The Tales of Unearthly Encounters

Reflection

Tap... tap... tap. I was constantly tapping my pen on the glass tabletop. A black folder was opened on my other hand. It contained the autopsy report of Bill Westwood, one of my less fortunate patients.

I‟m Doctor Blake, a twenty-eight years old genius. A renowned psychiatrist or what common people usually call us, a „shrink‟. However, I prefer the word "psychiatrist‟. It makes us feel more valuable or „heavy‟. Our works are not that easy as often people think, especially when you‟re handling these loonies at some shabby asylum all the time, where only insane homeless people are kept so they don‟t disturb the „society‟. Handling these loonies all the time makes you become a little cynical, and in my case, quite „infamous‟ as well. People say I don‟t treat patients as human, which is actually... true indeed. They are simply subjects to me, like a piece of a puzzle. I dig them, let them loose their guard, bit by bit I let them reveal themselves, then find the Achilles‟ heel, and strike it, penetrating deep inside their minds, discovering all the secrets, hopes, insecurities and desires, their loves and lusts. No, I do not regret treating them like mere guinea pigs. You will never become professional if you start considering them as humans. They were unproductive to the society anyway.

As I had mentioned before, I was focused on an autopsy report.

Name: Bill Westwood Time of death: 4.23 am

Cause of death: Drug overdose.

It was very rare though, but obviously, he was another victim of our experimental treatment. And we the doctors of this asylum were the ones to blame.

We didn‟t know that he had a poor health condition. No medical history could be found for a homeless person like him. In this psychiatric hospital, located on the outskirts of the city, many cases as such often happen. The hospital itself runs on charity. What else could one expect, as for helping the poor and homeless people. We were already doing a great job.

But we needed not to worry. As I had mentioned before, he was a homeless person, non-productive, not a taxpayer. The government would not give a damn about him.

I closed the file and threw it on the table, slipped the pen in my pocket, sighed and got up from my chair.

I stood in front of the glass wall, sliding both hands into the pockets of my lab coat. There was a dead silence prevailing in the room. I had already sent my secretary home. Nobody else was on the floor, except me. The controlled humidity caused by the humming air conditioner was making my skin tight. The white fluorescent light was slipping off the cream colored wall.

I was thinking about this particular case. It was really an interesting one, though it was a shame that we were not able to study him more. I felt dissatisfied with the sudden death of this specimen.

Bill Westwood had almost become paranoid when he was brought here. He claimed that his reflection was chasing him and more strangely, talking to him. It was an evident symptom of schizophrenia, imagining up baseless things. However, what was more interesting was that except this "speaking reflection‟ symptom, he was a completely sane, poor homeless person, full of sanity.

He would just lose his usual sense if he noticed his reflection. Time to time he went berserk, breaking up all the glasses, mirrors, bashing the stainless steel tables and windows or anything which would catch his reflection. We had to tie him up, blindfolding him. Only that was how we could calm him down. However, in the end, he was becoming uncontrollable, claiming that his reflection was torturing and scratching him. So we started giving him sedatives and our experimental medicines. And which unfortunately went a little too far for him.

Few floors below, I could see the wide driving lane making its way towards the main gate, dividing the garden into two halves. No human movement came into my sight. The white fluorescent lights were illuminating the garden, creating a collage of dark and light. Outside the gate, it was dark except the partially lighted foliage. The darkness was so deep within those branches that it felt like they were hiding many secrets from the eyes of humans.

I sighed, and as my sight pointed downwards, I noticed something strange.

I couldn‟t remember wearing any ragged jeans like my reflection had on it.

My eyes slowly started moving upwards.

Instead of my reflection on the dark glass, I found myself staring at Bill Westwood‟s grinning face.