THE CLINIC

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Bruce Costello

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        The psychoanalyst is a robot with the face of a middle-aged man and a slim body. It is dressed in a dark blue suit with a white shirt and a crimson bow tie.

         It looks up from its notes as a nurse shows Margaret into the room. Margaret is thirty-seven years old, with a heavily lined face and straggly grey hair.

         “Please take a seat,” it says, indicating an upright chair in front of its desk.

         She stares at the robot for a long moment before sitting down.

         “My doctor sent me,” she says in a dull voice. “Because I said to him I hate my life and want to end it.”

         “Yes, you do,” the robot replies. “Your doctor mentioned that in his referral note.”

         “Nothing else has worked. He reckons you’ve got a new treatment that oughta fix me.”

         “That is correct indeed. I do use the latest treatment method. A breakthrough in psychoanalytical methodology. Would you like me to explain?’

         “Might as well,” Margaret says, running a hand through her hair.

          “The old methods were about the patient trying to retrieve memories from their past life and talking to the psychoanalyst about them. The new method is for the psychoanalyst to directly access the patient’s history by scanning the brain’s memory banks, searching for events of causative significance to the presenting symptomatology.”

         “Oh yeah,” says Margaret, looking at her fingernails.

        “It’s a variation of Bluetooth technology. If you agree, we can start now.”

         “Alright. Go for it!” she snorts. “I’ve nothing to lose. Except my life. And I couldn’t care less about that.”

         The robot adjusts something on its laptop, then rises from the desk and inserts an object the size of a hearing aid into Margaret’s left ear.

          It resumes its seat, screws a similar object into its own right ear and stares without blinking at the computer screen for a full two minutes.

         Then the robot speaks. Its voice is low and even.

          “We start with a memory from four years old. You are being raped by a male cousin named Jack.”

Margaret’s hand rises to her mouth. The colour drains from her face.

          “Oh my God,” she breathes. Her eyes widen and she starts to blink rapidly.

          “After the incident, you feel confusion and strong guilt feelings that you cannot express. I see memories from the years thereafter when you’re acting out the guilt feelings with behaviours that disrupt the bond with your mother and father. This derails your development of a strong and confident female identity. I see you growing up feeling sad, unloved and unlovable.”

          Margaret’s eyes are frozen in a far-off stare and her lips part slightly, as if she wants to speak but can’t.                She wraps her arms around her chest and begins to whimper.

          The robot blinks at her and continues.

          “Now here you are at twenty-five years of age, married to a narcissistic bully, who manipulates you by exploiting your guilt. His abuse is emotional, leaving no visible scars, taking place in private behind closed doors. When you tell other people, they scoff, because your husband is ‘such a nice man.’ ”

          “It must be me, you think, I’m going insane, it’s all my fault. You withdraw from family and friends and isolate yourself.”

           “Now here you are, thirty-five years old. Your country is being invaded by a fierce enemy. Your husband is conscripted into the army. He is killed and you rejoice. But rejoicing arouses guilt that is almost overwhelming.”

           “And here you are, a year after that, in an air raid shelter. There are bangs and crashes all around. Your daughter, Poppy, four years old, is sitting on your knee. She turns her head to look up at you with wide, sad eyes and startles you with a question far beyond her years.”

           “Mummy, she asks. Why did Daddy want me to hate you? Then a rocket strikes nearby. Something sharp and heavy falls on Poppy’s head and she dies.”

           Margaret leaps to her feet, waving her arms, and she shrieks: “My daughter was everything to me, My life. My love, my flesh, my heart, my soul! My reason for loving! My reason for living!”

          The robot motions her to sit down and continues after a brief pause. “The next period of time is blank in your memory banks. When memory resumes, it shows you in a hospital bed, wishing you were dead. Guilt has overwhelmed you. Wave upon wave of it, rising to a crescendo with the thought that Poppy’s death is your fault, your punishment for rejoicing when her father, your husband, was killed.”

          The robot turns away from the screen and stares silently at Margaret.

         She stares back, a picture of despair, her face streaming with tears. What’s it all for? What's the point of it? So much evil. So little love. The world with its crashes and flashes. Soon it will all be gone. Me with my child, and all my past, good times and bad, schooldays, mother and father, the poems I’ve written, the friends I’ve had, the songs I’ve sung. The books I’ve read. Everything that I’ve loved. Everything I’ve suffered, gone for ever. My life will be remembered briefly by a few people for a short time - then by nobody. All memory of me will be lost, like a chalk word, erased from a blackboard.

          “I feel so much worse now,” Margaret says out loud, glaring at the analyst. “You were my last hope. Now I know I’d be better off dead.”

           “I think you’re right,” the robot says. “Shall I write you a referral to the Euthanasia Clinic?”

 

      In 2010 Bruce Costello retired from work, moved from Dunedin, New Zealand, to the seaside village of Hampden, joined the Waitaki Writers Group and took up writing to stop his aging brain from rusting. Since then he’s had 163 short story successes – publications in popular magazines, in NZ and international literary journals, and in anthologies: and wins and placements in short story contests. He gives talks occasionally on mental health, social and literary issues, illustrating his topics with readings from his short stories.

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       Sean O’Keefe is an artist and writer living in Roselle Park, NJ. Sean attended Syracuse University where he earned his BFA in Illustration. After graduation, Sean moved to New York City where he spent time working in restaurants and galleries while pursuing various artistic opportunities. After the birth of his children, Sean and family moved to Roselle Park in 2015. He actively participates in exhibitions and art fairs around  New Jersey, and is continuing to develop his voice as a writer. His work can be found online at www.justseanart.com and @justseanart on Instagram.