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Michael

Please note, the following short story is unedited and so may contain some small typos.

 

Session One

I started with Michael in the same way I had with every patient since I completed my training. Polite conversation: an attempt to get to know him. I’d learned fast that developing this rapport was vital if I expected honesty. But Michael was different.

 

“Good morning, Michael. Please, sit down.” I gestured to the plush sofa across from me.

 

The office was bright, I remember. At the time, it was painted a soft magnolia, with pale green accents intended to soothe. Sunlight poured in through the slats of the blinds, warming the air – but he sat as far from the window as he could manage. In the shade, his fair skin glowed like the moon reflecting the sun’s light.

 

“Thank you.”

 

I glanced at the file they had given me. It was the procedure that I should have read up on my patient before the session began, but I wasn’t much for procedure in those days. As a psychiatrist, I understood the common sense and scientific benefits – as a human being; I preferred to make my own judgements before I read the diagnosis of a colleague who may or may not have taken the time to learn about Michael. However, one look at the first page told me that this file might be intriguing – and the staff gossiped. I took a deep breath.

 

“There’s no surname listed here for you,” I began. “Could you tell me why that is?”

 

He watched me from across the room, shadowed eyes curious as he ran a hand through his dark hair. I wasn’t accustomed to a patient who seemed so relaxed and… frankly, unafraid. I’d expected visible signs of neuroses, but the young man merely rested back into the deep cushions of the sofa with no care at all. Still, there was an exasperation in the gesture – I could see he didn’t want to be here.

 

“I am having some trouble with my memory,” he half-smiled. “I’m sure it will come to me, but at this moment I am only Michael.”

 

I nodded, making a note to ask again at a later date. “Do you have an idea what might have led to your memory loss?”

 

“Perhaps a head injury.” He shrugged. “Or… your staff believe me to be delusional, yes? If they are correct, maybe that has something to do with it.”

 

I tried to arrange my expression into one of reassurance, but it surprised me how astute he seemed. “Fortunately for you, your diagnosis is my decision.” I paused. “How old are you, Michael? There’s no date of birth listed, either.”

 

He didn’t respond straight away, and I registered the unequal balance of authority between us – whether he was deliberately withholding information was hard to say. Watching him; his arms open, leaning back in his seat, there was a confidence in him that contradicted the youthfulness of his clean-shaven face. He lacked the usual awkwardness. I was powerfully curious about him.

 

“Would you believe me if I said I did not know?” He tilted his head a little.

 

“Yes,” I drew the word out. 

 

“Then I do not know.”

 

He moved to the edge of his seat, his fingers steepled together, elbows resting lightly on his knees. “It is strange. I remember so little. I do not feel any ties within myself – no heartfelt tug toward a family or a lover. I would lament this, were it not at least a plausible explanation for how I ended up here.” He waited, but I didn’t react. “Alone.”

 

I wondered for a second whether I should be concerned about his cool, analytical detachment, and scribbled a few lines down to come back to.

 

“You were found at the back of a food processing plant, unconscious.” It couldn’t hurt to try to jog his memory. “The refuse collectors who found you reported blood on your clothing. On your hands and face.” He didn’t so much as blink in response to my words, and I continued. “You were asleep in the infirmary for almost two days after your arrival.” A sleep like the dead, I added to myself.

 

“Yes, so I am told. Yet no one seems to be able to tell me how I ended up there, or whose blood I was wearing.” His mouth lifted crookedly on one side.

 

I had no idea what he found amusing. A mentally healthy person should be displaying symptoms of a state of emotional trauma, at least. Michael’s calm behaviour only reaffirmed the rumours of his delusions. Grandiose, I suspected.

 

“We haven’t been able to identify the blood yet, but the police are looking into it. Do you know whose it might have been?” He’d suggested it didn’t belong to him, so I had to ask.

 

He sat back again. “I do not seem to be injured, do I?”

 

“No,” I agreed. “Where do you think it came from?”

 

“Logic would dictate then, that it must have come from another person or animal, would it not? Perhaps I caused some mischief before my memory left me.” He didn’t seem perturbed by the idea.

 

In that first session, I remember he had begun to unnerve me; his complete acceptance of the fact that he was capable of causing such harm. Though he wasn’t aware of it, the amount of blood on Michael when he’d been found could only have been from extensive injuries – most likely fatal. But it wasn’t my job to play detective.

 

“Do you think you might have been helping someone who was injured?”

 

“As I say, Doctor – I don’t remember. But I can’t imagine so.” He smiled again, and I noticed for the first time that he was handsome, in an unusual way. His cheekbones were sharp, giving him a haughty air when not softened by his speech. The light dusting of freckles across his complexion implied a youthfulness that his demeanour contradicted.

 

“Why? Do you consider yourself to be a violent person, Michael?”

 

“What an odd question!” He chuckled. “Not at all, though neither would I call myself a pacifist.” He watched me, watching him. “Though I believe that there is a difference between being a violent person, and a person capable of violence.”

 

I resisted raising my eyebrows. “Could you elaborate?”

 

“Of course,” he smiled. “I only mean that one can be driven to violence; forced to behave in a certain manner… and yet not be a violent person at heart. Circumstances often dictate.”

 

Many of my later discussions with Michael went this way – we would begin by talking about him and end up talking about society. He was a tricky patient, always – but this was the first time, and I wasn’t entirely sure how to handle him.

 

I had only held my position at the hospital for a few months, and he was a new breed of patient – unsettlingly so. My position wasn’t secured so much by expertise as luck and more than a small amount of pity, and this lack of experience left me unsure how to respond to Michael. So, I changed the subject, attempting to bring us back to more familiar, manageable territory.

 

“What do you think about your new accommodation? How do you feel about being the facility?” I asked.
 

He leaned forward once more, in what would become a familiar gesture. “The room itself is satisfactory – it fulfils its purpose. I am less pleased with the treatment of others.”
 

“The other patients?”
 

“Yes, and no. For one, I don’t believe that I should be a patient myself, although I see why you might find my case interesting –” He gestured in a lazy, vague manner. “Which is why I stay.”
 

I frowned. He continued regardless, his words slow and thoughtful.
 

“No. My concerns lay with those patients, as you call them, who do not require help of the nature that you offer. Many are merely misunderstood.”
 

He was now angled so far forward that his face was almost in the light, and he quickly pulled back. What I saw in that moment of brightness wasn’t something I’ve ever been able to explain to myself—but there was something odd about his face. His eyes were too bright, his mouth twisted so fast that I barely saw it before the expression disappeared.
 

I realised I was losing control of the session. I tried to take control once more – if I’d ever been in control to begin with.
 

“Your first comment… you don’t think you should be here?”
 

“No.”
 

“Why is that?”
 

“This is a facility for the treatment of those with mental health disorders. My mental health is no more or less of a concern than that of the average man – and even so, it is not of a variety that would require treatment from you or the staff here.” He flashed a quick grin, and I recoiled.
 

He picked at a thread in his trousers, before looking up at me, eyes wide with an innocence I didn’t believe, his smirk half concealed. “You, though… I can see you have problems of your own, beneath the surface.”
 

It startled me; I’ll admit. Momentarily, I wondered how he could know… before I came to my senses and dismissed the comment. His manipulations were clever, but the suggestion that he could discover my problems – perhaps skim them from the surface of my mind – was another part of his delusion. Though he made it hard to remember that.
 

Grandiose delusions were familiar to me only from university textbooks, not from experience with patients. ‘A delusion in which a person becomes convinced of their own superiority – that they are more powerful or intelligent than the average human.’ I’d read that this conviction might include one believing themselves to have special powers or god-like capabilities in addition to the inherent narcissism. It would seem such beliefs might burden Michael.
 

The file in my lap, written by other psychiatrists at the facility who had worked with Michael, suggested as much when I took the time to examine it. Despite his apparent intelligence and philosophical outlook, Michael remained convinced that he was above the rules of the establishment. He had acknowledged the possibility of his violent past and showed no remorse.
 

Yet this didn’t seem like enough information for more than a preliminary diagnosis. Something in his manner suggested he may believe himself to be more or less than human – which was what had kept him confined to the facility until now – but I was sure there must be more to it. I had never studied such a case, and so I had to ask:
 

“Do you consider yourself human, Michael?”
 

He answered without hesitation. “No, Doctor. I do not.”
 

I wasn’t surprised. The nature of such delusions meant he would consider it fruitless to be inhuman and keep it to himself. But his frankness troubled me. It suggested there was much work to be done, and Michael’s words hadn’t implied he intended to cooperate.
 

“You think I’m out of my mind,” he grinned.
 

“You look human to me,” I kept my voice light. “You –” I broke off. I’d like to have said he’d seemed human to me, but that wouldn’t have been stretching the truth.
 

He raised an eyebrow and leaned back into the cushions. One hand rested on the arm of his chair, his long fingers absently stroking the pale grey suede.
 

“How do you know humans do not look like me?” He glanced at my face.
 

I sighed to myself. “For the sake of argument, let’s agree you appear human.” I remember I couldn’t return his gaze as I spoke. “In what ways do you differ?”
 

“That’s quite the question. I assume I was born – I grew from a child. I recall flashes of childhood, I think. But now… I am different.”
 

It wasn’t an answer, and I knew that he knew that. I got the impression that he considered explaining himself to be too much of a chore, but his phrasing almost made him sound wistful. Almost sympathetic.
 

I had to catch myself; to remind myself that he was a patient, no different to anyone else. It was easy to fall under his spell.
 

“Michael, would you consent to undergo some regulated tests? If you were to agree, it might help us to understand what’s brought about your memory loss. We may be able to help.” Quite honestly, his amnesia was the least of my concerns, but there were other things a few simple examinations could tell me.
 

He nodded. “I suspected you’d ask as much. I have prepared myself.”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

He flashed another quick grin at me but would say no more.

​

​


Session Two

I was unable to make it into work for almost a fortnight after my first encounter with Michael and consequently didn’t have a chance to speak to him again until my health returned. I was eager for our session – his test results forwarded on to me at my request, and though there were some perplexing abnormalities, I was still convinced of his delusion. The oddities that had come to light during his examination were intriguing – but they weren’t enough to worry me.
 

“Would you care to take a seat, Michael?”
 

“Yes, Doctor. Thank you.”
 

“How are you feeling today?”
 

“Quite well.” He smiled, and I shivered. “I’m enjoying the weather.”
 

I glanced outside. It was dark, though it was almost midday. Dense rain clouds obscured the sky, heavy drops hammering at the windows.
 

“You like the rain?” I asked.
 

“Yes. It’s gentler on my eyes.”
 

I nodded. Upon waking in the facility, Michael had claimed an acute sensitivity to sunlight, which his tests had now revealed to be genuine – his physician had been surprised to find that Michael’s eyes had an unusual aversion to ultraviolet light – though his sight was without fault. Fortunately, it hadn’t been too difficult to have him moved to a windowless room.
 

“Last time we talked about the facility. How do you think you’re getting on?”
 

He leaned forward, staring at the coffee table separating us. “I remain wary of the nurses. They are relentless in their efforts to persuade me with all sorts of chemicals. I do not wish to pollute my body any more than I already have.”
 

“It’s important that you cooperate and take the medication prescribed to you, Michael. It’s a vital part of your recovery.”
 

So far, we’d tried only Risperdal with Michael. It was an atypical antipsychotic designed to block the dopamine receptors in his brain. Simply put, it should cut off his delusions on a chemical level. The problem was, on the rare occasion that he had consented to take the drug, it had had no effect. We were considering other options.
 

“You mean a vital part of curing me?” Michael fell back in the chair, running a hand through his hair. I noticed he seemed thinner than when we had last met. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the dark circles under his eyes seemed more pronounced, his cheekbones sharper.
 

“If that’s how you choose to look at it, then yes,” I replied. “Are you eating well?”
 

He looked at me sharply. “I eat everything that is put in front of me.”
 

I frowned. “Is there something else you’d prefer?”
 

“No.” It was the harshest tone he’d used with me, and I wondered what it was I’d said to merit the reaction. Something deep within, that I couldn’t put a name to, sang out a warning – even as his psychiatrist, I understood when to back off.
 

“I’d like you to tell me what you remember about your parents. I’m told you’ve been remembering?” I watched him carefully.
   He sat up straighter and began to neatly roll up the sleeves of the ill-fitting white shirt he was wearing. When he was done, he leaned back once more and met my gaze at last.

 

“I recall only pieces. Most clear is a memory of riding a horse. There is a man with me, who feels like he is my father. He resembles me only slightly, and I am wary of him. Respect and fear, mingled, I think. We ride on a worn track through a forest.” He paused and closed his eyes. “It isn’t dark there, as it looks from the outside, but it is quiet. We pass a lake. I think we may be in Europe. The landscape does not look English. I am perhaps fourteen.”
 

“Fourteen?” I made a note of this. “Does that mean you have remembered how old you are?”
 

I’d spent hours at home trying to find information about Michael’s past, but so far the search had been fruitless. He had no presence on social media that I could find with no surname and a guess at an age… even image searches had been of no use – they just matched his face to historical portraits of no note.
 

“I’d say early twenties, from my appearance. Although, that’s never a clear indicator, is it? How old are you, Doctor?” he asked.
 

“I fail to see the relevance, Michael –”
 

“Ah yes, personal questions are frowned upon.” He rolled his eyes.
 

“Yes, well…” I cleared my throat. It seemed I was never prepared to deal with this man. Not once had he responded as expected – he didn’t fit the profile for his diagnosis in any of the usual ways. I wondered briefly, what was it that separated Michael from the others. Perhaps we’d diagnosed too early.
 

 


Session Three

 

The third time I encountered Michael, I out of sorts and running late. My previous session had ended early, so I’d taken the opportunity to visit an out-patient who had regained mobility after six years without the use of his legs – he’d never shown any physical sign of injury, and it had been concluded that his past trauma had led to a mental block that kept him immobile. I was fond of the patient, so to see such a recovery was a big moment in my career – tangible evidence that our sessions had been an effective treatment.
 

When I reached my office, Michael was waiting outside with a male nurse whose name I could never recall. To my surprise, he was in a wheelchair. I pushed open the door and sat down, trying to compose myself.
 

“Would you like to take a seat, Michael, or –” I glanced at the nurse, who had wheeled the chair over to the side of the sofa.
 

“I’ll remain here if you don’t mind, Doctor.”
 

I nodded, and the nurse left. Michael’s notes had lain untouched on my desk since the previous morning. I’d been bothered by headaches more and more often, and catching up on a week’s worth of cramped, handwritten notes was the last thing I wanted to do.
 

“How are you, Michael?” I asked.
 

He laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Weak, Doctor. But in body only. I will recover.”
 

I wondered what had led to this weakness and spent a moment scanning his paperwork. It seemed there was no explanation for Michael’s sudden illness – his test results were all normal, he’d been eating well; even taking his medication occasionally. But the side effects of Risperdal were weight gain and restlessness – the opposite of the symptoms Michael had been displaying. It was a mystery. I made a note on his file that he should be switched to an alternative medication as soon as possible, though – just in case.
 

“Do you have any idea what might have brought this on?” I had to ask. I needed to know if this sickness was his own doing. There was nothing in his file about self-harm, and it seemed unlikely, but I would be remiss not to ask.
 

He yawned. “Yes. But do not concern yourself. As I said, I will recover.”
 

I frowned, trying to think of a way in – I needed him to open up. “Do you think your illness is a human illness?”
 

Michael laughed. It was a deep, charming laugh that invited me into chuckling along with him.
 

“Of course it is Doctor,” he answered when he had regained himself. “It is caused by my being here; in such an environment.”
 

“This place specifically? The hospital?”
 

He shook his head, looking away. “It does not matter.”
 

I squinted down at my notes. As usual, he was right. His physical illness wasn’t why we were there.
 

The silence spread out before us, blanketing the room until even the ticking of the clock seemed too loud. I waited for him to break it.
 

“I have remembered a name, Doctor,” he said eventually.
 

I looked up. “That’s wonderful, Michael. So, tell me, who are you?”
 

“The name that came to me is Michael Swynford.” He closed his eyes slowly, long eyelashes forming shadows on his face. “I understand it belongs to me, as one of many names. I suspect I have no family left that might share it, though I recall a sister. Her name is Isabel, though I do not believe her to be a Swynford.”
 

Opening his eyes, he stared at me across the space between us – only a metre or so. Something emanated from him as his gaze bored into mine; desperate for me to grasp the importance of his words.
 

“Is there anything else?”
 

“I remember what happened before they brought here me. I was incorrect before, you see. The blood on my clothes and skin… was mine. I hurt only myself.”
 

He seemed serious, but there could be no truth in it. The blood results had been inconclusive, but not a match for Michael. Yet his sincerity was undeniable. I couldn’t explain it to myself, but I believed him.
 

“There was a lot of blood, Michael. You said yourself – you’re not injured.”
 

“That means nothing!” He snapped. “I keep telling you, I am not like the others. There is nothing wrong with my mind, Doctor. It is my body I cannot understand.”
 

He tried to pull himself up from his chair, and I watched without a word as he failed, falling back uselessly. I didn’t know what to say, but I knew that to help him would be a mistake.
 

Michael looked at me again. It was a terrifying thing, to be the object of this strange man’s interest. He saw through me, and within me – to everything that I was and tried to appear. Maybe I was being absurd – and it was an uncomfortable sensation – but the effect this man had on those around him was extraordinary. In a short time, he already had much of the facility at his beck and call. Staff and patients.
 

“You believe me, then.”
 

I nodded, unsure why.
 

“But you still think I am delusional. Not quite in my right mind; missing a few key parts in my concept of reality?”
 

His phrasing was off. The words were familiar, but they were not Michael’s. I wondered where the quote had come from, sure that it would come to me, eventually.
 

“I don’t think you’re in a good place right now, Michael. I worry that you’re not seeing things clearly. But that’s why you’re here.” I forced a smile.
 

He lifted his chin slightly, assessing me. “I know you believe that.”
 

“Michael, come now.” I put my head in my hand for a moment, suddenly dizzy. “You have to understand that there’s no evidence to corroborate your story.” There was no harm in trying to explain my reasoning. “You arrived here with no name, covered in blood and with a stubborn streak that made the nurses’ jobs very difficult.” I sighed, watching him for a reaction. “You refuse to take your medication and intentionally confuse the other patients. What choice do we have but to believe that you are a troubled young man?”
 

Michael stared out of the window. It was cloudy again, though milder than the last time we’d met.
 

“I would like to go into the garden. I have seen it, through the window in the common area. The others are allowed out. I would like to go, too.”
 

“I –” I was embarrassed. “Michael, you know why we can’t let you do that.”
 

He laughed again, though there was none of the carelessness of before. For the first time, I thought I detected a faint accent.
 

“I am dangerous, yes? This is to do with the blood?”
 

“I’m afraid so.”
 

“It was my blood,” he shrugged. “I heal quickly, but it was my blood.”
 

“We don’t think so, Michael.”
 

He shook his head. “No. You would not.”

 

Later that evening, I took the time to read through the week’s notes on Michael, as made by some of the other staff. His illness had come on out of the blue, and his legs had given out on the way to lunch the previous day. No one could agree on where he had been in the hours preceding the incident. Some said he’d been in the day room, others that he’d been with another patient, sitting in their room. One nurse suggested he’d been playing chess.
 

The physician had examined him for every possibility and could find no fault with him – which suggested it was self-induced; a mental conflict that had manifested physically. 
 

The nurses had little to add beyond a shrug. He’d behaved well enough both before and after the incident, though there was something unknowable about him that scared some of the more sensitive patients.
 

I was about to close the cardboard folder when I saw it, at the bottom of the notes, scrawled in red ink: Not quite in his right mind. Missing a few key parts in his concept of reality.
 

 

 


Session Four

Michael’s words stayed with me for some time after our meeting. The things he claimed about himself were impossible – science and good solid logic told me so – but still, I found myself wondering... This was the second time he’d shown an aptitude for insight into my mind; far beyond that of simple body language interpretation and guesswork. I knew there were mysteries left for medical science to unravel about the human brain, but Michael made me think seriously about such things for the first time in my career.
 

I recall that this distraction – combined with personal problems and health concerns at the time – caused me to behave irrationally at work. I was forgetful, late to appointments and worst of all, inattentive with my other patients. I wanted to see Michael again, determined to learn all I could from him this time. Unfortunately, during this period I learned that Michael had been placed into a solitary observation unit for nine days. He suffered his first manic period that week, and the time out was intended to help him calm himself, whilst allowing us a glimpse into his behaviour around the clock – not just when he deigned to show himself. However, neither the nurses nor the orderlies could control him. He seemed to have lost his cohesion and couldn’t contain his outbursts. It was a sudden change in him, which was both odd and concerning – I found it particularly discouraging that he seemed to be moving backwards rather than forwards in our care. But needless to say, when he returned to my office, he was much changed.

 

“Hello, Michael. Would you care to take a seat?” I spoke in practice, hushed tone. I could see that he was still agitated, and I didn’t want to do anything to aggravate him further.
 

“Care? Would I care to take a seat?” He muttered.
 

He sat down despite his apparent distaste, but his eyes wandered the office, looking at anything but me. He appeared not to be able to sit still, his head and fingers twitching as he glanced from the window to the door, back to the coffee table that separated us. IT was the worst I’d yet seen him; the skin of his face stretched tightly over his high cheekbones almost to transparency. Michael’s striking features were barely identifiable with this change, though it had to be noted that there had been a marked improvement in his physical health – he was once again walking unaided. Yet the composure and self-control that I’d come to associate with him were gone.
 

“I hear you’ve had a difficult week, Michael?”
 

His eyes flicked to my face for the briefest of moments, and away again.
 

“‘People are best punished for their virtues.’” He laughed quietly, hands twisting together in his lap. “I behaved. For weeks, I behaved. Resisted what came most naturally to me. Now look –” His voice grew louder, verging on shrill. “Just look, Doctor. Do I deserve this? For what I have done?”
 

I frowned. “Do you think you’re being punished, Michael?”
 

“Clearly! Haven’t you been listening at all? It was not supposed to happen like this.”
 

“You know I’m here to listen to you,” I spoke slowly. “Tell me, what do you think you’re being punished for? Who is punishing you?”
 

He froze. His long, pale fingers were gripping the chair so tightly that his knuckles turned whiter still. The look he gave me was somehow both pitying and disparaging simultaneously, and I immediately felt ridiculous – though I had no inkling why.
 

“By myself, Doctor. Who else could?” 
 

I remember how his oddly calm tone disarmed me for a moment. I didn’t understand what he was telling me, unless he meant he was behaving this way intentionally. He did seem to be able to turn it on and off to an extent… It almost seemed possible, though it hardly fit with his diagnosis unless this was a further demonstration of narcissism. I made a note.
 

“You are punishing yourself.” When I finally spoke, it was as much to myself as to Michael. “Why?”
 

“Because… because I cannot help it, Doctor. Can you stop yourself when you feel guilt? Feel terror?” His hands twisted again, and he clamped them firmly down between his thighs as though they too were out of his control.
 

“What do you feel guilty about, Michael?” I had the overwhelming feeling that I was about to learn something crucial about this man who had so haunted my thoughts this past week. I was eager for him to speak. So, of course, he remained silent.
 

“Do you want to tell me?” I repeated.
 

Michael stilled as he looked up at me. His expression reminded me inexplicably of an animal being led to the slaughter.
 

“I am alone here, Doctor. I want to tell you many things, but there are such things that I can never share with you, much as I might wish to.” He leaned forward, splaying his fingers on the dark glass of the coffee table that separated us, his palms pushing so forcefully that I worried the glass might shatter. “‘If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss gazes back into you.’” He sat back in a movement I barely saw, fingers twisting once again. “That is the truth of it. I could not do that to you.”
 

As a psychiatrist, I knew that to play along with this game, whatever it might be, could reveal answers. But I had become invested in his case – I needed to know what Michael could tell me. What secret was he keeping?
 

“Is that your decision to make? Shouldn’t that be up to me?”
 

“Do not be ridiculous, Doctor.” He snapped. “No one can afford to make their own choices.”
 

Michael stood and crossed to the window where the day’s light had almost faded, and began pacing back and forth between the door and my chair. He glanced at me occasionally.
“What you must understand, Doctor, is that humanity does not understand what is best for it. One might decide one thing, but because a human is incapable of perceiving the world both clearly and objectively… that decision is bound to fail.”

 

“So…” I paused, gathering my thoughts. “Are you saying that… because I’m not able to be objective about my choices, you can’t confide in me?” It was true. For some time now I’d stopped treating Michael like I did every other patient – I was too intrigued.
 

“Yes.” He sat down, still again, before bursting out: “I tried to fix it, you know.”
 

“Fix what?”
 

“Myself. I am… broken.” He grinned. “I have been for years, I feel. Of course, I sympathise with you the most. You’re trying to fix me too.” The smile faded from his face. “But if I could not manage it, why should you be able to?”
 

I remember it was around this point when an unpleasant feeling began to creep up on me. Curious as I was, the groundwork was there – something must have changed to provoke this bout of bizarre behaviour, and I needed to know what.
 

“What did you do, Michael?”
 

“I bled. Do you not remember, Doctor?” He watched me closely, leaning forward. “I tried to cut it out. To get rid of it. It poured out, at first. Thick and fast. It seemed to be working. But… I healed. And now we are here again, the familiar routine.”
 

“Do you mean to say that you’ve been here before?” We had no record of such an occurrence – he had no file.
 

He shook his head. “Not here, no. Similar places. Many times. I always try to get rid of it, every time. It will be the ruin of me.”
 

This was new information. When a patient arrived, our policy was to investigate their background, their family life, medical history and the like – to see if there were any previous problems with the patient. Michael had been without a name for weeks, so this procedure had been overlooked except for the small amount of research I’d managed in my private time.
 

“What were you trying to get rid of, Michael?”
 

He looked up from his lap, straight at me. “My conscience, of course.”
 

 

 


Session Five

At our facility, each patient was expected to see a psychiatrist once a week, for a forty-five-minute session. Although continuously observed by qualified professionals, patients were encouraged to keep normal routines while with us. Due to this, only in extenuating circumstances would I be allowed to speak to Michael before our next scheduled meeting. It was deemed unnecessary, and so – fully aware that I was breaking the rules – I made it my business to seek him out.
 

He had been denied the chance to visit the gardens. It wasn’t much, but compared to the dull concrete building, the sparse greenery and frozen bird fountains were a welcome change. With someone accompanying him, Michael would have been allowed out before – but the nurses were frightened of him. So much so that none had been willing to be alone with him any longer than necessary.
 

I found Michael in a communal area, reading a book of Italian poetry with a title I couldn’t read. Before he could have known I was there, he had already turned to smile at me.
 

“Hello, Doctor.” He grinned. “Would you care to take a seat?”
 

I smiled in return, and took the chair across from him. “I wondered if you still wanted to visit the gardens, Michael?”
 

His face lit up. “Certainly Doctor, but why the change of heart?”
 

“Well, now I’m available to accompany you, Michael.” I stood up, and he narrowed his eyes at me from his seat.
 

“Perhaps that is a part of it. But you also wish to speak with me, yes?”
 

I nodded. “Yes.”
 

Outside, the grass was hidden under bright white snow, though thankfully the caretaker had cleared the paths. Beneath its blanket, the garden looked much more beautiful than it really was; untidy flowerbeds buried away, the graffiti out of sight. Light bounced across fragments of ice on the ground in tiny shafts, sparkling and illuminating the route we walked despite the leaden skies above.
 

Since Michael’s clothing had been confiscated when he arrived, he had worn several odd and incorrectly sized items in the time I’d known him. Now, he wore a coat taken from the box of monthly charitable donations we received. Swathed in black wool, he looked impeccably smart but vividly pale.
 

“You seem happier today, Michael.”
 

“Yes. When was it I last saw you, Doctor? I lost track, for a while.”
 

“Four days ago. I wanted to speak to you sooner, but I’ve had trouble getting hold of you. The board doesn’t it necessary for us to meet more regularly.” I wouldn’t normally have shared so much information with a patient – but then, he was not the usual patient.
 

“What is it you want to talk about, Doctor?”
 

I stopped walking a little ahead of Michael and turned back to face him. He seemed to drink in his surroundings, revelling in the frosty air. He did not seem cold, though he wore no scarf or gloves. Only relaxed.
 

“You gave me a lot to think about last time, Michael. In fact, the more I think on it, the more I wonder if you’re worried on my behalf. Which worries me.” I waited for a reaction, but he maintained the mild expression of an adult listening to a child. “I understand you don’t want a confidante, but… perhaps I can help?” I clasped my hands behind my back and looked at him. After a moment, I turned and began walking again. I heard only my own footsteps but caught glimpses of Michael in peripheral vision.
 

“You are right, Doctor. I am concerned for your welfare, and the welfare of everyone here – patients and staff. But should I explain my reasoning, you would not believe me. And it may well change you in ways I do not believe are reversible.” His voice seemed calm, but there was a note of something there that I’m not ashamed to admit made me nervous.
 

“Did you know I am reconsidering your diagnosis?” I wasn’t used to admitting I was wrong, just yet, but I wasn’t surprised that Michael already seemed to know of my change of heart – though I’d confided in no one.
 

“Yes, Doctor. I am glad.”
 

“Yet you don’t think I’ll believe you…”
 

“I don’t think you can.” He ran a hand through his hair, and it struck me that he was probably younger than I was. There was something worldly and ancient in his face, but I didn’t think he could be older than eighteen.
 

“Have you remembered anything more?” We sat on a bench, brushing away the snow.
 

“Many parts of the whole are coming together in my mind, and yet I feel I am still missing something crucial. When I find it, I will understand everything that has happened, as I have understood it before.”
 

“Before?”
 

“I am repeating myself. I told you I had been in other places like this; other hospitals, did I not?”
 

I nodded.
 

“Yes… It is a cycle… I forget myself and my life, then I gradually piece it back together. For a while, I remember who I am. Then I think it must overwhelm me, and my mind saves me from myself. I forget once more and end up in these places.” He waved a hand to indicate the building behind us and sighed. “This isn’t really what you wanted to talk to me about. You want to know why I tried to get rid of my conscience.”
 

“What did you do, Michael?” I asked quietly.
 

He raised an eyebrow and looked away. “I have done many things. I told you once that I was not a pacifist. The truth is, sometimes I enjoy it.”
 

“What do you mean? Enjoy what?”
 

Michael just smiled. “Do not make the mistake of believing I am your friend, Doctor. It would not be in your best interests.”
 

 

 


Session Six

One week, shortly after our trip to the gardens, I was called to supervise a group therapy session when a colleague fell ill. Though I wasn’t aware of it until my arrival, this was the group in which Michael participated. I already knew that Michael occasionally ventured to speak to the other patients based on brief conversations I’d had with the nurses about him – but was this was the first opportunity I’d had to observe.
 

The group was quite small. Only five patients, including Michael. There was an unfamiliar young woman who was assigned to another psychiatrist, whose name I was told was Janet. She struggled with severe depression, and during a low point had checked herself into the facility around eighteen months ago.
 

Beside Janet was an elderly man who I knew suffered from Dissociative Identity Disorder. His name was Claude, and his prominent other personality, Lillian. There was also a boy who was perhaps a few years older than Michael appeared to be – John. He was something of a mystery and hadn’t spoken for almost seven years according to his medical file. Finally, there was a woman of around thirty who had been newly diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, and whose refusal to take her medication had kept her with us for far longer than usual – Sarah. There had been a sixth patient – Benjamin – in the group before that week. He had been a heroin user from a young age, and as a result, his mind had been badly affected. However, he’d made such leaps of progress over the last month that he was no longer required to take part and might even be eligible for release in the coming weeks.
 

Michael looked serene as he sat amongst them, leaning forward in the gesture I’d become accustomed to. We were discussing the art therapy the group had participated in the previous afternoon. Sarah was distracting, fidgeting in her chair as she recalled her painting.
 

“I-I thought I’d paint like, a fairground cos… let’s face it, people, it’s dull as fuck in here. You gotta bring some col-colour into the place. So I painted this huge Ferris wheel, and all the diff-different coloured tents and stuff. It was pret-pretty pretty good.”
 

“I thought that was a kid’s finger painting,” Claude spoke in the higher tone that indicated Lillian was dominant. “If that thing goes on the wall in here, I’ll have something to say about it. Surely a nuthouse is supposed to be calm and soothing, not covered in childish scribbles?” He looked to me for agreement, and though I’d seen the painting and privately agreed, that wasn’t my role in the group.
 

“I’m sure the painting is lovely, Sarah.” I smiled at her and she smiled back. “We’ll be displaying the paintings in the social area, temporarily. I don’t think it’s unreasonable if everyone is included and we do it fairly?”
 

“S’pose not,” Claude said. “Mine wasn’t half bad.”
 

“What did you paint, Lillian?” Michael asked as I tried to speak.
 

“Clouds. Sea. That sort of stuff. Stormy, though. None of her cheery shit.” He jerked his head in Sarah’s direction.
 

“I’m sure that it will look wonderful.” I smiled at him as I turned to the other side of the circle, concerned about the lack of participation from certain members of the group. “Janet, how did you like the painting exercise?”
 

She didn’t say anything; only looked up at me, blinking.
 

“She painted tre-trees. I saw. A-a forest with people and a ton of trees.” Sarah piped up. “It all blur-blurry, couldn’t see the faces on the people or anything. I can’t draw people, so I just leave ‘em out. Why put ‘em in there if you’re n-n-not gonna d-do it right?”
 

A cool voice cut across the circle. “Often, I paint from memory. But our memory is not always as clear as we might like, so the faces may blur or lose detail for us. Is it that way for you Janet?”
 

I was surprised that Michael had come to her defence, and I noticed Sarah frowning too. I wondered if he regularly participated, or if my presence in the group was the catalyst.
 

“Did you paint yesterday, Michael?” I asked when Janet ignored him.
 

He smiled. “Yes, Doctor. I painted, though I was concerned about the lack of darker hues amongst the colours. Where were the heavier blues and greens; the black? It seems a shame to leave them out when the world is an array of wonderful shades.”
 

“They wouldn’t really go with the furniture in the social room.” I raised my eyebrows at him, aware that he wasn’t being entirely serious. Sarah laughed, too loudly.
 

“Managed to make them tre-trees look depressin’ enough without any black though, di-did-didn’t you Janet?”
 

“Leave her alone,” Claude spoke slowly, his voice deeper now.
 

“I enjoyed your painting, Janet,” Michael said, turning his face towards her. She looked back up at him, eyes hard, glancing first at John, who as usual had remained silent.
 

“Don’t. I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.” She spoke quietly, but the disdain was clear even from across the circle. 
 

“Why are you so opposed to my helping you? I really cannot understand it.” Michael sounded agitated as he ran a hand through his already rumpled hair. “What do you have to lose?”
 

“What’s this about, Michael? Janet?” I asked quickly. It wasn’t often that Michael expressed sentiments of this sort.
 

“He thinks he knows what I want. That he can make it all go away, and I’ll fuck off into the sunset to live happily ever after like the rest of them.” Janet snapped, the volume increasing.
 

“I only wish to help her.” Michael lifted his gaze lazily to meet mine. The look on his face asked me politely to keep out of this – told me he had been working at this for a while, and he didn’t want me interfering. I had no idea how I could infer so much from a single expression.
 

“Oh yeah, you w-wanna help her alright, Michael, love!” Sarah stood, grinning from ear to ear, and swung her hips in Michael’s direction, strutting towards him. “Don’t you wanna help me?” I couldn’t decide if this was a mockery on her part, or a genuine attempt to appeal to his unattainable affections, but my decision was made for me as she straddled him in his seat.
 

“Sarah, come away.” I stood up, beckoning an orderly from across the room who was studiously staring at his phone. “You can’t just approach people like that. Calm down and come away.”
 

I crossed the room, but before I reached the pair, Michael gripped her arms and flung her away from him with such alarming force that she flew across the breadth of the circle. Her head hit the metal leg of Claude’s chair with the harsh tone of steel meeting flesh, and she fell still. Michael stood, breathing fast, and glanced at me.
 

“See?”
 

 

 


Session Seven

Michael’s change of behaviour during group therapy led to a lot of paperwork and two days in solitary for him. He neither apologised to Sarah nor did he try to explain his actions. Lucky for him, she was up and about less than twenty-four hours later – but the consequences for me, as a medical professional, were more complicated. While routine enquiries took place to ensure that I wasn’t personally responsible for the incident, I could not see Michael. In the meantime, several of the senior nurses developed a nasty habit of popping their heads in during my sessions – I could only conclude I was no longer trusted to keep patients under control.

 

“Michael. Would you care to take a seat?”
 

He crossed the room, and one by one closed the slatted blinds that hung over the windows before taking his place opposite me. I noticed he was careful not to step directly into the light.
 

“Hello, Doctor.” There was something in his voice that I hadn’t heard before. I couldn’t place it. “It has been… some time.”
 

I nodded. “Are you alright, Michael?”
 

“Yes, Doctor. Quite well.” It was bitterness. His tone was bitter.
 

“You don’t seem yourself.”
 

He raised his eyes to mine, and I saw that behind his usual darkness, there was something more.
 

“A patient died this morning.” He broke eye contact. “Did they tell you that?”
 

I shook my head. “I only arrived at work an hour ago, I’m sure the nurses have other things on their minds.”
 

“It was Janet. Suicide.” He twisted his hands together, his gaze never leaving his lap. “Why do you people do that? Take your own lives because you are unhappy?” He laughed, but there was no humour in it. “If you are sick, yes. Dying, even. But something so fixable?”
 

It was my turn to look away. “I can’t tell you, Michael. I don’t know. People cope as best they can, I suppose.” No one had mentioned Janet to me. I hadn’t known she was so ill. Grimly, I wondered how she did it.
 

“People are fools.”
 

“Is there a reason this is affecting you so strongly, Michael? You didn’t seem close when last I saw you together.” I couldn’t help but think his reaction was highly unusual, given his general low opinion of the human race.
 

He raised his chin. “She was different. She refused to let me help her.” He sighed. “You may as well know that much, it makes no difference to her now.”
 

“How were you trying to help her?” I sat back in my chair and put my notes down beside me. Michael had my full attention, though I’d guessed a little already.

“The only way I can. Could. You know I cannot tell you the truth, Doctor. But it does not matter now.”

“Who was she to you, though?” I picked up my clipboard again, unable to hide my disappointment at his answer. Perhaps if I could find out more about her, I’d learn more about Michael.
 

He laughed. “I can tell you her life story – even tell you the parts she thought were hidden from me – but she was just another unhappy woman.”
 

I sighed. I would check the records.
 

“Really, Doctor?” He sat forward, his words urgent. “And have your records taught you anything about me before now?”
 

I was startled. I’d suspected this of Michael, but this was the first time he’d been so brazen with it.
 

“Oh, calm yourself, David. You knew this already.” His words were laced with ice, and for the first time, I worried about making him angry.
 

He took a deep breath and sank back in his chair. His fingers worked their way into the familiar steeple, and I watched him, wary of another outburst. “You can hardly say I failed to mention it before.”
 

“No, and… I believed you. I do believe you. I just had no proof.” I closed my eyes, rubbed my temples. The headaches were getting worse.
 

“You still have no proof. I could have guessed quite easily that you would run to the filing room as soon as I left today. The fact is, I did not. But back to our discussion. Where would we normally be, at this point in our conversation?” He blinked at me, his face blank as marble.
 

“Ah –” I scrambled for a moment, trying to grasp reality again. “Well, perhaps we’d be talking about you and the other patients. We’ll not talk about this woman; I can see you don’t want that.”
 

“Thank you, Doctor.” He returned to using my formal title. “I have been spending some time with the others here, it is true.” He paused, watching his fingers. “Do you remember when we met first, I told you that not all the patients here are ill?”
 

“I do.” 
 

“Well, perhaps that is not strictly true. But you and I both know there are many kinds of illness. Some are physical, some are not. Those who have been trained as you have can cure some. But there are others, who cannot be cured.” He waited, apparently for dramatic effect, but I said nothing.
 

“Do you remember Claude? A strange case of the human condition, to be sure. He has shared his mind with Lillian since he was a child. I have watched him. He sits alone each day, attempting to dampen her down with the drugs your nurses feed him. Most days, she claws her way out, anyway.”
 

“You have been getting to know the patients,” I commented as I made a note to ask the nurses how Claude and Michael got on.
 

“Yes. I can know Claude much better now that Lillian has gone.” He smiled mildly.
 

“Lillian is gone?” I frowned.
   “As I said before, your medications have never truly worked well for Claude. I spoke with him for a little while, then I spoke with her. We came to an agreement, and now Lillian has left him. At least, in the sense that you understand her existence.”

 

“If Lillian isn’t present, then Claude is in remission. He has Dissociative Identity Disorder, Michael. Our medications can help Claude to stay in control, but they’re not a permanent solution. His condition may well continue to develop.”
 

He nodded, though he wasn’t agreeing with me. “She has gone, Doctor. Trust me, you will see.”

 

 

 


Session Eight

The final time I met with Michael, he was different. I’d been able to confirm what he’d told me about Claude – he was in full remission, and if his progress continued, he’d be released. Perhaps it sounds odd that it took me so long to believe in Michael, but it wasn’t until I learned of this last miracle that things fell into place in my mind.

 

“Michael. Would you care to take a seat?”
 

“I would Doctor, thank you.” He sat down, lounging back gracefully. Strange enough, he seemed unable to stop himself gazing out of the window, despite his aversion to light.
 

“How are you this week, Michael?” I asked.
 

“Just fine, Doctor.
 

“That’s good to hear. Have you spoken to Claude at all?”
 

“No. I should keep my distance from now on. Tell me, how is he doing?”
 

“He’s doing well, he may even be released.” I smiled.
 

Michael was silent, his head nodded almost reflexively. The window seemed to fascinate him, and I watched as he battled the urge to go to the glass. He lost and walked away, his hands resting lightly on the sill.
 

“But the same cannot be said for you now, can it Doctor?” He spoke quietly, his eyes never leaving the sky outside.
 

“It’s not one of my better days, no.” What was the point in hiding it from Michael, of all people?
 

“And your pain? What is it like? I can see it in your face, and your mind is… deafening. But I cannot feel it to know.”
 

I searched for the words. “It’s like my muscles and bones have forgotten how to work together. It feels… crimson. Furious and vicious and persistent.” I stared at the floor, willing my voice steady.
 

“Crimson? I think I can understand that.” He glanced back at me. “And if this pain is as I imagine… I can only express my admiration for the way that you cope, Doctor.”
 

We were silent as he looked out at the world, his face up against the windowpane. Michael’s breath left no mark on the glass.
 

Eventually, he returned to his seat. “There is something you want to tell me?”
 

It was my turn to nod. “I spoke to the board about your diagnosis.”
 

“Ah, yes. Grandiose delusions, was it not?” He pursed his lips for a moment. “I was hardly expecting it to be easy.”
 

“They’re unwilling to cooperate. It seems that until the matter of your suspicious admittance is cleared up, we aren’t able to release you, except into police custody.”
 

He sighed. “It does not present too much of a problem, Doctor. Thank you for trying, though.”
 

“You realise there will be people to stop you, Michael?” It sounded like a threat, but that was the truth of it.
 

“I am aware, yes.”
 

“You could hurt someone.”
 

“I will try not to. But as I said before, I am no pacifist.” His face broke into a grin, and I wondered for a second whether he enjoyed this hold he had over us all.
 

“I remember.”
 

We were quiet. It was late in the evening, after six. The sun was setting behind the tinted glass of my office, and it was a sight so spectacular that neither of us could look away. Scarlet waves burned across the horizon, blood orange smudges spreading out into the cool lilac that descended slowly from the stars.
 

Michael broke the peace.
 

“I can help you, Doctor. It is your turn if you are willing to let me.”
 

I watched his face, familiar by now, though his skin was lightly bronzed in the twilight. I knew this moment was one I would remember always – his black eyes hidden in the depths of his face, unreadable as I searched for an answer…
 

“What are you, Michael?”
 

He smiled at me. “I cannot tell you that.  But you are an intelligent young man, Doctor. Look at the facts. Do you believe in coincidence?”
 

I didn’t. Since Michael had arrived, they had released more patients from the unit than in all my time at the facility so far. But Michael himself had been inconsistent in his behaviour. The wheelchair, his manic period, today’s fondness of the light despite his biological aversion to it… he was ever-changing, and somehow eternally the same. Handsome, cold, and now it would seem… gifted.
 

“If you help me, what will happen to me? To you?” I had to decide, but it terrified me. The last shafts of sun disappeared from the sky, and the room went dark. 
 

“Do you really need to know?” His voice was a whisper through the sudden gloom. I shook my head, sure that he would see.
 

Something heavy hit me with a force that pushed my chair backwards, and I fell to the floor, my neck twisting to the side roughly. My head cracked sharply against the wooden floor, ears ringing as the surrounding darkness thickened, weighing upon my chest. I remember the feeling of being smothered, but I couldn’t move. And then, I remember nothing at all.

 

A green light winked on the base unit of my computer, giving the room an eerie glow as I woke. I’d never felt so weak as I tried to pull myself up into a sitting position. My throat throbbed sharply as I moved my head, and I could hear my pulse pounding with each movement. I rested for a moment before trying again, heaving myself upright using the desk as a crutch.
 

When my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw Michael was gone. My notes, too, were missing – though aside from the overturned chair, there was no sign of anything unusual. I searched my desk in vain, but nowhere was there any evidence that Michael had ever existed. The computer was on and logged into my account, but the digital files were gone too. A glance at the CCTV monitors outside of my office implied that no one had been to see me that evening.
 

Though he wasn’t forgotten, we never found any trace of Michael. The staff remembered, of course, as did the other patients, but on paper, he had never been here at all.
 

No one tried very hard to find him. In a way, I found this unbearably sad – the only reason he’d gone unnoticed so long here had been that lack of connection to the outside world, and here we were again, forgetting him as he’d forgotten himself. But some part of me knew it was for the best.
 

As for me, I was reborn. The headaches: the dizziness and pains that had grown so bad of late – they were gone. My chemotherapy was stopped and I was pronounced clear, though inexplicably a tad anaemic, by my physician. Within a few weeks, I noted that I’d developed a slight aversion to bright light, but it seemed a small price to pay. The shadow that had followed me for almost a year was gone.
 

Around a month after Michael’s disappearance, I came home to find a package wrapped in brown paper on my kitchen table. There were no postage markings, nor had any of the locks been tampered with – yet there it was, in the middle of my flat.
 

When I unwrapped it, I found a painting and a short note. In strokes as clear as a photograph, a man and a young boy rode on horseback through a sun-dappled forest clearing. It was otherworldly. Beautiful.

 

For David, the only doctor I recall trusting in all my years. Good luck.’

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