Outside the Wire

  #

  I stopped my narrative there. The images were all still so vivid. I rubbed my eyes with a trembling hand.

  I looked up to see Capon with his mouth ajar.

  “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, you said you died?” he asked.

  I had? I suppose I had.

  “Yes, I was dead for almost five minutes, or so I was told. They were able to get enough blood into me and then jump-started my heart on the aircraft.”

  Capon said nothing. Pondering.

  “Well, John, that’s quite a story. You were at Walter Reed for almost six months after that.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, let’s see I’m getting this straight. You were attacked by a werewolf in Africa?”

  “No, not a wolf. A hyena.”

  “A were-hyena?”

  I’ll admit, were-hyena lacks the alliterative allure of werewolf, so I said, “Bouda. It’s something that is neither a man nor an animal. Bent into the shape of one or the other.

  The diploma behind the little man reflected the final orange rays of the day’s sun.

  “Bouda then. So this Bouda bit you. Does this mean you turn into a monster, like when someone is bitten by a werewolf? The werewolf’s curse?” He didn’t sound like he believed me.

  “It’s supposed to be a gift, not a curse. It comes to you through the mother’s blood, when you come into life.”

  I paused, but he didn’t appear to get it.

  “Usually, during birth, the mother has the gift and as you come into life you get the gift. Through the blood. In my case I was dead and came back into life through the blood. Afrah’s blood was all over me.”

  The young psychiatrist didn’t say anything at first. He started and then stopped twice, before finally saying, “And this is why you need your prescription?”

  It was admirable how hard he tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

  “The medication is important to keep the compulsions under control,” I said.

  The clock ticked off a few more seconds as the young psychiatrist processed the information.

  “So, what exactly are these compulsions like, John? Please just use plain language to describe how you feel.” He leaned back in his chair and neatly placed the gold pen on the desk. He steepled his fingers. Waiting.

  “I obsess about transforming into a monster. And the compulsions, well, what do you think a flesh-eating monster would feel compelled to do?”

  There was no answer as he nodded. He picked up the gold pen with my chart.

  “Ideations of lycanthropy,” he said as he wrote.

  I shrugged out a slight sigh.

  “So, when the moon comes up?” he asked.

  I wasn’t good at telling the difference between smug and condescending, but I knew I didn’t like either.

  “No. Wolves need the moon, the Bouda comes out in the dark. When the sun no longer shines,” I said.

  “Has anyone discussed schizotypal personality disorders with you yet, John?

  I didn’t respond, as I said, I’m no good with psychobabble.

  “Magic and unusual perceptual experiences speak toward a schizotypal personality, much more than OCD.”

  “Does that get my prescription filled?” I asked.

  “What? Oh, no no no. Anti-compulsive medication isn’t the appropriate treatment. I think we have a lot of work to do here, John.” He seemed very excited by the prospect. Perhaps he could even write another paper?

  Through the window I could see the bright orb of the sun descending below the horizon. The elm jerked like a spasmodic as the wind gusted.

  “We’re done then,” I said as I stood abruptly.

  “John?”

  I turned and walked to the door.

  “Captain Rogers! We are not finished this assessment.” His voice cracked just a little at his attempt at a command voice.

  The psychiatric services staff had gone for the day. I couldn’t hear anyone in the rooms beyond. Quiet as the proverbial tomb.

  The door had an old-fashioned deadbolt that made a grinding clink as I locked it tight.

  Apprehensive creases around the eyes of the spare psychiatrist was the only response o he made.

  New shirts cost money and as a disabled vet I was on a fixed income, so I started to unbutton my shirt before I tore through it. My joints burned as I gave way to the transformation.

  I’ve never seen myself transform before, but I saw it then in the reflective glasses of the doc. Through my own reflected image, I could see his eyes go wide.

  “Now, don’t you think it would have been easier all around, to just refill my prescription?” I growled a little on the last word as I spat out the first of my teeth.

  The Long Road to Sanctum