Madness Belying Innocence *Mature*

Christopher sat in the arm chair in his office, posture up right and perfect as ever. He stared fixedly at the clipboard in front of him, examining the prescriptions and dosages of various patients as he went through his regular routine. With the cold efficiency of a machine, he compared, analyzed, and computed the necessary data, completing piles of paperwork in a ceaseless flow that was just another part of his job. Seemingly never needing a break, he only paused momentarily to examine the small woodwork clock sitting on the corner of his desk before returning to his work.

Hours passed, time that seemed to Christopher no more than a few minutes. Then, at the same time as every other time, he stopped writing, placed the cap back on his pen, set it on his clip board, and waited. He waited, not moving a muscle, his eyes staring fixedly at the door, something akin to anticipation gleaming somewhere from far within. He waited, ready as always for whatever was going to come through that door. And all the time he waited, only one thought occupied his mind:

Conan will be here soon.

Soon was the only word to describe it, for Conan rarely, if ever showed up to his appointment on time. It had never been a question of whether or not he was going to fight back; Conan always fought back. It was more so a question of how long it would take the orderlies to get him pinned down. Some days, it was within a few minutes, while on other occasions, it had taken the orderlies several hours to even find him. Even on those days, Christopher simply sat at his desk, staring at the door, and waiting for Conan to be brought in. It never bothered him to wait, partially because he didn’t need entertainment, and partially because he enjoyed the idea of the orderlies having a tough time. He didn’t think too highly of them and if they went home at the end of the day with a few extra bandages, it didn’t bother Christopher in the slightest.

Thus, Christopher was slightly disappointed when only a few minutes later the door swung open and Conan was wheeled in and placed in his usual spot. The orderly roughly removed his gag, and Christopher slightly winced at the motion, wishing in his head that he could place the unpleasant orderly in Conan’s place. The orderly then left, closing the door as he went and leaving Christopher and Conan completely alone. The silence that followed was brief, as Conan quickly popped in with a usual “casual” remark.

Christopher paused briefly after the question, taking a quick moment to analyze Conan’s current state. He was smiling savagely, and his eyes shown with an animalistic piercing quality. Despite being bound, he was extremely formidable, both physically and mentally. Christopher knew that the man before him was dangerous, seen as a killer and a monster, and someone that any other person on the planet would deem insane and inhuman; a damned creature with no soul to salvage. But Christopher, being who he was, knew differently, and thus was able to do the one thing that he knew no other doctor would ever be able to do: he looked Conan square in the face, and answered his question.

“Well, I have an elderly man with a pill problem, a woman who thinks she’s a toaster, a young lady that won’t eat anything, and a teenager in ICU because he kept biting his wrists. Not to mention my favorite traumatized sociopath who causes us to spend more money on treating our orderlies than on treating our patients.”

Christopher smiled, something that no one except a very small number of his patients had ever or would ever see. It was extremely brief, so brief that it was hard to even call it a smile; it was more a quick spasm of his cheek muscles. He then picked up his clipboard and set it to the side, leaning back in his chair as he did.

“Sorry about the way they handled you.” He said, sincerity and something akin to irritation in his voice. “The bastards have no idea what a real person is supposed to act like. I hope you at least gave them something to remember you by for such treatment. I didn’t see any blood, but I could have easily missed something I suppose.”

Christopher paused. He rarely missed anything, but he could always be hopeful.

“Yes… toasters.”

Christopher studied Conan briefly, unconsciously bringing his hand up to rest under his chin. He mentally perused the problem of the orderlies, knowing that they abused the patients, and knowing that they went out of their way to harass Conan. He had thought more than once about complaining to the executives that owned the asylum. He knew however that firing the orderlies wouldn’t solve the problem; it was less about the individual employee and more about the societal issues of people. It was much easier to see someone different as being less than a human being; much easier to look down on someone than see the similarities that bring up the question of your own morality. Humans, when faced with a harsh truth, with something they don’t want to see, tend to choose the easier reality whether out of blindness or fear. It had been like that for a while, and Christopher didn’t think it was going to change anytime soon.

Christopher returned his attention to Conan, contemplating what he had said. Conan wasn’t like most of the inmates at the Asylum. The majority of Christopher’s patients were unbalanced and unreasonable; what most people would consider crazy. They had faced their harsh truth and, unable to face it, had either retreated into themselves or done their best to leave entirely. Conan was different though; he was extremely intelligent, and as much as Christopher could tell, he was entirely aware of what occurred around him. He seemed to understand his effect on the world around him, and his ability to manipulate people suggested an extreme knowledge of the inner workings of the human mind. He was for all intensive purposes, sane; he could function and survive in the world that society had created; it just appeared that he chose not to.

“I suppose,” Christopher started, looking Conan once again in the eye, “that being a toaster would be an interesting existence. However, one doesn’t make it very far in the world believing such things. Society is harsh, cruel, and more often than not, doesn’t allow a second chance. That’s why so many people get sent here.”

Christopher paused for a second, glancing over at the file cabinet on the other side of his office, considering the sheer number of lives held within its metal drawers.

“Maybe, if some of these people had been given a different life; dealt a better hand; they wouldn’t have ever come here. Maybe if someone had chosen to help them, they would have ended up differently. But nobody did, and these people lost any chance they may have had. Their choices were robbed from them, and they tried to escape anyway they knew how.”

Christopher leaned forward, resting his elbows on the front of his desk. Clasping his fingers together like a man in prayer, he moved his eyes from the cabinet to Conan.

“I believe that if these people understood their actions; if they were aware of what they were doing; they would have that chance. Not everyone is like you Conan, in that they don’t have any capacity to see outside of themselves. But if they could choose, if they had that ability to make their lives their own, than what they do from there would be their business. If this woman wanted to be a toaster, and it was her choice, than so be it! But as it is, she’s not making any choices, and she won’t be unless someone gives her a chance and helps her up. That’s why I’m here, to give her what society won’t, and let her choose her life.”

Christopher leaned back in his chair again, considering the difference between his appointments with Conan and his other patients. More often then not, he found himself relating to Conan, maybe because of his intelligence and “sane” behavior, and sometimes even saw these sessions as being self-therapeutic.

Looking back at his patient, he had another smile like spasm.

“Besides Conan, what good is playing a game, if nobody can figure out the rules?”