Crazy

“Doctor you’ve got to help me get out of here”, George whispered to the middle-aged man sitting at the opposite side of the desk. “They keep watching me”, he whimpered, “I can hear them talking about me. They tried to poison me”, his voice was almost a whisper.

Quickly, he jolted his bruised head backwards, as he stared frantically at the door. “Please”, he cried, “Please”.

 

The Doctor, who was sitting comfortably in his giant leather throne, slowly removed the circle framed glasses that were sitting on the tip of this nose.

He gently unbuttoned his jet black shirt cuffs, and then folded up his sleeves till it reached his elbow. He then moved closer to the desk, locked his fingers together and placed it under his chin.

 

“George”, said the Doctor.

At the very utterance of his name, George’s shoulders dropped like an anchor in search for a safe foundation; slowly, he turned his head towards the desk facing the Doctor.

George’s face was blank, as if all ability to express an emotion just suddenly disappeared; he stared- dull-eyed- at the Doctor, only managing to blink every 30 seconds.

His straight brunette hair hanged down in a scruff, reaching his chest, and covering a third of his face. His fluorescent orange garment gracefully managed to cling �" what was left of it- onto his body. His arms were spread on the chair, with each finger desperately digging into the thick fabric.

 

“George”, announced the Doctor once again, “George, I noticed you’ve got some scars on your face”, the Doctor pointed at the wound on George’s batted forehead, which was oozing with blood.

In a flash, George’s pupils began to race all over the stuffy maroon office, unable to focus.

“I knew it. I knew it!” exclaimed George, “They’ve been watching me. I knew it!”

“Calm down George”, the Doctor asserted. “Now, I’ve told you before, and now I’m having to tell you again, there isn’t a tracking device in your head, and there certainly isn’t a hidden camera that is watching you here, in my office, understand?”  

 

George’s head shifted back towards the Doctor, as if the past three minutes had never happened. “Obsolutely”, George said.

The Doctor sighed, picked up his note book, and then wrote on the straight black lines as he murmured, “Stage 3, neologism, creation of new words”.

 

Thereupon, the Doctor dropped the note book onto the dark brown oak wood desk. “Now George”, began the Doctor, “I’m afraid you’re not well”.

“What!?” bellowed George, “Yes I am! There’s obsolutely nothing wrong with me!” George’s body became stiff, as he mechanically moved his bony waist to face each corner of the room.

The Doctor sighed once more, then lifted the notebook up again, and wrote as he murmured, “Stage 1, anosognasia, refuses to recognise illness.

George? Do you even know why you’re here, and by here, I mean in prison, not my office.”

George’s head hectically jerked in the Doctor’s direction. All the blood in his face quickly rushed into his blood-shot eyes as they pierced their way through the Doctor. His teeth began grinding together as if there was a battle going on between his jaw and his sanity; from the corners of his mouth, saliva began to drool down his chin, onto his dainty lap.

Through gritted teeth, George sneered, “It was her. She… She made me to do it. I didn’t want to do it, but she started it. I heard her talking about me behind my back. SHE STARTED IT!” George yelled out at the top of his lungs. “I didn’t want to harm her,” George began to cry, “You know me, I wouldn’t hurt a fly, b-but, I-I couldn’t help it. Don’t you think I would if I could?” The Doctor just sat there, expressionless, carefully examining George.

 

Two streams of sorrow started running down George’s rosy red cheeks.

 

“Just say it, George”, the Doctor demanded. Suddenly, George started violently slapping his head with his bruised hands as he continued crying and screaming in agony. Immediately, he rose from the chair and limped over to the corner of the office where he slumped down into a foetal position. Tears were still pouring down his face as he wailed, “NO! NO!”

 

The Doctor rapidly shot out from his chair shouting, “George, you are a paranoid schizophrenic, you keep isolating yourself from social interactions, you keep making up new words, and you keep thinking that your thoughts are being broadcasted over the T.V. and radio!

“Now, you did something six weeks ago, and you know what you did was wrong, but you still did it! Say it!” the Doctor screamed, as George started to hit his head on the wall.

“JUST SAY IT!”

 

“I KILLED JULIA!”

 

George continued hitting his head and wailing in the background; as the middle-aged man shed a tear it travelled down the thin skin bagged under his dry, gleaning eyes, overhang by more thin flaps of layers of skin. His eyeballs, furiously red, like he hadn’t slept for weeks.

Gently, the Doctor opened the drawer by his desk and pulled out a fully loaded hand pistol. He gradually made his way over to George- eyes flooding, body shaking.

He held up the gun to George’s head, trying ever so hard to keep still. “Sorry”, he cried, as he swiftly pulled the trigger.

 

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

 

A painful silence instantly infiltrated the room, until the Doctor dropped to his knees in front of George and started crying at the sight of the blood flowing out from his head.

 

“I’m sorry brother, but she was my wife.”