Diagnosis: Delusion
Diagnosis: Delusion
A myriad of medicaments disguised in plastic bottles behind the Perspex, emerged from the darkness as the doctor's bloody hand switched the lights on. His stained uniform firmly glued to his body, curbing perspire from vaporizing, swiftly became a rug as he flung it in a metal trash can. Swigging full glasses of water, he persisted in making himself nauseous. His erroneous mind, enamored of his masochistic habits, convinced him in swiping a mirror nailed to the white storage wall.
A pungent smell within the storage made him quiver as he reached for a little key inside his shallow pocket. The brevity of life; of the one that he just took leaving the corpse riddled with scalpel in the surgery room, struck his brusque mind. He swilled his bloody hands and unlocked a locker congested with medicaments. A fistful of Xanax and Valium indicated his disturbance. Anguish. Anxiety.
The shattered mirror, its sharp pointed debris reflected the neon streaks; dispersing them all around the storage. His appearance, erroneously perceived due to a distorted reflection in a window glass, made him swerve. A big curved scar engraved on his neck implied his unforgettable, intricate relation with a serial killer. As a victim. Who survived.
His reliance on medications and a search for a remedial behavior were embedded within his mind. His heart. His being.
Cramps pervasive in his body and a busker's melody swishing through the air, spiced his anxiety, his blemished perception, leaving him blazed with anger.
A dull look on his face, indicating absence of mind was hidden in his blue eyes. A powerful kiwi scent of his hair circulating through the air unmasked his appealing, alluring look. Round and oval shaped tablets clutched in his fist started to melt. His palpitating heart and a pallid face were just the crumbs on the palette of his mental escapades.
A nurse's perfumed powder invaded his nostrils as she stepped in. The scenes of an explicit, vulgar sex embedded in his bilious mind crashed, as she screamed; astonished by his quirk of breaking mirrors.
Loitering stupidly and questioning his solitary mind, sporadically glancing at the shattered glass on the floor, she dared to speak out.
"Doctor Byrne, this is the 10th mirror you smashed in a couple of days."
"I killed the patient. I stabbed him with a silver scalpel and left his riddled body lying in the surgery room," he retorted absently , placing the tablets inside a pocket; trying to wreathe his addiction.
"You didn't kill him, a cardiac attack did, 10 minutes ago. Remember? I was present; I was wiping the sweat off your forehead. And what scalpel, what stabs are you talking about?" She exclaimed, dazzled by the lights and the tedious sun rays playing on the storage walls; playing in her brown eyes.
He flinched. His disparaging bearing and self loathe made him oblivious to his mental disturbance. Pulverizing the debris as he flounced to the door, his masterly body grazed her uniform; tingling his bawdy mind.
He was trudging down the hall, trussed with his own sick thoughts. His heart was thumping with fear as he grabbed a round metal knob. His patient riddled with scalpel was lying in his own puddle of blood, in the middle of the surgery room. The blood was still dripping on the floor; looking refined under the blinding lights.
“Aaron!”
He twitched on a deep, masculine voice.
“I’m not Aaron, my name is Jonathan Byrne, Doctor Jonathan Byrne,” he retorted, gazing at the man with two syringes lying on the silver plate.
“Aaron, we’ve been through this scenario twenty times before. You’re not a damn doctor,” the man smiled, untying the straps of Aaron’s strait jacket.
The doctor’s brown spotted face, covered in wrinkles indicated his fast aging. Yellow teeth and fingers unmasked his addiction to nicotine. Fused with the fluorescent white walls, his uniform was glinting with sterility.
“But look, there’s the man I murdered. And the nurse… With an intense patchouli scent and… Where did she go?” Aaron stammered out his delusional thoughts.
Cringing in pain he began to twirl; a twinkle in his eye unveiled his oblivion to reality. Long white sleeves of his strait jacket were swaying loosely, scattering dense fog of the cold breaths. He was twirling slowly; perceiving nothing but the white, padded room walls.
“And this 2 weeks old curved scar on my neck, a serial killer’s botch…,” he continued, feeling a brook of sweat rolling off his face.
“There’s no scar. There’s NO damn serial killer, Aaron. You haven’t left the asylum in 10 years.” The doctor retorted quietly, softly injecting a medicine into Aaron’s weak, haggard body.
Aaron’s titter, gagged by a reverberating thud, vanquished as his heavy body hit the floor. His pallid face, tinged with a shade of yellow and a tinkle of his teeth, magnified by a throbbing heart, indicated a mind session. His embellished yet fastidious perception, prone to hallucinations was deceived by reality. Non stop. Lying tranquilly on the floor in a trance, trussing himself with a self prescribed dose of his own reality, made the doctor underline the previously diagnosed disorder: DELUSION – DISTORTED IMAGE OF REALITY.
He locked the sound proof door and scurried toward the darkness.
A pungent smell within the storage made him quiver as he reached for a little key inside his shallow pocket. The brevity of life; of the one that he just took leaving the corpse riddled with scalpel in the surgery room, struck his brusque mind. He swilled his bloody hands and unlocked a locker congested with medicaments. A fistful of Xanax and Valium indicated his disturbance. Anguish. Anxiety.
The shattered mirror, its sharp pointed debris reflected the neon streaks; dispersing them all around the storage. His appearance, erroneously perceived due to a distorted reflection in a window glass, made him swerve. A big curved scar engraved on his neck implied his unforgettable, intricate relation with a serial killer. As a victim. Who survived.
His reliance on medications and a search for a remedial behavior were embedded within his mind. His heart. His being.
Cramps pervasive in his body and a busker's melody swishing through the air, spiced his anxiety, his blemished perception, leaving him blazed with anger.
A dull look on his face, indicating absence of mind was hidden in his blue eyes. A powerful kiwi scent of his hair circulating through the air unmasked his appealing, alluring look. Round and oval shaped tablets clutched in his fist started to melt. His palpitating heart and a pallid face were just the crumbs on the palette of his mental escapades.
A nurse's perfumed powder invaded his nostrils as she stepped in. The scenes of an explicit, vulgar sex embedded in his bilious mind crashed, as she screamed; astonished by his quirk of breaking mirrors.
Loitering stupidly and questioning his solitary mind, sporadically glancing at the shattered glass on the floor, she dared to speak out.
"Doctor Byrne, this is the 10th mirror you smashed in a couple of days."
"I killed the patient. I stabbed him with a silver scalpel and left his riddled body lying in the surgery room," he retorted absently , placing the tablets inside a pocket; trying to wreathe his addiction.
"You didn't kill him, a cardiac attack did, 10 minutes ago. Remember? I was present; I was wiping the sweat off your forehead. And what scalpel, what stabs are you talking about?" She exclaimed, dazzled by the lights and the tedious sun rays playing on the storage walls; playing in her brown eyes.
He flinched. His disparaging bearing and self loathe made him oblivious to his mental disturbance. Pulverizing the debris as he flounced to the door, his masterly body grazed her uniform; tingling his bawdy mind.
He was trudging down the hall, trussed with his own sick thoughts. His heart was thumping with fear as he grabbed a round metal knob. His patient riddled with scalpel was lying in his own puddle of blood, in the middle of the surgery room. The blood was still dripping on the floor; looking refined under the blinding lights.
“Aaron!”
He twitched on a deep, masculine voice.
“I’m not Aaron, my name is Jonathan Byrne, Doctor Jonathan Byrne,” he retorted, gazing at the man with two syringes lying on the silver plate.
“Aaron, we’ve been through this scenario twenty times before. You’re not a damn doctor,” the man smiled, untying the straps of Aaron’s strait jacket.
The doctor’s brown spotted face, covered in wrinkles indicated his fast aging. Yellow teeth and fingers unmasked his addiction to nicotine. Fused with the fluorescent white walls, his uniform was glinting with sterility.
“But look, there’s the man I murdered. And the nurse… With an intense patchouli scent and… Where did she go?” Aaron stammered out his delusional thoughts.
Cringing in pain he began to twirl; a twinkle in his eye unveiled his oblivion to reality. Long white sleeves of his strait jacket were swaying loosely, scattering dense fog of the cold breaths. He was twirling slowly; perceiving nothing but the white, padded room walls.
“And this 2 weeks old curved scar on my neck, a serial killer’s botch…,” he continued, feeling a brook of sweat rolling off his face.
“There’s no scar. There’s NO damn serial killer, Aaron. You haven’t left the asylum in 10 years.” The doctor retorted quietly, softly injecting a medicine into Aaron’s weak, haggard body.
Aaron’s titter, gagged by a reverberating thud, vanquished as his heavy body hit the floor. His pallid face, tinged with a shade of yellow and a tinkle of his teeth, magnified by a throbbing heart, indicated a mind session. His embellished yet fastidious perception, prone to hallucinations was deceived by reality. Non stop. Lying tranquilly on the floor in a trance, trussing himself with a self prescribed dose of his own reality, made the doctor underline the previously diagnosed disorder: DELUSION – DISTORTED IMAGE OF REALITY.
He locked the sound proof door and scurried toward the darkness.