Work Text:
I like the fan on the ceiling. I like the noise, which is heard like this.
Whump, whump, whump.
Marco likes it, too.
I like how the light shines through the little window from the wall behind us.
I like the shadows on the wall. Black stripes against the greyish background.
Marco likes it, too.
Whump, whump, whump.
Marco likes to tell me stories when we just lay around and have nothing to do.
I know that they’re true.
I know the stories.
In the stories, we are heroes.
We picture ourselves; we can fly through the air. How we fight against monsters, taller than houses.
Sometimes I am scared.
Marco is, too.
Because the stories are true.
Yet Marco gives me courage.
Whump, whump, whump.
I like to listen to him when we lay there and have nothing to do.
That’s why I like Marco.
He likes me, too.
I know that because he told me so.
I like to listen to him a lot.
His voice is prettier than the music from the record player.
It is not scratchy, nor does it cackle.
Whump, whump, whump.
Marco’s stories are true.
And I should know; I was there.
However, I am less anxious when he is there beside me.
We can fly together.
Marco said I wouldn’t be strong, but that’s the reason why I could understand others so well.
Even though I don’t like the others.
I like Marco.
“Jean,” they say. “Jean, why do you like Marco?”
They always ask me, and I always answer:
“He understands me.”
They don’t understand me.
Whump, whump, whump.
His stories are true.
Cold hands touch my arms.
Marco’s hands are warm.
“Where is Marco?” they ask.
“Here,” I say.
In Marco’s stories, we are heroes.
Whump, whump, whump.
“Jean,” they say, but I don’t want to listen to them; instead, I want to hear the stories.
“Jean,” they repeat until I look at them.
“How are you?” they ask.
“Good,” I say. “Marco is there,”
When Marco is there, I am well.
He says that he’s also doing well.
It burns on my wrists.
They say to me that everything will be fine.
Everything is fine. Marco is there.
Whump, whump, whump.
I love Marco.
His hands are warm.
His voice is pretty.
His stories are true.
We are heroes.
Whump, whump, whump.
“This might sting a bit,” they say.
I’m used to it. It’s okay.
Because Marco is there.
I hardly feel it.
Marco tells me stories so that I can sleep.
I can sleep well when he is beside me.
Whump, whump, whump.
“Jean,” they say. “Jean, you have to keep quiet.” Everything will be fine.
Everything is fine. He is beside me.
Something flashes before my face, and they look at me.
My head is leaning back.
Their hands are cold.
I want Marco’s warm hands.
They look at me, and a man catches my gaze.
“Jean,” they say. “Where is Marco?”
“Here,” I say.
“Jean,” they say. “Soon, you’ll be healthy.”
I am healthy.
Whump, whump, whump.
I like the fan’s noise.
Marco does, too.
I like Marco.
He likes me, too.
“Jean,” they say again. “This might hurt.”
Nothing hurts, as long as Marco is with me.
He makes me forget all the pain.
Heroes have no pain.
Whump. Whump. Klick.
I love Marc-
A grey-haired man with horn-rimmed glasses and a faded coat moved the tip of the work instrument back and forth. He attempted to destroy the tissue in the specific area of the brain, then repeated it in the other hemisphere. Shortly after, he pulled the ice pick instrument from the area above the eyeball. “Jean?” No reaction from the young man in the chair before him followed. A woman stepped closer, eyeing her patient, and sighed. “He looks to boot, as always.” she commented, and wrote on a piece of paper that was tacked to clipboard in her hands. The ink ran blank in some places, but it did not seem to matter.
Protocol 104: Patient #6 Jean Kirschstein - Case: xx Homosexuality and Schizophrenia
No response to stimuli
Behavior unchanged
Blank stare
More hallucinations are becoming clearer from statements of the patient
Patient continues to speak of ‘Marco’
Treatment ineffective
“Jean?” asked the elderly man. “Where is Marco?”
It took a while before the brunette’s lips moved weakly. “Here.” he replied in a whisper.
“Bring him back to his room. I’m afraid we must alter the treatment. The state is worse than I thought at the beginning.” The doctor had two men at the edge of the room hoist him onto his legs immediately. With weak steps, he crept across the room. His lips moved slowly. Whispered only one name like a mantra. Marco.
“Who is Marco?” The woman asked with a frown, and pressed the clipboard to her chest as she followed him out the room.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“I have no idea.”