by Bob'n Around
Invisible matters of the mind turned real into the written word.
|Simon Bonaparte O'Reilly was a little guy, a midget in physical stature. When he said, “Simon says.” people around him grew smaller. Why they looked up to him is a psychological curiosity. They consisted of both patients and staff.
The Utah State Hospital wing for the criminally insane had notes labeling him with a profound Napoleon complex. “Don’t let him play his mental games with you,” remonstrated Doctor Vivian Faust upon turning over the reins to the new psychiatrist. Retirement could not happen soon enough.
Doctor Percival Doctor, M.D.; Ph.D,; Psy.D and D.Min. took his job seriously. Invariably, one or another tools of his trade had cured the most recalcitrant psychotic with overt criminal tendencies. He had only to pick the appropriate one while studying Simon Bonaparte O'Reilly's medical history. “Created his own inkblot personality test with the bloodied remains of his group social worker. The other patients were patient indeed, complying with his “Simon says,” order to tell him what they saw. Treated it like the organs revealed the mystic answers of a Delphi. How strange.”
It was all recorded on live video he reviewed before seeing the little man. “The cure is worse than the disease, Doctor Doctor.” Simon Bonaparte O’Reilly pompously uttered upon delivery.
“Go on. You have the floor.” Simon’s wheelchair he was strapped in rolled up toward the other side of the good doctor’s desk. The little man metamorphosed the closer he approached into a big wheel in size. “The world is a crazy place, is it not, sir? And why is that? Simon says.”
“Hmm. I’ll answer your question with a question. I favor the Socratic method of therapy favored by the imminent Doctor Carl Rogers.”
“Simon says, the goal of self actualization can be a deadly goal in life.”
“Why do you say that?” Doctor Doctor enjoyed the art of watching his patients become impatient, trying to wiggle and twist their way out of reality. He watched Simon Bonaparte O'Reilly squirm inside his straitjacket. Such a puffed up little man, but those eyes. They were almost hypnotizing.
When Simon’s hour was up, Doctor Doctor’s head nurse, nursing a hangover, knocked tentatively on his door. “It’s Nurse Hatchet. Your next patient is patiently waiting.”
A muffled groan matching her own splitting headache met her ears. When she opened the door there was Simon behind Doctor Doctor’s desk and the psychiatrist’s remains on the floor. “Simon says step right in and choose an organ. Perhaps it will tell your own future.”
“Doctor Doctor made a mess of himself before I helped him become self actualized.”
Simon never explained how he’d done it. The staff never asked. The police report they put down was a put down, indeed. Their report simply read, “Never play games with this Napoleon no matter what Simon says.”