Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

told and the actors have all departed. So she sits, curled into a ball,
fighting against the cold and the damp and the dark and the depression.
She waits, hoping, asking, begging the Fates to be kind and cut another
piece of string. And it can be done, but she doesn’t know how to go about
it. And the Spiral rotates slowly but steadily, sucking away minutes until
all that is left of her is a memory in one persons mind. Only one. But for
now, she waits for the sun to set and the lights behind her eyes to slowly
fade, barely daring to hope that her counterpart will arrive. Her perception
of time grinds down to an empty black void, softly echoing “could
have” and “would have.”
My coffee is cold.
It is cold, and it is nine o’clock. I have experienced lost time.
There is a knock. “Come in.”
“You smell better,” grinning, it’s my next patient. His orderlies step in
like cops, survey the room and nod in unison. He grins wider and they
depart. The door is shut with quiet respect.
“Caught me napping, I’m afraid. Have a seat.”
The notations across his robes are complete. Sprawling cabalistic
geometries, dates, sketches of faces and ANSI patterns. He is scrubbed
pink as a prom queen, stern as a magi. Damned if I don’t buy into it, just
for a moment.
I am centered. The moment passes.
I glance at the notes on my desk, notes that I wrote a number of weeks
back when he was brought in with Jesus. John Doe presents as a six foot,
four inch Caucasian male, heavily tattooed, and in excellent physical
condition. He suffers from a range of depersonalizing ideations and
delusions of reference, persecution, and grandeur, as well as inexplicable
somatic complaints which cannot be linked to physiological causes.
Agent 139 also presents numerous features of Antisocial Personality
Disorder (flagrant disregard for societal mores, manipulative behaviors,
amoral conduct), though it is difficult to isolate this diagnosis as being
independent from his Depersonalization or Schizotypal features…
“What box are you going to try to squeeze me into today, doctor?” he
asked.
I carefully avoided his question. “You have taken great pains with
your appearance today,” I say slowly.
“Indeed!” He sobers, wryly tugs his robes like a starship captain. “My
‘cabalistic geometries’ are complete today, Doctor Harold Fein.”
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