From The Journal of Dr. Lloyd Franklin

December 9

Today I will be seeing the patient Ricky Byrd again. His delusion’s I’m afraid are getting worse. His case is similar to the one in which I got into psychology for. About 20 years ago a man named Simone Topac died. The man was extremely ugly and rarely left the house. His mother was quite a beautiful lady who was a famous opera singer. She lived on her own up until about 30 years ago. That was when Simone came back home. Shortly afterwards he announced that his mother had broken her hip and would not be leaving the house for a while. The children of the street would still sometimes gather below the terrace to hear that beautiful woman sing with her beautiful voice. About a year later questions arose when Simone’s dear mother had not been seen. Simone simply responded that in her old age his mother had become quite mean and he would not like to offend anyone with her crude comments. And so we were left with only Miss Topac’s beautiful afternoon singings.

Now when Simone died upon entering the house we were met with this God-awful stench, upon further examination we found the mother dead. Nothing but a mere skeleton sitting at the nightstand appearing to brush her hair. The coroner concluded that the late Miss Topac died from a fracture in the skull. Whether Simone killed her or not still remains a question. However, in the diary we discovered he did believe his mother to be very much alive and well. He played recordings of her singing every afternoon to distract from the overwhelming reality of this situation. I saw that day that some people needed to be saved from their own mental states and thus I became a psychiatrist.

However, I digress. Mr. Ricky Byrd repeatedly exclaims that his wife was brutally murdered by her brother in an effort to keep the two of them apart. He refuses to accept reality and accept that his wife had no brother and upon trying to leave him for another man he killed her. Alas, here is the nurse now I shall continue this entry after my session with Mr. Byrd.

Later

The poor fellow seems to think he is the doctor and I am the patient. As soon I sat down with my pen and paper he asked, “How are we feeling today?” I tried to explain to him that I was the doctor and he was the patient but he would have none of that. Mr. Byrd is rather a scrawny man with an overly large nose and watery light blue eyes. His hair is the color of a raven’s wing. I can see why his wife left him. He is definitely not an attractive fellow. I kept trying to start the session however, so did Mr. Byrd. Finally I let him try to be my therapist. When 10 minutes were left I took out a cigarette as did Mr. Byrd and lit it. I have no idea as to where the cigarette came from however I will speak to the nurse about it later. He then continued to talk until I laughed.

“What’s so funny I am trying to help you!” this session had clearly been a failure to him.

“You really think you’re sane?” I smiled at him and continued, “You are not a sane man and you need help. Let me do my job and I can make these images that frighten you go away.”

“Well this was clearly a waste,” he said as two nurses came back in and escorted us out. The poor fellow, so convinced he is the sane one. I am the sane one though. There is no doubt about that. Perhaps some more extreme therapy in his case. I still must remember to ask the nurse where he got those cigarettes.

From The Journal of Dr. Ricky Byrd

December 9

Poor Mr. Franklin. He is so disturbed that he is positively wrapped up in his own little world. He spews these stories about Simone Topac who lived with his dead mother for 10 years and tells me that I killed my wife. Does he not get that I am trying to help him. My wife’s brother was not right in the head. He thought I was hurting her and made it a point to get her away from me. However in the struggle to make her leave, my dear Marina, God rest her soul, was stabbed with a butcher knife. The brother soon afterwards committed suicide in a state penitentiary. After a few short conversations with my Brother-in-Law, I deduced that it was the work of mental instability that led him to believe that I would hurt Marina in the most horrible of ways. I felt that I could do something for the greater good of society. This was the reason why I picked up psychiatry.

Upon his arrival, I was quickly assigned to Mr. Franklin when he came here for I was one of the best in the hospital. His case is something different, though, he kept shouting things about men living with their dead mothers and that he was a psychiatrist trying to save other people from a made up man’s fate. I have gotten to the point where I do believe this Simone Topac is a metaphor for something bigger if I can just get him to speak with me like a patient. He thinks that it is he that runs these sessions and not I. I will not give up on him though and continue to work with him. The nurse is coming to escort me to Mr. Franklin. I must remember this poor soul’s convinced he is sane. I hope today will be a breakthrough.

Later

Well that was a complete waste of my time. Mr. Franklin walked in the room escorted by the nurse. No matter how many times I see him, his appearance still strikes me as something of a truly abnormal man. His overly large eyes and watery nose make for and interesting face. Though his bleach blonde hair contrasts with his black eyes. He asked me how I am doing as if I am the patient. I calmly try to explain to him how I am the doctor and he is the patient. He laughs and after some arguing he finally sits back and listens to me. I try inkblots, poetry reading, and so much more however he is having none of it. Mr. Franklin just sits there occasionally humming a catchy tune. I continue to attempt until finally I give up and take out a cigarette. So does Mr. Franklin. I am just about to ask him where he got them from when he laughs.

“What’s so funny? I am trying to help you!” I snapped. I shouldn’t have gotten upset with a patient but he bluntly refuses to comply with treatments.

Mr. Franklin smiled and responded, ““You really think you’re sane?” He leaned forward “You are not a sane man and you need help. Let me do my job and I can make these images that frighten you go away.” I am just about to respond, he is really getting on my nerves. But the two nurses who walked in interrupt me. It was time to go.

“Well this session was a waste,” I said under my breath. As we went our separate ways I turned around and looked at him. This poor soul would never know the world as I know, as something not to be feared. I sighed. He may never be cured of his insanity. The poor soul, so convinced he is the sane one. I am the sane one though. There is no doubt about that. Perhaps some more extreme therapy in his case. I still must remember to ask the nurse where he got those cigarettes.