"Tell me Jonathan, what do you see?"
A man, not a day over thirty five, looks up slowly. His dirty hair is uncombed, his face, unshaven. Bags hang under his eyes, swollen and red. He opens his chapped lips and speaks.
"A butterfly, and a house. Three boys standing, leaning against a car."
"Well done Jonathan. Always the same response, I see. Tell me, do you feel any dizziness at all?" A short man in round spectacles asks him, putting down the slides of splattered ink spots, writing quickly on his chart. He's wearing a long white coat, his name tag, which hangs lopsided off of his shirt pocket reads Dr. Thorne.
"None at all, sir. Just the same ringing in my head. It's this place. It gets so damn quiet that you can hear the cockroaches whispering. They want to get out of here too, sir. I swear I can hear them talking about it, about me. I know I'm not crazy. They talk about you too, sir."
Dr. Thorne, whose first name is Maximilian, turns to his patient, slumped on the cold metal table.
"How interesting Jonathan. Please, tell me more. What do they say about me? Good things I hope."
The patient runs his rough, callused left hand through his hair. His right hand is underneath his leg. Dr. Thorne knows it's because he can't help the shaking. He noticed the third or fourth day that the patient was here. His hands always tucked into the pocket of his creased, orange jumpsuit. Sometimes it looked like there was something alive in his pocket that was trying to escape from inside his own clothes. Dr. Thorne liked to imagine it was the man's own heart beating. The tic getting more and more violent with fear or anxiety and calming down in quiet and the peaceful dark.
"Jonathan, did you hear what I said?"
The man's left arm starts to shake now. He puts that hand under his other leg too. His face has a pained expression, childish and scared. As if having just said something he knew he shouldn't have.
"Yes, sir. I heard you, sir. It's just that I don't know if I can tell you. I'm not someone to tell other people's secrets, you see, sir? Just forget it please, sir. Don't listen to me, sir."
"Jonathan. These are not people whose secrets you are sharing with me. I assure you it is for your own good for you to tell me. Now, please Jonathan. What did they say?"
The man's shaking increases.
A man, not a day over thirty five, looks up slowly. His dirty hair is uncombed, his face, unshaven. Bags hang under his eyes, swollen and red. He opens his chapped lips and speaks.
"A butterfly, and a house. Three boys standing, leaning against a car."
"Well done Jonathan. Always the same response, I see. Tell me, do you feel any dizziness at all?" A short man in round spectacles asks him, putting down the slides of splattered ink spots, writing quickly on his chart. He's wearing a long white coat, his name tag, which hangs lopsided off of his shirt pocket reads Dr. Thorne.
"None at all, sir. Just the same ringing in my head. It's this place. It gets so damn quiet that you can hear the cockroaches whispering. They want to get out of here too, sir. I swear I can hear them talking about it, about me. I know I'm not crazy. They talk about you too, sir."
Dr. Thorne, whose first name is Maximilian, turns to his patient, slumped on the cold metal table.
"How interesting Jonathan. Please, tell me more. What do they say about me? Good things I hope."
The patient runs his rough, callused left hand through his hair. His right hand is underneath his leg. Dr. Thorne knows it's because he can't help the shaking. He noticed the third or fourth day that the patient was here. His hands always tucked into the pocket of his creased, orange jumpsuit. Sometimes it looked like there was something alive in his pocket that was trying to escape from inside his own clothes. Dr. Thorne liked to imagine it was the man's own heart beating. The tic getting more and more violent with fear or anxiety and calming down in quiet and the peaceful dark.
"Jonathan, did you hear what I said?"
The man's left arm starts to shake now. He puts that hand under his other leg too. His face has a pained expression, childish and scared. As if having just said something he knew he shouldn't have.
"Yes, sir. I heard you, sir. It's just that I don't know if I can tell you. I'm not someone to tell other people's secrets, you see, sir? Just forget it please, sir. Don't listen to me, sir."
"Jonathan. These are not people whose secrets you are sharing with me. I assure you it is for your own good for you to tell me. Now, please Jonathan. What did they say?"
The man's shaking increases.
