"I want to reiterate once more, Miss Maryam: everyone experiences accidents and catastrophes. However, the reaction varies from one person to another. Some collapse under the pressure, some weep, and others lose sensation or movement in a specific part of the body. This is the mind's way of protecting itself under the weight of stress. In your case, unfortunately, your mind decided to protect itself by diverting your attention from the accident toward hallucinations, which only places it under further strain. Together, and with the help of your medication, we will work toward improvement and a return to your former self, God willing."
I was in a follow-up session with Dr. Essam. This was the fourth time he had explained my condition to me, his tone sharpening slightly during the final part, as if he were trying to convince himself before convincing me that my mind was deceiving me.
Once the medication began yielding its "miraculous" results, he decided to supplement the pharmacotherapy with non-medicinal treatment—or, as he called it, Behavioral Therapy.
I wasn't truly listening to him, much like the first time. Yet, things were a bit different now; back then, the "Black Ball" was the reason I couldn't focus, but now the cause was something mysterious and unknown. I felt as though my consciousness was drowning in a deep, viscous swamp... or a thick fog veiling my eyes. I couldn't see it, but I could feel it.
"...As we discussed previously, the medication works on the neurotrans... Miss Mariam?"
The doctor's voice, suddenly rising, startled me and disturbed my "deep sleep." "Ah... ah, I wasn't sleeping
" I even wiped a trail of saliva that had leaked from the corner of my mouth without my noticing. How embarrassing... did he see it?
"I see... Since you are responding well to the treatment, why don't you attend a support group session, Miss?" he suggested. "The story of your successful recovery will provide them with psychological support and give them hope for the future."
I didn't have any problem with that. I understood all too well the magnitude of suffering one endures when they see what no one else sees, compounded by the judgmental looks of those around them. Naturally, you'd crave any hand extended to reassure you that 'you are not alone.' I needed that hand once; how much more so now that I've improved?
So, I agreed. "Thank you, Miss Mariam. Your presence will certainly be impactful," he said. "We have a session tomorrow at twelve o'clock."
In a room no less white than Dr. Essam's clinic, seven chairs were arranged in a circle. Six of them were spaced exactly equidistant from one another, while the seventh was set apart by nearly double that distance. It was as if its occupant had chosen to isolate himself intentionally—a throne for a sane man presiding over a group of madmen.
Realizing that the seventh chair could never be my throne, I sat on one of the other six chairs meant for the commoners; I was the first to arrive.
Five minutes later, the first attendee arrived: a middle-aged woman, thin in stature, with nothing particularly distinguishing about her except for the strange way she kept glancing left and right.
Immediately after, an old man in his sixties entered, leaning on his cane. The third and fourth arrived together, appearing to have met on the way.
One of them had bulging eyes, while the other... if you saw him anywhere else, you would swear he suffered from nothing at all.
I initially thought he would take the leader's throne, but he headed toward one of the six chairs, sitting next to the woman with the "pendulum head."
He was a man in his forties, wearing a respectable suit with meticulously groomed hair; every strand obeyed its place, never daring to stray from the herd.
As for the fifth... he was a young man in his late twenties or early thirties, wearing a vacuous smile and unfocused eyes.
He arrived supported by a nurse from the center, who seated him directly next to me before leaving. Not a minute passed before a man with a square face and matching square-rimmed glasses arrived and took his place on the leader's throne.
None of the attendees looked "normal" except for me, the respectable man in the suit, and the Square-Faced man sitting on the throne of the mad.
"We would like to welcome Miss Mariam, as she has honored us with her presence today... Miss Maryam, I heard about you from Dr. Essam. Could you please introduce yourself?"
"My name is Mariam. I am twenty-one... I mean, twenty-four. I was in an accident three years ago, and I have been seeing hallucinations ever since," I introduced myself briefly.
"I heard your condition has improved?"
"Yes, yes... it has been four weeks since I started the medication, and I haven't seen anything since."
"Wonderful! Thank you for joining us again, Miss Mariam." The "Leader of the Mad" was so enthusiastic that he clapped his hands. As soon as he did, everyone followed suit like falling dominoes, even the one with the vacuous smile sitting next to me. Ugh... stop, this is embarrassing.
I wanted to hide my face; I'm certain it turned as red as a tomato.
"I know some of us know each other, but I want us to introduce ourselves to the newcomers. Please, Madam Randa."
He gestured to the woman sitting to his right to introduce herself. She glanced at him, then resumed moving her head in that pendulum-like motion.
"My name is Randa..."
"And?"
"I am fine. I don't suffer from anything."
"Yes, thank you. Next?" He moved to the next person quickly, as if he didn't want to get into the details.
"My name is Selim. I have been diagnosed with OCD accompanied by hallucinations," said the respectable man in his forties.
I realized exactly what kind of OCD he had... not a single speck of dust was on his shoes.
"What kind of hallucinations do you suffer from?" the square-faced Leader of the Mad asked, as if he didn't already know.
"I used to hear voices."
"And what were those voices telling you?"
The respectable man, Mahmoud, flashed a smile that froze the blood in my veins and said, "...It is better that you don't know."
"Ahem... Next?" Even the Leader was spooked.
"My ungrateful son brought me here against my will, and I don't suffer from anything
" the old man shouted, standing up and leaning on his cane, threatening to leave.
"Of course, Mr. Hussein. You are fine and suffer from nothing. But these young people came to gain experience from you; could you please benefit them?"
The group leader moved quickly to calm the old man, who soon sat down as if nothing had happened.
"Ahem... Of course!"
The old man looked at us one by one, then leaned his body forward. His movement caused us all to lean in with him, listening intently to his next words, which he whispered: "The aliens are communicating with me..." I clutched my temples, feeling a headache coming on.
Everyone smiled, not wanting to embarrass the old man with a mocking laugh. "Shhh, they are listening to us."
"Ahem... Next?"
"I feel like I'm in the wrong place. I don't suffer from hallucinations of any kind, but from Bipolar Disorder..."
You're not the only one who feels that way, buddy!
"Very well." The Leader glanced at me, then his gaze moved and settled on the young man sitting next to me for a moment, carrying a look I couldn't quite place. "Alright, now..." He was about to continue, but was suddenly interrupted by a sharp female voice:
"This boy will die soon."
Silence fell, accompanied by that piercing voice that carried the stench of death.
"Heh, someone is even crazier than I am," the old man mocked.
The woman looked at the old man with rage. "What did you just say?" screamed the woman who had previously claimed she was perfectly fine.
"What? I said you're crazy!"
The old man boasted as if he were entirely healthy. "I'm not the one communicating with aliens, you senile old man!"
"Enough! Enough
" It nearly escalated into a physical fight if not for the Square-Faced man and the Respectable man stepping in to de-escalate the situation.
The Leader returned to his throne, adjusted his glasses, and said, "Why do you harbor such a grim thought, Madam Randa?"
"..." The pendulum motion of her head stopped. She fixed her gaze on the young man with the vacuous smile next to me and scratched her arms until they bled. "Don't you see? The halo of death is hovering over his head..."
Then, she turned her pendulum head toward me and said in a tone like a snake's hiss, "You are next!"