Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

five-and-one-half inches tall, age unknown but estimated to be latetwenties.
Expected to present with a depressive affect, possibly catatonic
throughout our session. Guiltily, I love the catatonics. I gaze, and sit with
them in silence. Sometimes I use them as a blank-affected analyst and
babble for the few minutes we have together each week. This frees me
for a time, yet leaves a thin patina of shame.
I flip through his file without reading any of it. My brow is furrowed,
posture enrapt. I present deeply in thought, concerned, silently strong. I
wait for Mr. Joyce Vivian.
Another minute and a knock. He shuffles in, braced by orderlies, and
sits.
He matches type, initially.
Joyce-Vivian slumps immobile across the desk. His hair is straggling,
long, it’s unbelievably long because he attacks anyone who comes near
it. His robe is worn open, his clothing wrinkled and stained. Staff insists
he stains them deliberately, smearing little impressionist doodles with
ketchup and crayon and occasionally blood. None have ever seen it
happen.
I make my face still and welcoming. I smile with a cautious degree of
warmth, enough to seem friendly but not intrusively so. “Good morning,
Ian. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” He slumps regally,
sternly lose and uncaring. What would bring me that detached, rigid pose
of comfort?
“You haven’t been with us very long,” I continue after a polite interval.
“My name is Dr. Fein. I will be your psychiatrist while you are staying
with us, here.”
Joyce-Vivian shows no response. The orderlies make he’s-all-yours
gestures and depart. Grateful, I take my coffee out of the drawer and
proceed to ignore him. It is still warm.
I catch my reflection in its opaque, glossy surface.
“What you’re looking at is the cessation of falsehood,” he says, and I
spit coffee all over his file.
“Entropic, yes.” Joyce-Vivian nods slowly. Only his head has moved.
Heh. Bastard spat his coffee.
Regaining control I smile precisely. He caught me by surprise again.
Shallow, existential problems melt to the demands of skill. I may be sick,
but I’m a damn fine psychiatrist.
“Thank you, Ian.”
257