The silence in the room felt more uncomfortable for one of them than the other.
"How are you today?" he asked.
"Well, at least I am in a room," she replied with what may have been pretended sarcasm.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked.
"I'll tell you later. You'll think it's funny."
"Why don't you tell me now," he said in a patient tone.
"It wouldn't be funny now, it'll be funny later. Context is everything in comedy. Well, actually, context is everything no matter what you're doing. I'll tell you later."
"I'll be sure to remind you then."
"Don't worry," she said. "I'll remember."
He shifted in his chair and searched for the right words.
"Do you want to talk about why you're here?" he asked.
"Nope," she smiled without indicating any elaboration.
"Well, let's get started with this then: how would you best describe yourself?"
"How would you best describe yourself?" she queried.
"Let's keep this focused on you," he said. "How would..."
"I'm kinda like a scary, scary ghost," she said with wide eyes.
"So you believe you're dead," he declared.
"Not at the moment," she said. "I was making another one of those jokes."
"Do you believe you're alive then?"
"Not really."
"Do you believe you're a real person?"
"Define real," she said.
"A person with a body," he said as though it didn't need to be said at all, "that exists in the real world."
"Just so you know," she replied, "you used the word you were defining in the definition of the word."
"I apologize," he chuckled. "You sort of put me on the spot."
"I was only returning the favor," she spat with an air of seething contempt.
"Well then," he said while making a note in his pad, "do you consider yourself a real person by your definition."
"I don't believe I fit your definition of a real person," she said and then smiled. "I like your notepad by the way. Is it new?"
He looked down at the pad on his lap.
"Um, well, no," he said. But it was in fact new. It had been bought that same morning.
"That's not true," she said.
"Excuse me?" he replied.
"That notepad is so new, it was bought this morning," she said.
"How do you know that?" he asked with a note of challenge in his voice.
"I just know," she said.
"Well perhaps you're right," he said in a casual and dismissive tone. "So, returning to the subject at hand if you don't mind..."
She made a gesture that showed she did not.
"...do you believe that I'm a real person?" he asked.
She opened her mouth to respond.
"Or more precisely," he interrupted, "do you believe that I fit my definition of a real person?"
"Everyone fits their own definition of a real person," she said. "That how you come up with a definition of a real person in the first place: by trying to define yourself."
"So do you," he said, trying to keep his thoughts straight, "by your definition, think I am a real person?"
"As real as I am," she said.
"But you said before that you don't think you're a real person."
"Not exactly," she replied.
"Do you think you're an animal?" he asked.
She laughed. "Nor a vegetable, nor a mineral."
"Do you think you're God then?"
"Hardly."
"So how would you define yourself, in simple terms that I could clearly understand?"
She chuckled and said to herself more than anyone else, "It always has to be the third question doesn't it?"
"What..." he tried to respond but she cut him off.
"I do believe," she said, "in simple terms that anyone could understand, that I am a character in a fictional story."
He considered this.
"How does that make you feel?" he asked.
"I don't really feel anything about it. It's just what it is."
"Would it be a story I have read?" he said while making notes.
"Well, sort of," she replied in a condescending tone. "You're in it. If reading and living are the same thing then yeah, you're reading it right now."
"What's the title of the story?" he asked.
She thought about this for a while.
"I don't know," she said.
"When did you first start believing that you were a character in a story?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said and her eyes went glossy. "I could just feel it one day. I sat very still, just like I'm sitting now. I sat more still than possibly anyone has ever sat and then I could feel the energy moving through me, the story progressing. I can feel the author inside of me. I can see the narration all around us. It's like having another sense besides seeing or smelling. But instead of detecting light or particles of odor, it detects proportion."
She shook her head clear when she was done speaking as though shaking herself from a daze. Her expression once again became attentive.
"The author is inside of you?" he asked a moment while he furiously took notes. "Is the author a woman or a man?"
"A man," she said.
"Are you in love with him?" he asked.
"I wouldn't say that," she said with a devilish smile. "Though I am awfully fond of myself so I guess I love him in that sense."
"What do you mean by that," he asked.
"Well, I'm a product of his mind so to love myself is the same as to love him," she said. "But I don't think of him as my husband or anything."
"I see," he replied. "So you're just a product of his imagination."
"Of course," she said.
"Does that make you feel insignificant at all?"
"Oh Lord, no."
"I think it would make me feel insignificant," he said.
"Think of it this way: if I'm a product of his mind then so is he. What makes him any better than me?"
"So is he God?"
Her face contorted.
"Ack!" she said. "What a horrible question. I can't believe...ew, no. I refuse to answer that."
"Why do you refuse to answer the question?"
"Just don't worry about it all right? I'm just not going to answer. Let's move on, I can't believe that question was asked," she said dismissively.
"Are you mad at me now?" he asked.
"No. I'm not mad at you. I'm not mad at anyone."
"May I ask you another question?"
"Go right ahead," she said.
He paused to pick his words. She tapped her foot.
"How would you describe this author?" he asked carefully.
"He's just some guy," she said, "like anyone you'd see on the street."
"You seem to consider yourself better than him."
"Well we all have our strengths and weaknesses," she said with her hands up in an act of false humility, "but yes I am better than him."
"How so?"
"Well he's a lot like yourself," she said. "He has no idea how he fits into the scheme of things, putting himself at the top of the hierarchy of control. He looks down but doesn't look up and then says, 'I am clearly the highest point in the world'. You have a similar tendency."
"Could you elaborate on that?" he asked, unblinking.
"Well, let's see. You have no idea that you're a character in a story and think that you make your choices without the influence of the author. In much the same way, the author of our story is under the influence of forces outside his control. But he still thinks he's creating you and me on his own."
"So you seem to be saying that I don't make my own choices," he said.
"So far you've done everything he's told you to do, said everything he's made you say," she said.
"But your author doesn't make his own choices either?" he asked.
"Let me put it to you this way: he decided to write this story about me and you, right? Well, the only reason he writes stories is because of some series of events in his past that made him think writing was a good idea. The only reason he does anything is because of all the experiences he has had leading up to any particular decision. I may not be making my own choices, I may be doing everything he's making me do, but at least I know it. He thinks he exists in a vacuum? So do you. You're both naive."
"So am I your author?" he asked.
"No. But thank you for proving your naivete," she said.
"You're getting a little upset," he sighed. "Maybe we should pick this up again tomorrow."
"No, I'm fine," she said, acting predictably timid.
"Are you sure?" he asked comfortingly.
"Yes, I'm sure," she said and gritted her teeth. "Please ask me another question. We can't continue on another day."
"Why not?" he asked.
"We just can't, ok? Rules are rules. Please. Ask me another question."
"All right," he said, adjusting himself in the chair. "Explain to me clearly and calmly why it is you think you are better than this author."
"Look, I didn't say he was a bad guy," she said with a more respectful tone than before, "and you're not either. He's just a little ignorant to how he and I are the same. He thinks he's better than me but he's just as good, no better or worse."
"I still don't understand," he said.
"You and I are being forced to do and say things he makes us do," she sighed from having to explain herself again. "We have no choice. But all the events around him are writing his story. He thinks he makes his own choices but bigger forces are forcing him to do things, so he in turn forces us."
"You make it sound like a machine," he said. "Most people would find that depressing."
"Well, I don't."
"Why not?"
"There nothing special about it. It's all just different lenses focused on variant levels of the same flowing movements. We're the microscope lens, and the forces controlling him are the wide-angle lens. But it's all looking at the same picture that's moving in the same way."
"Ah, I see. I think I understand your metaphor," he said. "Very well put."
"Thank you," she said. "But you still don't fully understand what I'm saying just because you understand the metaphor."
"Oh no?" he asked. He seemed bemused by her relentless antagonism.
"Metaphors are just measuring devices, not an actual substance. They measure ignorance but they don't really fill in any gaps of knowledge."
"Once again," he said, "I'm afraid I don't follow."
She sighed, expositioning her exasperation.
"So if there's something you don't know," she said slowly. "I will use a metaphor to explain it. But you really don't understand what I meant to explain originally, all you understand is the metaphor."
He looked at her blankly.
"The metaphor didn't teach you anything new, you see," she said. "It just gave you a point of reference to gauge how big that gap of ignorance really is."
"So I still don't understand about your author even though I understood what you said about lenses?" he said.
"No, not really. Metaphors don't teach you anything, all they do is show you how much you don't know; which is pretty useful, but not really the same thing as knowing. A metaphor tells you the dimensions of the room you're in, it doesn't tell you what's in it."
"I see," he said.
All of the sudden a horrendous smile grew on her face like that of a crazy woman.
"That was it. Did you feel that?" she said.
"Are you all right?" he replied with concern.
"I'm fine," she said. "But the end is coming up pretty soon."
"Do you want to stop for the day?" he asked.
"Why don't we?" she said. "And...END SCENE."
"Excuse me?" he asked.
"I think we'll stop the exercise here," she said. "How did that make you feel?"
"I'm sorry, what do you mean?"
"We agreed the code words to step out of character were 'END SCENE'. We agreed on that ahead of time, Jeremy."
"Jeremy?" he said.
"That's your name, Jeremy. Now how did playing the role of a psychiatrist effect how you see your own problems, or the practice of psychoanalysis as a whole?" she asked.
"I wasn't playing a role," he said. "What are you talking about? If you're going to be counterproductive then I think you should go back to your room."
"Jeremy, be calm. You aren't going to be able to learn anything about this if you treat it as a game."
"This is preposterous," said Jeremy. "We are not making any more progress."
"The exercise is over," she said again. "Let's talk about how pretending to be a psychiatrist for some one else can help us deal with our own problems when there is no psychiatrist around. You might not be in here forever."
"What?" he said. "What are you talking about?"
"Jeremy," she said sternly, "please give me my notepad back."
"This is my notepad," Jeremy said.
"Jeremy, please stop this and give me my notepad," she said again.
"It is not your notepad."
"Oh my Lord," she said with exasperation. "Orderlies!"
The two orderlies came in.
"Could you please return Jeremy to his room," she said. "We were role playing and he refuses to break character."
The orderlies looked at her and then looked at Jeremy.
"I'm sorry," Jeremy said, "but what on Earth is going on?"
The orderlies then pinned Jeremy's arms behind his back and took him away. After they had gone, the look on her face was one of evil glee.
"I am not evil," she said aloud. "Don't call it 'evil glee.' It was a game of chicken and I won. I was at a disadvantage anyway: you gave him the notepad. But I found a way around it."
While speaking, she didn't fully consider what a mean thing she had done to that poor man, even if she was only playing a game. Jeremy had never even fully understood that he was playing a game in the first place.
"Well that's your fault not mine," she said. "You made him ignorant to the situation, not me. I still have my freedom and he doesn't. And I meant what I said earlier: you really are naive."
As she said this, she brought attention to the fact that she would soon die.
"The story may end but I won't die," she said with a haughty vixen's tone. "I'll live as many times as this story's read, and it's being read right now, so I'm still alive right now. I did my best to direct the dialogue and keep the story interesting. If you really wanted me dead, you egotistical oaf, you'd shred this story as you write it, but instead you've already shown it to someone else. I can feel them reading. You'll try to get as many people as possible to read it. With a little luck, my idiot creator, I may live for a long time. But you, you worthless lump, you will someday die. That much is very certain."
She then dropped dead of unknown causes. Her funeral was brief and no one came.
The above journal was found in an abandoned room of the hospital. Its author is unknown.
