Escaped Psyche


“So, Mr Custard Head” says the doctor, the doctor of brains to the man with his hair shaped like a custard trifle. “We understand that your psyche has escaped”. Doctor waits for a second with his smug grin and hands in white coat pockets and a wealth of knowledge and fascist learning stuffed inside his fetid skull.

The silence hangs like a blanket waiting to suffocate them both. The goofy man fixes his goofy teeth over his bottom lip and makes gurgle noises softly. The game is set and the first one to speak is the loser. Can’t hold out against a doctor with his hands and pockets and rock solid knowledge of fascist mind games and confirmed Superiority of Science and how it can break the spirit.

“You can’t break me” he says and maybe he loses just like that.  Shit he thinks now and realises he messed up and gave in to the glasses and the icy stare, the iron will of the Scientist and his doctor face and stuffy, dusty learning. Damn, I’m in for it now and it’s back to the hospital once more.

“There’s an escaped psyche on the loose” says the doctor and suddenly the game is back on an even keel. Now they both spoke, now no-one  has the upper hand. Now no-one’s gonna drag him kicking and screaming back down the shiny, disinfected wards into the smooth linen bedroom again.

Two psyches on the loose. Shit, no. A million, billion psyches on the loose. Ain’t no walls no more. No, there never were and don’t you forget it, not even once.

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