Battlestar Eclectic

The psychiatrist studies David with bright inquisitive eyes, then pulls out a notebook.

PSYCHIATRIST

(in a thick German accent)

I am excited by your case.

It is most particular.

Are you likewise excited about

this journey?

PATIENT

I don’t know. My wife said I’ve

been tense. She thought

I should get some things

off my chest.

The psychiatrist strides forward and taps the patient on his chest. David jumps, then recoils, uncomfortable.

PSYCHIATRIST

Your chest, I deduce, houses a

broken heart and–if my eyes

don’t decieve me–a little bird called

hope.

PATIENT

I’ve never been particularly fond of birds.

The psychiatrist speaks into a record.

PSYCHIATRIST

David, 26, has arrived at my office presenting

a severe case of ornithophobia.

DAVID

I don’t know about severe. I saw

the movie ‘The Birds’ when I was 10

and it stuck with me.

PSYCHIATRIST

The bird I speak of

is a metaphor for hope.

It’s is surely heartening,

condition, but we can do

far better than that.

PATIENT

I hope it’s not too expensive.

PSYCHIATRIST

There’s nothing more espensive

than being lost in a hall of

mirrors.

PATIENT

I’ve never liked those trick mirirors.

Not since I was 10 and went into

a funhouse. I saw myself

10 feet tall, and just ask skinny as I was

tall. But the thing was, my reflection was

wavy. I had the sense I was flickering

between two realities.

PSYCHIATRIST

We all dislike fun house mirrors.. Stop

taking my metaphors so seriously.

They are not the point, but the fingers

pointing to the point.

PATIENT

So what should I do?

PSYCHIATRIST

You are not leaving this room

until we have charted your hero’s

journey and uncovered your villain

origin story.

The psychiatrist scribbles some notes, then peers at the patient through heavy-framed glasses.

PSYCHIATRIST.

I’m willing to bet my reputation that they

are one and the same.

–Sarah Torribio

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See more flash fiction by Sarah Torribio HERE