A State of Mind

By Andreas Melhorn, (c) 1999

Im walking down the corridor. Its pretty long and has a lot of doors on either side. And it looks like a
hospital corridor. They dont want it to look like that, but it still looks like a hallway in a hospital. I have to
admit the look is not really obvious; its more like a feeling. For example, its not white or anything; we
have a green carpet in it and light brown walls (green is said to have a soothing influence on people;
thats why they put a green carpet in the corridor). And there are pictures on the wall. Nice, colourful
landscapes or gorgeous buildings from China or New York or moody paintings with no real motif, all
behind clear plastic (no glass) with a thin black frame. Actually, I like the pictures. They cast an illusion
into the hallway an illusion of . . . I dont know, exactly. Its just nice.

But it still looks like a hospital corridor.

***

I really dont know where to begin. I just have to start somewhere and the conversation I had with Carl in
that corridor (about a week ago) is the beginning somehow. It was the moment when I decided that I had
to try it. I also decided when Id have to do it and how. Actually all that began much earlier about two
years earlier. Tomorrow, I will do my first real experiment and I want to write down everything so that
other people can see how it all began. Probably, they can explain a few things that I dont know. I know
its important if it works, but I also know that chances are slim that it will work.

But I should really begin in the well, in the beginning.

I met Carl in the corridor. There was nothing special about it. I meet him almost every day, but this time
he suddenly talked to me.

You hate me, dont you, he said, staring at his feet.

No, I dont hate you.

I didnt say that, I just thought it.

You really hate me, dont you, he repeated, or is there another reason that you never talk to me? Why
dont you ever speak to me, asshole? Huh? Not one damn word! Would you tell me that, please! Now, he
looked straight into my face.

He was right. I never talk to Carl. Every time I see him I think Ill have to puke. I know: as soon as I open
my mouth I will puke on him. He will be soaked, the nice green carpet will be soaked. It will simply stream
out of my mouth and soak him. I couldnt stand that and I guess he neither. Thatd be so embarrassing!
Have you ever puked on somebody? In a plane? Or on a ship, because you were sea sick? Its so horribly
embarrassing! I could never do that and so I never open my mouth to talk to Carl.

I had stopped, surprised, when he first asked me if I hated him, but then I left him. I wouldnt speak to
him, not if I had to open my mouth to do it. He muttered a few more words and went away. When I
reached the end of the corridor I had decided to try it.

I just realize that you still dont know my name. Im Brian. And maybe I should also tell you why Im here. I
am in this building because I killed two people: my mother and her husband.
 ***

The building Im talking about is an Institute for the Criminal Insane. Were all criminals here, mainly
murderers and rapists, but also a few other guys, who are a danger to themselves and the world they are
living in. Carl, for example, is both I mean a murderer AND a rapist, only one victim for both, as you
might expect. I guess that is exactly what makes me sick. I just hate this sex crime stuff, I hate it more
than all other crimes, even more than my own. I know now that it was wrong what I did. Nobody will read
this manuscript in the near future, so there is no need to write something that is not true. I wont be able
to get free because of a text like this. Actually Im happy to be here and I dont want to go. As long as I am
here people are safe. Believe me, it is a horrible thing if you cant trust your own mind, especially when
you did things like I did.

This is exactly the reason for writing this text: I cant trust my mind. The whole thing could just be an idea
in my head. Probably its not real. Is it just an illusion? I cant talk to anybody about it. When I first
discovered it, I thought wasnt real because I couldnt repeat it. It was just a little bit of small talk I had
with a patient here in the clinic and a dream.

You must excuse that there seems to be no order in my writings. I decided to follow my mind, while Im
writing. I decided to follow my thoughts mixed and senseless as they might seem to be. It is all about
my mind, after all, so this decision seems to be obvious to me. The text you are holding in your hands is
supposed to be a scientific text, but unfortunately I am unable to write something like that. Once, I
borrowed such a text from the library (it was something about Egypt, I think) and I didnt understand a
word. No, I am not able to do something like that. This text is some sort of diary, a script of my mind or
something like that. Hopefully someone more intelligent than me can make use of these scribblings. But
now I have to break my own rules. If I only told you my thoughts, you would never learn what it all is
about. Ill have to tell you now: I think that I am probably perhaps, I mean, I really dont know yet, but
maybe maybe I am a telepath. I will see tomorrow. I will.

***

Lets go back to that guy I was talking about. (You remember? It happened about two years ago and has
something to do with telepathy.) His name was Peter and he was truly sick. He was a sadist. Tortured two
men to death. When he arrived, he wasnt allowed to talk to any of us. He was in the part of the building
none of us wanted to go, the part where they lock you away. As I said, I really regret what I did, and so
they asked me to have a little talk to Peter as part of his therapy. They didnt tell me what he did, so that I
could behave more naturally. (I have no idea, why the hell Im supposed to speak more naturally, when I
dont know his actions; but I didnt care you learn not to care.) When Peter told me what hed done
grinning they took him away. We never met again, because two weeks later he killed himself by
swallowing his tongue. They dont want us to learn about these things, but of course there were rumours.
There are always rumours.

We only talked for a few minutes, but we connected, if you know what I mean. All the time I seemed to
know what he was thinking. When I think back, I am sure that I somehow really knew his thoughts. The
same night I dreamed about him. In the dream he answered a question I was not able to ask before they
ended our conversation: Why did he do it? In the dream he entered my room. A knock at the door woke
me up very unusual for a dream, as far as I know he entered, stood under the lamp that shone with a
green, sick light, looked into my eyes (in the light he seemed to be very ill thin and weak almost like a
ghost), and said two sentences: Because I like music. And their screams were like music to me, like the
best symphony Ive ever heard.

All that proved nothing; it could have been chance. There was a feeling and a dream, thats all. I decided
not to tell anybody. I only would have gotten problems. Nobody would have believed me; theyd have said
it was part of my schizophrenia. I had to wait and to watch. If it happened again I could tell them but not
earlier. Not one minute earlier.

That was two years ago. I had to wait long before it happened again. And it did three weeks ago.

I will write more tomorrow after my meeting with Dr. Bernstein. I have to finish for today. Dinner in five
minutes.

***

It worked! I cant believe it, but it really worked! For Gods sake, I did it! I went into the session with Dr.
Bernstein and I made him cry I made him cry like a baby!!

The session started like they usually do when you change doctors. He is relatively new to our clinic
arrived about three months ago. We met for the first time in the hallway I already described. (You can
meet a lot of people there. Its our main corridor.)

The moment I saw him, I had once again this feeling of connection. He looked at me and seemed to
recognize me. I mean, there would be nothing special about that. Its possible that he really recognized
me. Probably he had read about me. I guess, if I was new to a clinic I would read about the patients. No,
the point is not that he seemed to know me, the point is that I also recognized him. I never met a Dr.
Bernstein before but still he seemed to be familiar in a way I cant describe. We looked at each other for a
while and both of us had difficulty breaking eye contact.

I was excited and I still am: another person like Peter and this time it was a full-fledged doctor! At first, I
didnt dare to think about it. This gave me the opportunity to prove whether I was able to send my
thoughts into other peoples mind or if I was just a little bit madder than I seemed to be. I behaved like
someone who suddenly learns that his last partner was HIV positive and doesnt dare to take a test
because hes afraid of the truth. I did the same. I didnt talk to anybody and I didnt make any attempt to
arrange a test of my abilities. I was afraid. Finally, it was my inability to talk to Carl that made me decide.
Pehaps the test would help me to understand my own mind, perhaps it would prove that I am hopelessly
insane.

It wasnt complicated to convince Dr. Bernstein to make a few sessions with me. He also felt the
connection between us.

And now its proved: I am able to create a telepathic link to some people.

I really can do it.

As I said, the session began as expected. Questions like how I feel and if I had any dreams or if there was
something else I wanted to talk about. I didnt try to explain why I wanted these sessions. That wasnt
necessary. I started right away describing the death scene of my mother and my stepfather, intending to
inspire an emotion. I told him that I dreamed about it (a lie of course) but only said a few sentences aloud.
Then I began to send thoughts and emotions. He began to cry when the story reached the scene in
which the lead ripped a hole in my stepfathers head, which means it didnt take long.

As usual, the session was recorded. I told my dream aloud a few minutes later so the tape could also
hear it. He didnt stop crying silent, only tears running out of his eyes, he waited for me to finish.

Its not a surprise that the session wasnt very long.

I am curious if he will say anything about it at our next session. Probably he wont. He didnt say anything
today, I guess because of the recording. But sooner or later well talk about it, Im sure. And Im looking
forward to it.

***

Today I talked to another inmate. His name is Fred. He suffers from schizophrenia like I do (well, Im
schizophrenic with the tendency to act violently just to let you know). You know, schizophrenia means
voices in your head, it means you talk to walls or coffee machines, or it means all sorts of delusions. I
never had these symptoms before I killed my mother. They came later when the madness became worse,
a few weeks before they caught me. Now that Im under medication the dreams have become much
better. I dont dream often anymore and the voices are silent for years (and I dont act violently anymore,
thank God).

Fred is suffering from delusions. The drugs cant stop it completely, unfortunately. This afternoon, he
asked me if I had met the black man. I expected another story about things that are only true in Freds
mind, so I asked what he meant. This sort of conversation can be fun (kind of) you can call me sick if you
want, but to take a ride on a mad mind (via a conversation) can be a great experience, something you will
probably never forget.

Today, the black man was here and talked to a few people. Did you meet him? he asked.

Black man? You mean Satan?

Yes. Today, Satan was in the clinic. He had human form.

He looked at me. I saw a lack of confidence in his eyes that made him look sad a creature that was
looking for help. He was begging me to believe him, to tell him that I also saw Satan in our nice hospital,
that all this wasnt just another illusion. There is something I do from time to time: I tell Fred that I believe
him or that I also saw what he saw. As far as I know there is no help for Fred. His mind is too deranged to
ever get in order again. (He was sent to us because he believed a rat was living in his wife. He tried to kill
the rat with a drill.)

I waited for him to continue.

He called himself Green. The BLACK man called himself Mr. Green. He giggled shyly.

And he talked to people? What did he say?

He didnt say very much. But he had a demon with him, a succubus. I dont know her name, but does a
demon really need a name? He giggled again; I dont know why. She talked.

Really? What did they talk about? Do you know?

Of course, I know!

The expression on his face changed to the look of someone talking to a little child but only for the better
part of a second. Of course, he knew.

They were looking for a renegade demon. They asked me, a few other patients and even some of the
doctors ( Fred refers to everybody, who is not a patient as a doctor, even the janitor ) if we noticed
something unusual. I mean, they didnt ask directly but you could tell what they were looking for.
Unfortunately, Fred wasnt completely wrong. All that Satan and demon stuff was bullshit, of course, but
there were two people in the clinic with the names of Steve Green and Sandra Atkinsen. They had
something to do with the government agents, whatever. I couldnt find out. They talked to some people.
They talked to Dr. Bernstein. Did he call them? Did he talk about our session? I really hope they were here
for another reason. I dont want to become a governmental experiment. Tomorrow, I will have to talk to
Dr. Bernstein about it.

***

The last session was good. I made contact again. This time I could read some of his emotions. He was
thinking about something that I said and was looking at me without focussing you know, he stared
through me. I began to concentrate on him and suddenly I could feel his emotions. He was a little bit
anxious. I guess he noticed the contact and feared something similiar to the last session might happen,
but this time I only watched. I didnt feel much, though.

Before I did all that, I asked him about Mr. Green. He didnt want to tell me anything about it. Fortunately,
he was willing to tell me that it had nothing to do with the patients. When I made contact I suddenly knew
that he wasnt lying. Thats a relief.

***

Im thinking about the future. What shall I do now? There is something going on in my head that is much
more than just madness. I made a person cry just by thinking about sad things, I read the emotions of
another person, I could tell that Dr. Bernstein didnt lie. The problem is that it just works with some people
two people in two years. How can I find more? Should I do more experiments? Should I talk to
somebody? Or should I just wait?

I didnt sleep all night. The events of the last days were spinning about in my head. Hopefully I will calm
down soon. I will stop all experiments until Ive had some nights of rest. All this is too much for me. I will
think about it later when Im less tired.

***

What a horror! I didnt sleep for three nights! Jesus! I feel dizzy and cant concentrate. Its really horrible. I
lay in bed all night and thought about my murders. My mind couldnt relax. I murdered them again and
again. Again and again I took the gun, and again and again I screwed on the silencer that I bought illegally
from a friend, and went to my drugged stepfather. He had to die first, I knew that. The drugs didnt last
long enough and so he was awake when I came into the room. When he saw the gun he began to tear at
his handcuffs. He cried and tried to scream. I saw tears in his eyes. The cloth in his mouth almost
suffocated him when he tried to speak and to beg. But only his eyes could beg for his life.

Hundreds and hundreds of times I lifted the gun after staring at him for a while and hundreds and
hundreds of times I pulled the trigger. Again and again.

I didnt want to do it, for Gods sake! It was my twisted mind that told me to do it. I really didnt like to do
it. I hated him I admit it. But still I didnt want to do it! I was sick, for fucks sake! I was sick!

***

Another night. What shall I do? For the first time Im thinking about the consequences of my actions. I did
things with my mind that were not natural, I did things to another mans mind. Probably, I just read
without changing anything, but I cant be sure about that. What causes my insomnia?? I cant even guess.
I cant describe how I feel. There are voices in my head again, whispering voices that I cant understand. I
perceive the world through a lens, which distorts everything I see. Dancing lights in front of my eyes.
Things fall from my hands. Im so tired (so TIRED) but its impossible to relax even for a second. The
pictures wont leave. Ill write everything down. Ill try to put everything on paper. Perhaps it will stay on
the paper and wont come back. I dont think so, but I have to give it a try. They gave me drugs (stronger
drugs than yesterday) and Dr. Bernstein who injected them personally promised it would knock out an
elephant. But nothing happens. Nothing. I hate syringes! It was a rational decision to kill my mother. I had
to reunite her with my father. I knew he suffered in his afterlife without her. And I knew she also suffered
since he died. Rationality of a mad mind. I bought a gun and a silencer and drugs. They had to die
physically separated. Her new husband had to die first so that his soul could flee unconnected to her. He
looked a little bit like my father thats why she married him. Not because she loved him. If he died after
her he could find my parents and disturb their love. His soul had to flee first or he would intrude. I
drugged them (probably the same stuff I took yesterday. Thats nice.). Something in the wine. I faked a
hangover. Oh no, thanks, no wine for me today. Then the handcuffs and gags. I put them in different
rooms and then I drank half a liter of vodka. Without alcohol I wouldnt have been able to do it. I loved my
mother, I loved her so much that I killed her. But the drinking took too long and they were awake when I
finally went upstairs. I still see the disbelief in the eyes of my mother. I saw it thousands of times last
night. It is the same disbelief I have now. I still cant believe that I did it that I killed her. I destroyed her.
My reasoning was wrong. Her death was absolutely senseless. The doctors say itd be a big help if I was
able to accept my actions (accept them as something something wrong that happened in the past with
no effect on the future). Then they would probably be able to heal me. I cant accept it, thus I will never
be healed. Now you know. And I can sleep. Hopefully I can sleep now.

***

And yet another night. Nothing changed. You can die if you dont sleep. But I wont die of insomnia. I
promise. I wont. Dr. Bernstein was here, he looks after me. And he gave me more drugs. I tried to put
everything in my head in order and probably, I have got an idea of what happened. I think I created a
feedback of some sort. I sent him the memories of my murders and than I connected his mind again to
read it. He was anxious and thought again about it and I received my memories back without noticing it.
My own memories came back into my head. They are in my head more than once now and that kills me
slowly. Ive got enough drugs in my veins to kill a rhinoceros. It doesnt help. I asked Dr. Bernsein to come
back in an hour or so. He will do it. Im still in my own bed but if there are no changes tonight theyll have
to take me to the hospital (another part of the building we call it that way). I dont want to go to the
hospital. I hate it. They told me tomorrow, theyll have to take me there.

I guess thats okay. Tomorrow is okay.

I hope Dr. Bernstein will find the notes before anybody else does. I dont want him to have any problems
because of my notes. He helped me. The things that happened are not his fault. They are mine. He didnt
tell anybody about my abilities and Im grateful for that. If he finds the notes first he can decide what to
do with them.

I guess Ill use the cord of the lamp. I cant stand it any longer. Im sorry but no scientist will have the
opportunity to make any research on me. Im really sorry.

Fortunately they didnt take away the lamp. Thank God, I still have it.

Once more: Im sorry for everything I have done. Everything. I really am.

***
Epilogue:

Dr. Bernstein was walking down the main corridor of the clinic in which one of his patients died a few days
ago. Unfortunately, he was not able to avoid Dr. Stevenson, who was approaching him.

Hi, Dr. Bernstein! How are you doing?

Dr. Stevenson was a small man who tended to talk too loud. Dr. Bernstein did not like him and would
really have preferred to leave, but this time it could have been too dangerous to annoy his colleague. It
would have looked suspicious to run away.

Im fine, thanks.

There was nothing Dr. Bernstein could do. Even a nervous look to his watch and tapping with his feet did
not convince Stevenson to move on.

Thats good. I just wanted to tell you, that I will help if necessary. Stevenson explained, We all know
that it was a tragic accident and nothing more. He stopped as if he was thinking about something. Then
he continued.May I ask you a question? When you took the job, did you know that the murderer of your
cousin was here? You should have expected problems.

That was impertinent!

Oh dear, it really didnt seem to be much of a problem, did it? He was just one patient among others. It
was possible to avoid him.

Another look on the watch, but Stevenson did not seem to be satisfied. He wanted more.

But why did you accept the sessions then?

Because he asked me to do it! What would you have done? Would you have said No and have left a
man in need alone? Im a doctor. I cant do that. I really hated this man for a while, I have to admit it, but
his actions werent his fault. It was his mental instability. I just had to help him.

That was a mistake! He shouldnt have told Stevenson that he hated the murderer even if it was long
ago. A fault a stupid fault. He could sense how the mind of Dr. Stevenson worked. Just in this moment
specific parts of the conversation were forgotten. But there was nothing he could do about it right now. It
was too complicated to delete or change memories from a mans mind, and usually it didnt go
undetected. He had to wait. Important things had to be done first.

He added: Im just happy that we have the recordings of our sessions. They show that I didnt do
anything to him.

Yes, thats true. And if you had done anything with his drugs theyd notice in the autopsy. If you need any
help you tell me, okay?

Thanks. I really appreciate this. Bye.

Bye.
Finally Dr. Bernstein went to his office. Stevensons mind was so full of shit! God and his fantasies!
Really, he needed therapy more than most of his patients. Dr. Bernstein sat down and took the telephone.
It had seemed to be so easy. He hadnt planned to do anything like that, but then he had been
overwhelmed by the memories of the murderer. He hadnt been able to stand it. Hed broken out into
tears. The next session Dr. Bernstein did it. The murderer was concentrating on the doctors mind and Dr.
Bernstein destroyed his ability to sleep. It was so easy. It came so naturally.

And then he couldnt stop what he had started, although he knew that it had become too dangerous. The
first drugs couldnt make the murderer sleep not with the destruction Dr. Bernstein had caused in his
head. All the doctor had to do was to keep the dose of the stronger drugs low.

And now theyd made the connection to his cousin. He looked almost like his relative, and one of the
officers recognized him. The doctor should have expected that, he knew. He was in real danger now.
Fortunately, he could destroy the journal of the murderer, but still there was the risk that the pathologists
would detect that there was less drug in his blood than the doctor had prescribed.. Normal people would
have slept with that dose easily but under these circumstances Dr. Bernstein was forced to officially
prescribe more that he dared to give. One night of sleep would have destroyed the plan. The doctor
already sensed a regeneration of the ability to sleep in the sick man and he wouldnt have been able to
have any more sessions with the murderer. Not after all that had happened.

Probably they wouldnt discover anything, but Dr. Bernstein couldnt take the risk. He dialed a number
that was written on a piece of paper he took out of his jacket.

Hello, Mr. Green? Its Dr. Bernstein speaking. I thought again about your job offer. Your collegue told me
that you would like to use me and my special abilities from time to time. Yes, of course I lied when I told
you that I dont have any special abilities, but you did know that already, didnt you? You just couldnt
prove it Yeah, Im in. But first, you have to do me a favour