He was clearly visible to us from there. A bright light from the ceiling streamed onto his pale face, reminiscent of a cast mask. Francis pressed a key and then withdrew his hand as his shoulders rose heavily underneath his black T-shirt. He furrowed his brows, shook his head, hit the key again and pressed the pedal hard. It seemed to him that the instrument was not producing the right sounds. Francis was anxious, stared at the keyboard puzzled, clenched the fists of his raised hands, and bit his lips. His face was twisted as if in pain. He slowly unclenched his fists, and, trembling once again, touched the keys with his fingers.
Ta ta…La la…
He was bending down and strangely turned his head one way and then the other. He opened his mouth wide, sighing deeply; his face showed some inhuman suffering.
“W-o-w,” James stretched out the word.
La la… Ta ta…
“To tell the truth, it’s hard for me to work with Francis. Sometimes he is kind of normal, and sometimes he is closed in. He loses contact with the outside world and his own fantasies become the only reality for him,” I said.
We sat in Jenn’s office. She was wearing her white Doctor’s coat, not having had the time to take it off. She had just returned from the “cuckoo house,” into which one of her patients had gotten admitted.
“First of all, Adam, I am repeating one more time, you have to get through your thick skull the most important thing: if a person finds himself in a psychiatric clinic, it means there is definitely something wrong with him, no matter how normal he seems otherwise. Secondly, what you call ‘strangeness,’ the The Diagnostic Manual of Mental Disorders calls ‘Schizoid Personality Disorder.’ Can you remember that? Schi-zo-id,” she repeated by syllables. “This disorder is not as destructive or pronounced as—let’s say—schizophrenia, and only a good doctor can place a diagnosis. However, overall you described everything correctly.