Here's the story I wrote for my final project. For some reason, I really think it's better written than spoken. I'm not sure what to call it because I'm terrible at naming things (except cars, to which my brain always attaches names for no good reason). I'll post the explication soon, once everyone hopefully has a moment to come to their own conclusions about some things in the story.
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Excerpt from the diary
January 4, 19--
Every night I hear them whispering about me. Sometimes I think I can almost understand the exact words. I see them waving their arms—it’s a code, I know it is. I’m so close to cracking it. But no, they don’t want me to know. They want to be able to talk behind my back with impunity. If I knew what they were saying, they wouldn’t be able to say it anymore, because then I’d know all the nasty things they think about me. I can guess at them now. I’m so close. I think it’s like this: ..-. .-.. -.-- -... --- -.-- ..-. .-.. -.-- .. -.-. .- with all the tapping and waving but then I can’t make out the rest. They’re laughing now. They must change to a different cipher at that point. I don’t know which one.
I’m in a new room, and my parents aren’t here anymore. The room is mostly white, and the bed is uncomfortable. I think everyone thinks I’m crazy. I’m not. I just see and hear more than they do, so of course they don’t understand.
Psychiatrist’s notes
January 4, 19--
New patient admitted today. He’s an interesting case. Every inanimate object has some malicious ulterior motive as far as he’s concerned. I’m going to ask Dr. B---- if he wants to study him. I don’t feel qualified to do more than try to keep him quiet. He doesn’t often become agitated; mostly he’s sullen and sometimes uncooperative. He keeps saying things about the trees and the sky, and we noticed immediately that anything with moving parts terrifies him. I don’t yet know why these objects are of particular significance. This requires more study.
Excerpt from the diary
January 10, 19--
Words words WORDS. I hear them but I don’t know what they mean! It’s infuriating. The people who call themselves doctors keep asking me what I hear and what it means. Do they know how stupid they sound? If I knew, wouldn’t I tell them? But no, they’re stuck in their own little spheres of ignorance, completely unable to comprehend the level of madness I can hear. Am I mad, or is the world mad? Am I the only one who knows what’s really going on? I wish I knew.
Psychiatrist’s notes
January 20, 19--
Slowly we are beginning to shed light on this boy’s affliction. Dr. B---- has been to see him a few times and he’s read all my notes to date, which have been sadly unenlightening. We have found that the boy is intelligent, abnormally so. His IQ is at least 170, though I cannot say for sure how high it is as we ran into problems when we came to the pattern recognition section. I should have known better, but Dr. B---- and I were so curious. Dr. B---- has termed the boy’s affliction “referential mania.” The label is helpful, certainly, but we have so far been unable to solve any of his problems. There is little literature on the subject—thus the reason Dr. B----’s study is so necessary. The boy still thinks he hears coded messages in the tapping of the trees at his window, or sees them in the clouds in the sky when he’s out for his daily walks. While I doubt he will ever be fully cured of his condition, perhaps some progress can be made.
Excerpt from the diary
February 5, 19--
Do they really not understand? I try and try to tell them, but they can’t understand. I suppose it must look a little crazy to them, since they’re so trapped in their little minds and corresponding realities. I don’t think I’d wish my abilities on them, though. It is a terrible thing to be under the scrutiny of all of nature at once, and some human-made things, too.
Psychiatrist’s notes
February 15, 19--
The boy’s parents came to see him today. He did not acknowledge them at all. I don’t know what he’s thinking about. He won’t open up to me. I’m going to keep trying, but it will probably take a lot of time.
Excerpt from the diary
March 10, 19--
Of all the things to try to get me to talk, they pick life. Not just the biological concept of life, but Life with a capital L in the philosophical sense. Don’t they see how stupid that is for someone like me? Every part of my life is watched and cataloged and recorded, not just by them, but by the entire world. Everything is watching all the time. Every breath I take is put in a box somewhere. And they want to talk to me about Life. Their minds could never comprehend my life.
What if I could fly away from here? What if somehow I could get away from this place and go somewhere without watchers? I wonder if such a place exists. If I could only tear through these white walls, I think I might find it. I can’t let the others know, though. They’d try to stop me. They don’t understand. They’d think I was trying to die, when I’m really only trying to find Life.
Psychiatrist’s notes
April 6, 19--
I will never cease to be amazed by the inventiveness of the insane. Today the patient tried to commit suicide. We should have seen the signs, but he has become adept at hiding his plans from us. He would have gone through with it if another patient hadn’t thought he was trying to fly and, ironically, stopped him because he was jealous. I’m still not sure quite how the patient was planning on making his attempt work, but given his tenacity, I think it would have ended with him on the pavement outside one way or another. I’ve moved him to suicide watch. No matter what I do, he won’t talk to me. I’ve tried for over a month now, but I think he believes he’s intellectually superior to me. I don’t doubt that he’s right in absolute terms, as his incomplete IQ test showed us; however, the fact remains that he is the one with the mental imbalance, and I am his doctor, so I must continue to try to help him.
Excerpt from the diary
April 8, 19--
The scrutiny has gotten even worse. The trees noticed that I tried to get away from them and they’re laughing at me now because I couldn’t. Some damned human stopped me. He was jealous of me. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I should have tried it in another place, where no one could see, not even the trees. I must keep trying. This is my only path to Life.
Psychiatrist’s notes
April 10, 19--
The patient’s parents came to visit again today. They try to visit him as much as possible, though sometimes he is so perturbed that it would be risky. Today, though, they were able to see him. He recognized them but then started muttering about tearing a hole in something. I think he means to try suicide again. We will continue to observe him closely. Our focus has now turned from understanding his condition to saving him from himself.
Excerpt from the diary
April 12, 19--
I remember the birds with the hands. I wonder if they know the way to life? Sometimes I see them at night now. There’s one that comes to me. I think she knows, but I’m not sure. She’s outside my window—I have to go to her. I wonder if the numbers eleven, nine, and one have anything to do with her. They keep coming up. I don’t know if they’re ciphers from the trees and the clouds or if they’re the bird asking me to come with her.
Psychiatrist’s notes
May 2, 19--
Again the patient tried to take his life. He keeps talking about numbers and a bird with hands. He’s never mentioned either of these things before.
His parents came to visit today. They brought some jelly for him, I think, but we thought their presence might disturb him more, so we had to send them home. Now I wonder if I should have let them see him. He won’t talk to anyone or respond to any other external stimulus.
Additional Psychiatrist’s notes
May 3, 19--
This morning, just after midnight, the patient succeeded in taking his own life. We’re still not sure how he managed to get out the window. He said something about the bird with hands a few hours before he got out.
Now I have to call his parents.
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