"Well, Jonathan. It's nice to meet you. I am Dr. Thorne. I'm here to help you. Why don't we run some tests."
Later that evening, Dr. Thorne would read Jonathan T. Carver's file in it's entirety and realize that his patient, the young, almost too young, boy of only fourteen, with the nervous tic, was charged on accounts of murdering his own father. His father's name was also Jonathan.
"Jonathan, what did they say?"
The patient opens his eyes slowly and frees both his hands. One now hugging the nape of his neck, his fingers trailing, sightlessly, a faint tattoo.
"They say you're a bad person. That you hurt people. I said I don't believe them. You never hurt me. I come here all the time and you help me. It's because of you that I'm leaving here. It's because of you that I can sleep again. You fixed me, sir. You're a good man, sir. I swear to it."
"That's very kind of you Jonathan. And it is true, I would never hurt you Jonathan. You are my favorite patient."
Dr. Thorne turns back to his chart, removing a pen from the his shirt pocket, it grazes his gold name tag slightly. He sees on the ground the papers that have fallen out of the file. Jonathan T. Carver, written in large black letters grace the top of the page accompanied by a very old mugshot of a very young man. Dr. Thorne remembers the first time he ever read this file, the first time he ever saw this man. The picture at the top of the page was freshly taken and the boy on the page looked the same as the boy that once sat in front of him on the long metal table. He remembers the first time he asked the boy what his full name was.
"Jonathan Thomas Carver. Thomas after my grandfather and Jonathan after..." The boy stopped mid-way through his sentence, eyes staring at the blank wall in front of him but his sight never leaving the inside of his head. His mouth hung open as though he had been telling a long rehearsed joke and just discovered that he had forgotten the once revered ending.
"Just Jonathan." He said slowly, ashamed, with his long southern drawl.
"Well, Jonathan. It's nice to meet you. I am Dr. Thorne. I'm here to help you. Why don't we run some tests."
Later that evening, Dr. Thorne would read Jonathan T. Carver's file in it's entirety and realize that his patient, the young, almost too young, boy of only fourteen, with the nervous tic, was charged on accounts of murdering his own father. His father's name was also Jonathan.
