Like he never left." The patient's eyes start drifting around the room. Dr. Thorne sits in his chair, eyes closed, listening.
"The butterfly, Jonathan. Please tell me about the butterfly."
"I saw that butterfly the day I killed my father. I walked into the house, which wasn't the right house, knowing he was going to be there. I heard some woman yell his name. My name. I knew he was there. So I walked into the living room and saw him sitting there, sleeping. And I killed him. I was fourteen and I killed him. And when I was done killing him, I looked up and there was the woman who was yelling my name. His name. She just looked at me with these eyes that seemed like they would never blink again. And her hands were wet from doing the dishes and she had a cut on her finger from a knife she was washing and she was drying them on her dress. And on her dress were these butterflies. And her finger was bleeding all over that dress of hers. She didn't even notice. She just let those butterflies get all dirty and stained. And I know blood stains real bad. And I was about to tell her all this when I looked down at myself and I was also covered in blood. But I didn't care, I was too worried about those butterflies getting dirty. And she was still standing there, hands still caught on her dress, eyes still not blinking, mouth hanging open like she was singing but wasn't making a sound. And I got arrested there. The cops came and beat me, I was just fourteen, still a kid, and they beat me. They dragged me out of the house and I saw my three brothers leaning up against the car. They didn't say anything but I knew they were all thinking the same thing. They were all thinking of the dead man in the house that wasn't the right house, and as they were leaned up against the car, they were all thinking of the dead man who made them act like nothing ever happened."
Dr. Thorne opens his eyes.
"Jonathan, you know this is your last day. Thank you for sharing this with me."
The man on the table lifts his head slowly, as if all of a sudden it weighs fifty pounds. He looks directly at the doctor, struggling to keep his head up. His arms, no longer twitching, are attached to the IV.
"Sir, where am I going after this, after I'm released?"
Dr. Thorne gets up gradually. He walks towards his patient on the table and checks the machine attached to him. He writes something down on his chart before turning to the man lying on the table.
"The butterfly, Jonathan. Please tell me about the butterfly."
"I saw that butterfly the day I killed my father. I walked into the house, which wasn't the right house, knowing he was going to be there. I heard some woman yell his name. My name. I knew he was there. So I walked into the living room and saw him sitting there, sleeping. And I killed him. I was fourteen and I killed him. And when I was done killing him, I looked up and there was the woman who was yelling my name. His name. She just looked at me with these eyes that seemed like they would never blink again. And her hands were wet from doing the dishes and she had a cut on her finger from a knife she was washing and she was drying them on her dress. And on her dress were these butterflies. And her finger was bleeding all over that dress of hers. She didn't even notice. She just let those butterflies get all dirty and stained. And I know blood stains real bad. And I was about to tell her all this when I looked down at myself and I was also covered in blood. But I didn't care, I was too worried about those butterflies getting dirty. And she was still standing there, hands still caught on her dress, eyes still not blinking, mouth hanging open like she was singing but wasn't making a sound. And I got arrested there. The cops came and beat me, I was just fourteen, still a kid, and they beat me. They dragged me out of the house and I saw my three brothers leaning up against the car. They didn't say anything but I knew they were all thinking the same thing. They were all thinking of the dead man in the house that wasn't the right house, and as they were leaned up against the car, they were all thinking of the dead man who made them act like nothing ever happened."
Dr. Thorne opens his eyes.
"Jonathan, you know this is your last day. Thank you for sharing this with me."
The man on the table lifts his head slowly, as if all of a sudden it weighs fifty pounds. He looks directly at the doctor, struggling to keep his head up. His arms, no longer twitching, are attached to the IV.
"Sir, where am I going after this, after I'm released?"
Dr. Thorne gets up gradually. He walks towards his patient on the table and checks the machine attached to him. He writes something down on his chart before turning to the man lying on the table.
