Page 29 - Effable Encounters
P. 29

Fantasy and Fugue

        respiration  exhibited  during  the  earlier  episodes;  his  face  bore  no
        expression  at  all. Then  he  opened  his  eyes;  to  Wheelhouse  they
        appeared as twin pools of deepest black, an illusion he attributed to
        the  room’s  lighting  and  the  patient’s  dysfunctional  reactions  to
        stimuli.
          “Hello,  Mister  Albert  Chesterton,”  the  doctor  began
        pleasantly. “Do you know where you are and who I am?”
          The patient nodded slowly. “Yes.” he said, his voice unreadable for
        affect. Chesterton’s  hands  had  interlaced  on  his  lap,  eight  folded
        fingers under two threaded thumbs.
          The  impatient  Doctor  Wheelhouse  tapped  his  pen,  unwilling  to
        prompt further but unable to elicit a response otherwise. “Well, what
        do you have to say, Mr. Chesterton?  We haven’t all day, you know.”
                 The  erstwhile  seller  of  shoes  focused  his  vision  on  the
        unsmiling healer of souls. “I’m quite certain we do, sir, whoever you
        are; it is, in fact, a given.”
          Wheelhouse  wrote  ‘3rd  voice  ???’  on  his  pad. Evidently  he  had
        succeeded  in  eliciting  a  more  basic  Albert  Chesterton. This  subject
        countered  the  doctor’s  pointed  remarks  with  material  displaying
        neither positive nor negative themes. Or would he?
          The doctor put on his cheeriest face.
          “What would you say, Mr. Chesterton, if I were to tell you that you
        have been totally cured, and that you could go home today?”
          Impassively, the man replied, “Nothing.”
          “No, wait,” said the psychiatrist, pretending to consult his notes.
        “I’m  sorry,  but  that’s  wrong. Your  test  results  show  that  you  have
        terminal prostate cancer. You will probably die a very painful death
        within three weeks. What do you say to that?”
          “Not  a  thing.”  Chesterton  remained  imperturbable,  his  attention
        resting calmly on the psychiatrist’s forehead.
          Dr. Wheelhouse turned and walked back behind his desk. He sat
        down  heavily  and  surveyed  his  notes. The  emergence  of
        this fundamental element confirmed a worst-case diagnosis; the self
        had been effaced. The patient might modulate motifs, the first two
        voices  reasserting  themselves  in  temporary  episodes,  but  their
        antithesis  would  never  synthesize  into  a  persona  functional  in  the
        larger society.



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