Mark approached the
therapist's door. He stood there and took a deep, determined breath, as they do
in movies, just when the protagonist is about to make an important but
ultimately life-threatening decision, such as opening a door; in most cases the
actor, posing as someone either completely ordinary or completely badass
(usually the latter), is confronted with his nemesis/significant other and engages in a bloody struggle/make-up sex, which leads to triumph against all odds/premature ejaculation. He had only recently
discovered how much of an oddball he was, and was eager to find out to what
extent his behaviour was out of the ordinary.
'Hello! You must be
Mr. Hudson, how do you do' said the incredibly attractive and surprisingly available
female therapist in a friendly manner, walking from her desk to shake his hand.
'Hi. Yes, in
person; it's very nice to meet you' said Mark.
'Now, please lie on the couch, lie on
this epitome of therapeutic sessions, talk as much as you like, and, when you
cease talking, expect me to ask you how whatever
it is you were talking about made you feel.'
'I feel better
already' said Mark.
'Then my work here
is done.'
Suddenly, huge,
white and resplendent wings burst out of the therapist's back, and before Mark
even managed to say 'farewell, my winged friend', she was gone, soaring above
the clouds to some faraway land.
Needless to say,
Mark was diagnosed with psychosis. But his days in the psychiatric ward weren't
as dreadful as he had expected. The nurses tended to every one of his real and
fictitious needs.
. . .
'The man
disappeared about two weeks ago, sir' said one of the nurses to the head
psychiatrist.
'How is that
possible?'
'Well, he is no
longer here, sir, so it is very much possible. I'd say it's pretty much a
reality, sir, and we need to accept it.'
'Will you stop
calling me sir? And will you tell me
exactly how this happened?'
'Yes, si- I mean,
yes, yes of course. He was in his room, minding his own business, and I was in
my office, doing the very same thing when, suddenly, Mr. Hudson vanished. Some
of the patients that were in his vicinity at the time recall hearing a poof sound, but I trust you know how
unreliable these... gentlemen can be'
'Could you get one
of these... gentlemen here?'
'Why of course,
sir. Mr. Marley has been patiently waiting outside.'
'Very good, send
him in, please'
Mr Marley was
brought into the office. He was wearing a tweed beret, and a tweed coat over
his patient overalls, but these were not tweed. He had a long pipe in his
mouth, but there was no tobacco in it. He'd be puffing away between words and
blowing carbon dioxide like it was pipe smoke.
'Mark Hudson, you
say?', he began, 'I knew such a man once.' He paused for what seemed a long time,
gathering his thoughts. He then continued, 'It was years ago, I volunteered for
an expedition in the depths of-'
'Don't you say
another word!' angrily interrupted the head psychiatrist 'Don't you dare say another word! I know exactly where this is going!'
Mr. Marley stared
blankly at him, startled by this sudden outburst. He then regained his
composure, and it seemed like he was about to continue with his account.
'Get him out of
here! What kind of a joke is this?' said the head psychiatrist to the nurse,
before the patient got a chance to speak some more. The nurse nervously and
hurriedly took Marlow by the arm, and showed him out.
'Now,' said the
head psychiatrist, 'is there any half-sane patient who can give us an account of
what happened?'
'I'm afraid that's
not possible, this is a psychiatric ward after all, sir. As soon as the
patients become half-sane, they are sane enough to walk free.'
The head
psychiatrist breathed a deep sigh, like the ones breathed in movies, when there
is no longer hope for the protagonist, when he is stricken by utter disbelief
brought on by the devastating impossibility of his noble cause, by the
realisation of being the only sane man in the psychiatric ward that is the World.
'He
must do what needs be done,
for
our end has just begun;
though
his heart may well be pure,
pure
is not enough to cure
mankind
of its deadly sin
which
consumes the soul within.
Withered,
blue, a piece of shoe-'
. . .
Marley was in his
room-cell, reciting a few verses from his epic poem, whilst browsing Tweeder in
search of grammatical errors. As soon as one was spotted, he'd take note of it
in his tweed-bound journal. He would date and sign it, as is done with
essential technical details in scientific studies. His latest entry read:
12 Jan 2011 - Subject: "MHudson73"
- Post content: "im leaving.... i cant
bare this place any longer!! txt me if u need me"
- Analysis: No instances of capitalisation;
lacking appropriate apostrophes; misspelled "bear"; various abbreviations.
He would then pause
in deep thought, and after a while he'd return to his activity, alternating glorious
chanting to mumbling out of sheer frustration for his peers' lack of attention
to detail. Language is all, he thought, and if one cannot master language, one cannot
possibly endeavour to understand humanity.
It was easy for
Marley to criticise people's morbid indisposition towards method and
rationality; what he lacked was empathy. Most of his time was spent in his
mind, with as little interference as possible from the outer world. It was
really no wonder to anyone who knew him that his case was clinical.
But things weren't
always like that for Marley. In fact, just like in movies, the unwritten rules
of flashbacks require the portrayal of one character's past self as some sort
of an alter ego, a younger, idealistic version of himself, to better understand
his present and future; there usually is a 'key moment', an event that triggers
his inevitable transformation or corruption. I, for one, am not a fan of the
most recent Star Wars movies, but Anakin's case comes to mind. A more literate
example would be that of Joyce's Portrait: a flashback of his younger, naive
self, that helps the reader see the older, disillusioned and solitary James
under a different light. All this applies to Marlow, and at this point there
will be no need for an explicit flashback; it will be enough to assume we all
understand that he has become what he has become as a result of specific
circumstances, though any details of such circumstances are purposely omitted,
for the sake of brevity.
An ellipsis, on the
other hand, can be used to skip straight to the character's last moments on
this Earth.
. . .
'Let me tell you,'
said Marley to the young nurse, after a long fit of coughs, lying on the
hospital bed, 'let me tell you what I think of life. It is just like having dinner,
but in a terrible restaurant'. He paused for a while, staring vacantly at the
floor beside the bed.
'How so?' finally
asked the nurse, breaking the awkward silence.
'I will tell you
how.' he blurted quickly, this followed by another fit of coughs, 'You sit
there, and order your food. And there are others, I tell you, and no matter who
you are, you will always be sitting at the very centre of the dining area.
Others seem to be sitting in the comfortable corner sofas, and some way up high
in the VIP lounge. Your dish arrives late, and it is not what you ordered, far
from that! It is your least favourite dish, I dare say it is the most
disgusting looking and fowl tasting dish you were ever served. You stare at
your hideous plate, and decide you will try it, but first you look around at
the other diners. They are already eating; they have just arrived, and they
have been immediately served their finely cooked favourite dish. They are
eating and laughing merrily, and you can almost feel the burning excitement of
their euphoria touch the surface of your skin, being shot from their euphoric mouths
and eyes and euphorically bouncing around the room in every euphoric direction.
You decide that you will complain about the unjust treatment you are receiving,
and call for the waiters, but you realise they are deaf and blind. You panic,
get up and start running for the exit, but it was sealed as soon as you
entered. You spend days, and days, and weeks and months staring at your plate,
and grow hungrier every minute. You eat. You eat all of your disgusting food,
and you die, a long, agonising death, and all the while others are at times joyfully
eating, at times spontaneously bursting into song on account of their
happiness. But the envy and hatred towards other diners and the strong sense of
injustice you feel is entirely fuelled by a most dreadful illusion, as they are
right in the middle of the restaurant too, on very small, unbearably
uncomfortable wooden chairs, very much like the one you are resting your buttocks
on, and what is on their plates is their own idea of a culinary nightmare,
while it may seem to you a kingly feast. And they are dying too.' and he broke
into yet another bout of dreadful coughing.
'Then, Mr. Marley,
why are they laughing and singing so merrily?' asked the nurse.
'I will tell you
why,' said Marley, 'but first, I must ask you a question. Do you always laugh
out of joy?'
'I believe so,
yes.'
'Do you not
sometimes laugh out of sheer desperation? Do people not sometimes laugh out of
insanity? And insanity is desperation, too. You, sitting at your table, in all
your misery, see in them the joy you so long for, yet it is not there. It is
nowhere. They laugh at their own madness, at the madness of the restaurant, at
the madness of the world. They laugh out of disillusion, they laugh out of
desperation. And you start laughing with them. You laugh and sing, sing and pray.
Oh, the euphoria!' And so he coughed once more, and died.
He truly was a
madman, thought the nurse, he must have seen some very bizarre restaurants; she
giggled, then calmly went on to inform doctor Kurliz of Marley's death.
