The Institute
he Institute was often times called the �Loony Bin.� No one could really figure out where that name
came from�something about the moon perhaps? Nobody remembers well enough these days anyway.
My studies brought me to the doorstep of three very different patients. But through all of their differences there seemed to be some common thread that bound them together in my mind. In my mind only, since they had never met; if they had they�d never spoken. They had almost a filial, family-like, bond between them.
As I peer at Subject 1, as I shall refer to my patients, I can�t help remembering how much I have thought about her in the recent months. Even when I try not to, I seem to think about her anyway, and I�m sure her of me.
Perhaps she is a classic case of �loony.� She, while still a teen, had so detached herself from any and all authority figures that she was barely able to control her own behavior now. Mentally she was still so much a child. A young girl who had never grown up. A young girl who knew that if she left her toys around the room there would always�always�be someone to pick them up later, someone to straighten things out like only parents could. But at the slightest order from these �father-figures� to lend a helping hand, subject 1 would fall to the floor have a fake epileptic seizure, quickly cured�of course� by her usual placebo of saline.
I recall clearly the first day that I met her, in her paltry tenement. The police had beat down the door after she was five months late on rent. Finding nothing, they had called the friendly neighborhood psychiatrist: my self. The room was a mess. Packages of rotten vegetables�she was a strict vegetarian� and cereals were strewn about the floor, mixed with months old laundry. I heard a noise from particularly large pile of rubbish and had found her lying underneath it, silently weeping to herself as she tried to get the tangles out of her long black hair.
Lost in thought, I vaguely see subject 1 staring adoringly at my shiny new nameplate�because I was just made a full professor. Doctor Sid Kelly, professor of psychotherapy, Johns Hopkins.
Her eyes were bloodshot but bedazzled by the light shining off the nameplate; ooh, so brightly. Those eyes seemed particularly dazed and frightened today, as did her hair, which was knotted and full of already chewed illegal stuff that I�d smuggled in for her when she believed she�d die without it. The bloodshot eyes sagged from the overdose�she slept little. She should have been asleep now, as I like to observe the sleeping habits of my patients. Sleeping habits are the most important of all.
I don�t know a thing about subject 1�s childhood but I presume that the main authority figures she disembodied herself from were her parents. Her drawings portrayed them sadistically, as corpses with herself the slayer, grinning ear to ear while brandishing some murder weapon or another�high in the air�
APRIL 29, 2018 3:07PM
Patient 2 has a severe temper problem and often needs restrainers to keep him from injuring himself, others, and the cell. We transferred him to the room with soft walls but he kept chewing through the padding, so we replaced him in his old cell.
He usually seems like such a kind soul, which is why he has had many clinical psychologists baffled for so many years. What exactly made him go insane? We may never know, because he is a very introspective person, thought he hates nothing more than sharing his thoughts with others.
The man himself is quite usual�boring to look at even. His head is bald and shiny�except for the red half-healed scars mapping his skull. But it was not always this way. He once�another doctor told me�had the deepest black hair and puppy dog eyes framing a face that could melt any woman. The other doctor was, of course, a woman. He seems to be able to turn his outward kindness on and off, like a puppy in the window, waiting to be bought.
But who is it that he�s �waiting for?�
He always sleeps the hours of a business man, 11:00 PM to 6:30 AM, but he obviously has no job. He loves nothing better than to sit in the chair I brought him, as he is now. Spinning around in that swivel chair�faster and faster, like a boy at a carnival. The child inside the middle-aged man is never far from the surface, it seems. He loved the chair so much, he would never harm it. Even when he was in his most vehement mood, the chair was a safe bound for his anger. It was like a sweet candy to him.
He�s been getting tired a lot more nowadays, it seems. Maybe it�s just some ingeniously clever ploy to try to make me set him loose�no. The ambiguous nature of his actions startles me again and again. What is he doing, I mused, What is he trying?
Tap! Tap! Tap!
I was so busy thinking about patient 2 that I didn�t pay attention to 2 himself. I didn�t even see him walk up to the strengthened fiberglass window and tap his middle knuckle just under my nose.
Seeing the look in my eyes, he raises one eyebrow and says, �Hello Doctor, and how are we doing today?�
I blinked slowly, then squinted in the dim light. Placing the palm of my hand against the window, aligned with his, I said, �Why are you in such a good mood today? Did you make a drawing?�
�No no, no more art time, that instructor must have something up his butt to be such a jerk all the time. No no, I was just reading the most peculiar magazine, The Psychologist Weekly. Even stranger still, I have a strong suspicion that I am mentioned once or twice in it. You see, it�s a psychological book,� he pointed out the obvious to me, and I squinted my eyes in the pain of recollection. �I thought the law,� he went on, �stated that as of the Janks case of 2003, �a patient may not be mentioned in a written article if the patient is still alive, and not until the aforementioned patient is three years dead.� He smiled; he patted himself down to make sure that he was truly alive.
�Maybe�� I mumbled, �Just maybe, I think I might have mentioned you once or twice, but I don�t remember of any �Jank�s case�.� I shook my head thinking, Now where did he get his hands on�
�2003, a patient committed suicide after reading an article stating how insane he was. It�s getting late, isn�t it doctor?�
I shook my head again, just slightly though. Noticing my head movements, he made an equally slight dismissive gesture with his hand.
�Good night,� I said. No answer�perhaps he�s angry that I took him literally and didn�t fall into his word trap. Just what is he up to�?
April 30, 2018, 10:56 PM
As daylight poured through the barred windows of the cubicle I called my office, I pick up my pen to start the day�s journal. I am going to see subject 1 again because there has been a call�
�Hey,� patient 3 calls out to me, interrupting my thoughts and making me bear the sound of one of my friends being dragged around in foot-chains and handcuffs by the sadistic guards. The guards were such sycophants when the warden was around, then they beat my colleagues, and no one had the power to stop them.
�Hey,� I returned, and tried to ignore the sound.
Just then there was a knock at my cell door.
�What�cha doing in there, boy?� said the burly voice of the guard.
�Um�uh, nothing, sir, uh�just working.�
�Ha, working!� he laughed, his nose surely turned to the sky.
