A Little Bit of Me

Jottings and Writing, miscellanous misgivings

Archive for psychosis


He reached into his shorts and pulled another bird out and placed it in the line of seven dead songbirds on the bedside dresser. This formed a parallel line against his wallet, the gold coins arranged in value and year, and the Laguiole pocketknife. A cigarette spread a lazy haze over the back part of the bedroom and added to the yellow staining on the curtains that kept the watery sunlight from the small room. He reached over, and, holding the cigarette European style, he took a deep drag, then placed the tube back in the ashtray. A small piece of ash dropped off the end and settled on his white singlet. He didn’t seem to notice as his entire attention was focused on the line of dead birds. Frederick Lewis, murderer, was content.

He felt, or did he hallucinate, a light touch on his shoulder and Mia joined him on the bed, sensuously stroking his thigh as she slid closer. He smelt the musky stink on her and buried his face into her hair and then side to immerse himself deeper in her odour. He touched her breast and felt his erection straining at his underpants. She handed him a package and urged him to open it. He struggled with the green ribbon that bound the parcel and tugged at the brown wrapping. A stench arose from the bundle as he pulled it open and a severed hand dropped to the floor. “You left this behind darling.” Dreamlike Mia rose from the bed and floated to the door then exited to the tiny bathroom that led through to the kitchen of the upstairs apartment Frederick and Mia had lived in for the last ten days.

Frederick looked up at the wall and smiled at the Polaroid photos that showed the grizzly details of their latest ‘hunting’. His attention was momentarily drawn to the sound of a siren as Mia came (back?) into the room. She was a tall woman and Frederick’s heart still quickened when she entered a room. Her hair, now dyed almost white (she said it was platinum blonde after her two favourite women) was cut short and curled around her head in such a way that it was like a halo. She had left her eyebrows her natural black (and the hair on that secret part of her body) and made them up to look even darker, kohl-like, she said. Her body was long and slender and she now slung her leg over Frederick as she snuggled closer. She whispered in his ear and Frederick felt himself hardening. She drove him crazy when she was in this mood.

The accused have formed a relationship based on a powerful sexual attraction, fuelled by blood lust. Frederick fantasises that he is a member of the master race and has either duped Mia into believing his fantasy or she has a rich fantasy life of her own. Of the two Mia is the more enigmatic. She has no history of abuse, neither sexual, physical or psychological, unlike Frederick who has such a history starting from a very early age. She is not an intelligent person, her IQ is barely 100, but has a street intelligence that enables her to cope more than adequately. She believes she is a reincarnation of Eva Braun and Marilyn Monroe. She is trapped in the same body and like those two women she is physically unable to have children. This partially explains her crimes in that she both wants to possess her victims and also to give birth to them. Her powerful belief in the fragility and temporary nature of life on Earth allows her to inwardly justify death. The children do not die but are reborn through her. I have been unable to fully penetrate her defence mechanisms and my conclusions are of a tentative nature. Frederick is a more straightforward case. I would describe him as a borderline personality disorder with psychotic features. He suffers from vivid and well-defined visual and auditory hallucinations. The visual hallucinations are often bounded by his present reality but the auditory hallucinations are voices he claims that order him to carry out actions. He has a manipulative and fully convincing personality which would make it viable that he is the dominant partner in this twosome, but I reserve my final comment on that until I have developed a better picture of Mia. They both have long histories of multiple drug abuse. (or did they?)

The day was black and white. Frederick felt the soft mist on his face. He turned his head to the sky and saw a flock of sparrows wheeling from a field and then banking sharply as they dipped over the surrounding hedge. Beside him Mia cocked her head and giggled.

“I hear the sounds of little laughs,” she bubbled as she linked her arm through Fredericks and urged him forward. To their right a small stream separated them from a playing filed and over on the extreme edge a group of small boys were playing a game of pickup soccer. They screamed in delight as one of their number kicked the ball between the upturned cycle helmets they were using as goal markers. Mia tightened her grip on Frederick’s arm. “The little one in the red jacket.” Frederick only saw black and white today but he did see the little one. Mia was playing her Big Girl Grown Up role today and Frederick felt like a dog on a leash. “We need to get back to the car.”

The red (black) Ford was parked under a group of evergreen (gray) trees. Mia was driving. Frederick methodically checked his mental list. Tape (check), hammer (check), sack/blindfold (check), and camera (check). His turn to grab. Mia to drive and take the pictures.

The diener pulled the small corpse from the aluminium cooler and rolled it onto the waist-high aluminium mortuary table being careful to avoid snagging anything on the various taps that protruded. He placed the body block under the patient’s back and checked the toe tag, carefully noting these details into a tape recorder affixed to the clipboard. He checked that the scalpel, the bread knife, scissors, and pick-ups were where they were supposed to be. He handed the clipboard to the prosector who noted the gross disfigurement of the face, and the massive bruising on the neck and chest region. He made notes on the bleeding from the rectal area and the destruction of the genitals. He examined the anus and made measurements of the distension and tears. He noted the hands, severed from the body at the wrists. The deiner made the first Y incision in the sternum of the 12-year-old boy. He peeled away skin, muscle, and soft tissue off the chest wall and pulled the chest flap upward over the boy’s face. He mumbled into the tape recorder again. The smell was like that of a freshly killed chicken. The prosector cut open the pericardial sac, then the pulmonary artery, and pulls the young heart from the bloody mass. A heart that was beating only hours before. Although he has been hardened by many autopsies he feels emptiness and anger for this vulnerable corpse. The picture faded and a dove ascended from the autopsy table in a clatter of wings and spilt feathers. It flew to the open skylight at the tip of the autopsy room and spread its wings as it flew into the sunlight sky, now in full colour.

The act itself was almost anti-climatic. The flash of the hammer. The knife, the hacking, the clicking and whirring of the camera. The droplets of blood across their faces and clothing. The sucking sounds from the boy’s head. The fountains of blood when the hands came off. The frenzied thrashing slowly then rapidly subsiding. Then the immersion in each other.

The little thrush, the baby thrush, pushed itself across the cracked pavement using its broken wing. Its little thrush, its baby thrush eyes already glazed with the certainty of death. The cruel cat, the ginger and black and white cat, the white a cruel parody of religion, a white slash at its throat, spread its ugly paw and swatted the baby thrush. The baby thrush spun out of the cruel cats reach once again and its feet scrambled on the hard surface desperately trying to push itself away. If only it could get that extra inch it may be able to fly to freedom, its broken wing magically healing itself. It spun again as the cruel claw struck it another blow.

Another day. Timeless and now in colour. The lovers had sated themselves on each other and their crime. The hands had always been part of their pact. Frederick had a thing about hands. He had told Mia one particularly black and white night

“I have to have the hands. That’s one thing that must always be a constant. And the pictures.”

Now they had hunted and fed they were free until the dreams and the voices urged them on again.

Mia liked to look. That made her appear to be uninvolved and somehow more likeable than the ominous Frederick. But Mia was far more complex than that. In many ways she was the stronger in the partnership. She had no horror filled childhood that she remembered to excuse her behaviour. For Mia life had been good. She couldn’t claim boredom. Mia was content with who and what she was. In Mia’s mind there were no birds, no severed hands, no corpses on autopsy boards. She slept peacefully, her dreams no different to yours or mine.

The cage hung at the southern end of the sunporch. Here, it attracted the most sunlight throughout the year. The two canaries had a magnificent view of the surrounding bush and the lake. All who came into this house would hear their joyous chanting. They would become excited when the native birds feed on the fruit trees outside the sunroom. Their lovesongs would continue for hours. Both canaries were males and would be destined never to mate. Their beautifully constructed songs, handed down from past generations, embellished with the music of the house, and songs of the local feathered population, would never carry out their original function. They would be songbirds. Entertainers for life, pointless in function, forgotten quickly in death.

The news was not good. Mia hardly heard the last part of Doctor D’Arth’s dictate. Words spun in her head. Uterus, if only in time, chemotherapy, cut, cancer, poison. She saw her own mother lying in that little bed, in that terribly public and humiliating room. Coughing, then choking. The sip of water that turned to drool. The last desperate days when the life dribbled, then poured, from her. Mia looked down to her lap and her fingers had torn the skin in her palms. Her, the murderess. She had a heart. She was like others. Oh Frederick – what will you think? What will you do without me?

Frederick lay back as the heroin flowed into his body. He dreamed, or seemed to dream. He was drifting from room to room (in a dream?) and he was being guided by someone who bore a remarkable resemblance to Humprhey Bogart. A Bogart who had never aged as he had in his real life films. Then they were in the bathroom and Bogie was pointing at the mirror and mumbling something. And then he was gone. Frederick looked into the mirror and he seemed to be able to look beyond the mirror to a new reality. His own ravaged face had a third dimension. And then that very same face changed into a slideshow of all the boys that first he, then he and Mia, had destroyed (liberated?). Click, click, click. He jerked awake and spun around. He saw his own self walking backwards, out of the room.