'Yeah, alright, I was the one who suggested it. And it was just a joke, mate. Don't take it so seriously.'
Carlo Santos had said that day, his arms crossed. There's no need for you to do it. And he had also said:
'It's too much for you to handle. Besides... no, it's nothing. Just, don't do it.'
Patrick had tilted his head at those words.
'Besides? What is it? If you've got something to say, say it clearly right here.'
But Carlo Santos had not answered. He had looked down, closed his eyes, and sealed his lips. And so, Patrick had gone ahead with the operation.
The operation had proceeded with terrifying precision. When Patrick, disguised as a young girl, had walked nervously through the streets alone, he was quickly captured by the culprit—Eli Grissom, the man behind the serial kidnapping and murder of young girls. A sack was thrown over his head, his hands were tied with a hemp rope, and he was shoved into a paint-fumed minivan.
The inside of the car rattled and shook. The sack prevented Patrick from seeing the outside scenery or the interior of the vehicle. All he could hear was a new song by a popular Vietnamese idol singer of the time playing on the car radio, and a man's off-key, off-rhythm humming. Unfortunately, he could not hear the sirens of the police cars that should have been tailing the culprit's vehicle.
That could not be helped. The operation Patrick had undertaken was one that a rookie agent had decided on his own, without consulting his superiors. He had never expected backup to arrive, and he had even thought that was for the best. It had been a reckless plan from the start. He had not expected to come back alive. If this was how his life was to end, he had been fine with that. He had thought that taking the culprit down with him would be the best outcome.
Eventually, the shaking of the car stopped. He heard the sound of the car's floor creaking from the front, and he felt the heat of another person approaching him.
The culprit was right in front of him. Patrick felt it, even without seeing. But strangely, at that moment, he felt no urge to do anything.
He felt the man's ragged breathing near his ear, through the sack. Along with the smell of paint, he also smelled the foul odour from the man's mouth. And inside the sack, Patrick closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate. It was a familiar feeling, one he had tasted many times before.
Then, from his side, he heard the rustling sound of a backpack being rummaged through. Next, he heard the man's vile chuckle. And the man said:
'Patricia Velasquez?'
The man read the name written on the fake name tag Patrick had made. He then pulled the sack off Patrick's head.
In that instant, Patrick's resignation turned to rage. The man's face had looked like someone else's.
Who it was, he had forgotten the name, and where he had met them, but the face had transformed into that of another woman he remembered.
And driven by rage, Patrick swung his untied legs and delivered a powerful kick to the man's face. The man fell with a loud thud, groaning. And Patrick, in his anger, tore off the rope that bound his hands, quickly drew the pistol he had concealed under his skirt on his thigh, and pressed it against the neck of the man who had fallen onto the seat. He then took out the handcuffs he had hidden behind his back and fastened them on the man's wrists. He then said to the man, 'You fell for it, you pathetic bastard.'
'...?!'
'There's no girl named Patricia Velasquez. I'm Special Agent Patrick Lerner of the Alusthogrun Bureau of Investigation. You're under arrest.'
At that moment, Patrick felt the urge to riddle the restrained man with bullets, but he desperately held it back.
Because he was an agent. An agent must never commit a crime. And so, Patrick had not done it.
Eventually, the backup that Carlo Santos had requested arrived at the scene. And Noemi arrived, her face red with anger. His superior, Special Agent Thomas Bennett, also came with her, his face pale.
Noemi, furious at Patrick's reckless actions, had slapped him across the cheek, then looked at his clothes and burst out laughing.
'Kids' clothes, and a girl's at that? ...But it actually suits you, surprisingly.'
She had then laughed until she could laugh no more.
Thomas Bennett, on the other hand, had first said nothing, but had silently embraced Patrick. He had then placed a hand on his head and said:
'I'm so glad you're alive...!'
Carlo Santos had also been at the scene with the other agents at that time. But he had not said a word to Patrick. He had stood at a distance, sending him a cold, accusatory look.
His eyes at that time had seemed to see right through Patrick's soul.
Patrick Lerner. He was born in Alusthogrun's third largest city, Brisbane. The youngest of five siblings born to a black mother and a father of mixed black and white heritage, Patrick's skin was as pale as snow.
His mother, Tamara; his father, Gibson; his eldest brother, Michael; his second brother, Martin; his third sister, Miranda; and his fourth brother, Spencer. All of them had brown skin. Yes, all of them, except for Patrick.
But his parents had showered him with the same love they gave his older siblings. His brothers and sister were the same. And Patrick loved his family just as much. In his early childhood, that had been enough. He was a child who had received his family's love and had grown up without any want.
But while his family was one way, others were different. His maternal relatives, in particular, deeply resented the fact that there was a child with a different skin colour in their clan. His maternal grandparents were understanding, but his mother's siblings—his uncles and aunts—were not. They loathed Patrick with an unusual intensity. And their children had inherited their ideology.
One year, on the night of the twenty-fifth of December, when Patrick was three years old, his maternal uncle's family had suddenly come to the Lerner house. His father had shown his displeasure openly, and his mother had been perplexed by this reunion with her brother after several years. But his parents could not bring themselves to tell them to leave, and had reluctantly let them stay the night.
On that day, it was not only his parents who were bewildered by the uncle's family's visit. Patrick's older siblings were also shaken.
For they all hated their uncle's only daughter, the fourteen-year-old Ashley. Ashley was always stuck-up and looked down on everyone. His eldest brother, Michael, who was the same age as her, disliked her intensely. But unfortunately for him, Ashley had a one-sided crush on him.
When they learned that their uncle's family had come, the siblings had fled to their bedroom. Patrick was picked up by his second brother, Martin, and carried to the bedroom. And the five siblings had barricaded themselves in. No one wanted to play with Ashley.
But Ashley did not know that she was disliked by the siblings. She stood before the bedroom door where they had fled and knocked repeatedly, saying, I know you're in there, let's play a game. But no one came out. And to make matters worse, his eldest brother, Michael, had shouted through the door, Who would want to play with a stuck-up, uncute girl?
Those words had hurt the sensitive Ashley. She had burst into tears and run to her father. And she had told him, The children in this house are being mean to me. At those words, her father, his uncle, had become enraged. And he had shouted violent words.
'The reason the children in this house are so twisted is because they're not pure-blooded!'
At those words, Patrick's parents had also become angry. His mother had slapped her brother's cheek and yelled at him to get out immediately. His father had also roared, If you don't leave right now, I'll call the police.
The uncle had said, Oh, I'm leaving. But he had headed not for the front door, but for the bedroom where the five siblings were holed up.
The uncle had kicked down the bedroom door and burst in. He had then targeted the smallest of the five siblings, Patrick, and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. His four older siblings had fought desperately to keep their beloved youngest brother from being taken, but they were no match for the strength of a grown man.
And so, Patrick was taken away by his uncle. His mother had cried and screamed for him to be returned. But the car carrying his uncle's family and Patrick had mercilessly driven away.
His enraged father had also gotten into his car. His eldest brother, Michael, had also gotten in, and the two had chased after the uncle's car.
His mother, who had stayed at home with the other children, had reported the kidnapping to the police. The city police had arrived within ten minutes, and she and the children were questioned. The police had moved quickly, and a search was conducted throughout the city. Thanks to the swift search, Patrick was found three hours later. The location was the outskirts of town. He was found and protected by a police officer who had rushed to the scene after a report from a local resident about his father and uncle fighting.
During the time he was taken, Patrick had been subjected to terrible treatment. Although there was no physical punishment, the three hours he had spent surrounded by unfamiliar relatives and being verbally abused had cast a dark shadow on the three-year-old boy's heart.
From then on, Patrick could not help but feel inferior to his family. He was different from the rest of them.
His parents and siblings had noticed the change in their youngest child. And from then on, the family had showered him with even more love. But the more love he received, the more inferior he felt, and the more overprotective they became, the more lonely he felt.
After starting primary school, Patrick became even more withdrawn. He was now routinely exposed to the 'gaze of others', something that had been blocked by the wall of his parents and siblings until then.
His classmates would point at him and whisper behind his back. They say his parents aren't his real parents. The parents of his classmates were spreading baseless rumours.
Everyone looked at him through coloured glasses. He grew increasingly frustrated by their stares. And as the years passed, and Patrick turned eight, the backbiting turned into clear bullying, and bruises appeared on his pale skin almost daily.
His parents and siblings asked him countless times, What's happening to you at school? But each time, he stubbornly refused to tell the truth. I just fell down the stairs. That was his standard line.
He did not want to trouble his 'unrelated' parents and siblings. Because it was all his fault, he thought.
He was being bullied because his skin colour was different from his family's. As an outsider to both his family and society, it was inevitable that he would be bullied. That is what Patrick had believed at the time. Without realising that it was a distorted perception.
His parents and siblings worried about how to deal with him. And so, two years passed, and his classmates began to learn how to use tools. And finally, a tragic incident occurred.
On his way home from school, with two new bruises, Patrick got off the school bus and was walking alone when a young woman approached him from the front. The woman, with her long, mousy hair tied loosely behind her, called out to him.
Beside her was a minivan with an ice cream illustration painted on the side.
'What's wrong, little boy? You're hurt. Shall I take care of it for you?'
But Patrick, who had closed off his heart, tried to ignore her and walk past. The woman then grabbed his arm.
'Hey, I said I'll take care of it for you, didn't I?'
Patrick forcefully shook her hand off and said, glaring at her, I can do it myself, it's fine. The woman's face tensed. She then clicked her tongue in annoyance and grabbed the sullen Patrick's hair. She opened the minivan door and threw him inside.
The woman quickly closed the door, then put duct tape over his mouth and a sack over his head. She then tied his wrists and ankles with a hemp rope to prevent him from resisting and drove off. During this time, Patrick was unable to call for help. Or rather, he had given up on the thought of it.
The minivan rattled and shook. Loud pop music was playing on the car radio, and the woman was humming along in perfect pitch. Patrick sat quietly, not struggling, and listened to the music with a blank mind. He had resigned himself to the fact that this was the end.
And so, half a day passed, and dusk turned to dawn. The violently shaking minivan stopped, and Patrick was carried by the woman and taken to a certain place. She cut the hemp rope that bound his hands and feet and sat him down in a very uncomfortable chair. This time, she tied his hands and feet to the armrests and legs of the chair. And for the first time since he had been kidnapped, the sack was removed. Patrick observed his surroundings.
It seemed to be a closed garage. But he could not hear any sounds of houses from outside. And he realised. This was a place far from the city, and help would surely not come.
The woman then peeled the duct tape from his mouth and said with a creepy smile, You're an interesting one.
'A normal kid would be crying and screaming. You're the first one who hasn't made a sound. Even the little Hound put up a big fight at first, but you're amazing. I think I can have a lot of fun with you. Don't you think so too, Patrick.'
As she spoke, the woman showed him a photograph. It was a family photo. She traced the faces of the family members from left to right with her finger and smiled. She then tore the photo to shreds in front of his eyes.
'Now, listen carefully. I'm going to hurt you now. But you're not allowed to cry or scream. If you do, I'll do terrible things to your family, you know?'
Patrick looked at the woman with lifeless eyes. But he said nothing. The woman then said, 'Good boy,' and held something that glinted dully in her right hand.
'Good boy get a reward. Take it, Patrick.'
The woman raised the hammer in her right hand and brought it down on Patrick's left thigh as he sat in the chair. The heavy blow of the metal sent a searing pain through his entire body, and his small frame shuddered. But Patrick, clenching his teeth, endured the pain. The woman smiled again.
'You're the best! Haha, when I found your picture on the message board, I wondered how you would cry and scream, but you completely exceeded my expectations. You know, I think I've been looking for you all this time. A strong boy like you. Ahaha! It feels just like when I play with the little Hound! I wonder if you can be as strong as him?'
The second blow came. Tears welled up in Patrick's eyes. Then came the third, fourth, and fifth blows in quick succession. But even after fourteen, fifteen blows, Patrick never once screamed. And on the sixteenth blow, he finally stopped feeling the pain.
The woman, repeatedly swinging the hammer, gave him a ghastly smile. Patrick stared at her with a blank expression. Night fell, dawn came, and the sun set again, but help did not come. And then night came again, and finally, someone came. He heard the sound of police sirens, gunshots, and then someone other than the woman came into the garage.
The Alusthogrun Bureau of Investigation. Hearing a man's shout, Patrick looked in the direction of the voice. He saw a man in a bulletproof vest approaching him.
The man came and stood before him, then cut the ropes that bound his hands and feet with a knife he was carrying. He then looked at his bruised and swollen legs. And he silently hugged Patrick, stroked his head, and whispered in his ear.
'...I'm so glad you're alive.'
The man's voice was somewhat tearful. And he introduced himself.
'I'm Thomas Bennett. Tom. You're Patrick, right?'
Patrick tilted his head at the man's question.
'...Patrick...?'
His own name, Patrick. For some reason, at that moment, the name did not feel right to him.
At the age of fifteen, Patrick had forgotten everything that had happened to him. For five years, every Friday, his parents had taken him to a local psychiatric clinic, but now, after five years, he no longer knew what he was being treated for.
His primary doctor was a psychiatrist with a suspicious-looking beard, Custodio Santos. The doctor was at his wits' end with this impossible young man. His voice had not even broken, and he looked like a ten-year-old primary school student, but his insides were strangely mature, and he was extremely difficult to handle.
And in the doctor's blind spot, his son was sneaking around, peeking into the consultation room. The son—his eldest, Carlo Santos, who was the same age as Patrick—was wary of his father saying something careless again and was carefully observing the patient.
And today, another tumultuous counselling session began.
'Hello, Ricky. It's been two weeks since the new school year started. How's school? Are you getting along with your friends?'
The session began with small talk unrelated to the main issue. Dr Custodio Santos, with a cheerful smile, spoke to the expressionless young man. Patrick's expression did not change a bit, and he simply said:
'Yeah, it's alright.'
It was the same reaction as always. Patrick, with his vacant eyes, showed no interest in the person before him or the conversation. His mind was empty, and he seemed to have no interest even in himself. The atmosphere he exuded was one of detachment, but also one of emptiness.
Still, Dr Custodio Santos continued to ask questions in an attempt to expand the conversation. 'For example, how so?'
'Normally.'
'Could you tell me something more specific?'
Specific. As he said this, Patrick's malicious nature revealed itself. He began to tell his doctor 'specific things'.
'Yesterday, before P.E. class. I caught a bloke named Abraham sneaking into the girls' changing room and stealing someone's skirt. I filmed it, and then...'
'...Ah, yes, I see. I understand perfectly.'
So far, it was always the same.
When he asked about school, stories that he could never tell his parents would come out of Patrick's mouth. Basically, it was about catching someone in the act and getting leverage on them.
But Dr Custodio Santos could not dismiss it outright. The skill of gathering information and threatening others in advance was a technique this young man had acquired to get by in the world.
It was not an admirable act, but without it, he would go back to being covered in bruises every day. For Patrick, who now reigned as the king of a major faction at his high school, 'information' was the power he needed to survive in a world full of enemies.
And so, this young man named Patrick was a constant source of worry. And the counselling session was about to get rough.
'Well then, let's change the subject. You've said before that you have trouble breathing whenever you see a woman with mousy hair. Why do you think that is? What's your take on it?'
'...'
Patrick's previously expressionless face clouded over. Ah, here we go again. Dr Custodio Santos felt a sharp pain in his stomach.
'...I don't know. I'm not interested.'
Patrick replied and looked down at his feet, then fell silent for a while.
'...'
The most troubling thing for Dr Custodio Santos was that this patient would not talk.
He had been treating Patrick for five years, but he knew very little about him. All he had was what his parents had told him and the fragmented information Patrick himself had given him at the beginning of his treatment.
And the memories Patrick had shared in the past were all very vague. As a result, Dr Custodio Santos had not been able to grasp the full extent of what was troubling this young man and why he had become this way.
That he had been kidnapped by a critical uncle in his childhood and subjected to verbal abuse in a confined space. He had heard this from his parents, not from the patient himself. But he had a feeling. That he had been involved in some other 'incident'.
But Patrick had sealed away many of his memories. It had become difficult for him to remember that something. And Patrick's family, while they seemed to be hiding something from him, would not provide him with any information that would lead to a breakthrough.
However, it was not as if he had no idea what that 'incident' might have been.
'...'
The incident that had occurred a few months before Patrick had started coming to his clinic, in which a child had been kidnapped and had both legs taken. He suspected that Patrick was the victim. The fact that both of Patrick's legs were gone from the mid-thigh down and he lived with prosthetics, and the fact that he hated talking about them, led him to believe so... But he was not certain.
This act of digging into the past to uncover the truth. It felt like he was just needlessly hurting the young man. He felt that way, but since he had not been able to grasp the key information to solve the problem, it could not be helped.
'Ricky. What are you thinking right now?'
Dr Custodio Santos asked cautiously. Patrick then snapped, 'Nothing, really.'
'...I-I see.'
Hmm, Dr Custodio Santos crossed his arms. Then, unusually, Patrick spoke to him. 'Doctor.'
'Yes?'
'Is there any point to this?'
At the words that had finally escaped Patrick's lips, Dr Custodio Santos's expression soured. The words that Patrick had held back for five years had finally come out.
Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Patrick jumped to his feet. His face hardening, he confronted the doctor.
'And what's wrong with me, anyway? Why do I have to go through this pointless counselling every single week? Hey, why is that, Doctor! I'd rather spend this time studying. Tell me, hey, Doctor!!'
Dr Custodio Santos tried to calm the furious Patrick, but the more he said to him, the more he fuelled the fire.
And Dr Custodio Santos finally played the trump card he had been itching to use.
'...Alright, Ricky. Let's stop the treatment. So, could you call your parents in?'
With a sullen look on his face, Patrick looked at the doctor. He then turned his back on him and went to call his parents, who were waiting in the waiting room.
Dr Custodio Santos then proposed to Patrick's parents, who had entered the consultation room, that they stop the treatment. His parents looked at him suspiciously, but he insisted. This is for your son's sake.
'Your son is trying to move forward by sealing away his painful memories. The more we try to dig them up, the more he gets hurt. I think, in this case, there's no need to force treatment, is there?'
'Doctor, isn't that a bit irresponsible?'
'Let's wait and see for a while. If his dissociative symptoms subside and the fugues stop, we'll end the treatment. If they get worse, please come back.'
I'm well aware that it's irresponsible. Dr Custodio Santos thought, clenching his sweaty palms as he spouted his platitudes. From the shadows, Carlo Santos watched his father's pathetic back.
'Ricky. Lastly, just remember this. There's nothing shameful about not being able to remember. It just means that your mind has judged those memories to be unnecessary and has discarded them. A person who looks back at what has been discarded is a very foolish person... You'll surely become a wise person.'
Hearing those words, Patrick's expression soured. He was then led away by his parents and left the clinic.
Carlo Santos had watched it all. He had been watching Patrick for a very long time.
"Aaaargh!!"
Patrick, tormented by a nightmare, shot up with a loud cry. And immediately after, he shouted again. "This isn't my house?!"
"Calm down. This is my place."
Patrick turned towards the voice. To his right, a shirtless Carlo Santos was lying under a blanket.
Patrick took a deep breath and looked around. He then tried to piece together the situation.
He was currently at Carlo Santos's home, for some reason. And he seemed to have been sleeping in the owner's bed.
Next, Patrick looked for Eileen. He thought she might be here too.
"...What're you lookin' all around for? What's up, Ricky?"
Carlo Santos let out a big yawn and slowly sat up, his voice drawling. He rubbed his sleepy eyes and guessed what Patrick was thinking. "You lookin' for Eileen?"
"...Eh? Well, yeah."
"She's at your place... Bloody hell, Ricky. Don't tell me you don't remember anything from last night?"
Carlo Santos's droopy eyes were even droopier with sleepiness as he looked at Patrick with a sluggish, unfocused gaze. And Patrick, looking back at him, answered honestly. "I don't remember a thing. What... what happened?"
"Ha! There it is, Patrick Lerner's greatest hit. The fugue and amnesia combo. I thought you were done with that at fifteen, but it's back. Haaa, honestly. Can you really be an ASI agent in this state?"
Carlo Santos said in a mocking tone and got out of bed. Wearing nothing but a pair of briefs and slippers, a strange sight, he left the bedroom and headed for the living room. As he walked, he said to Patrick in a loud voice:
"I'm makin' coffee, so come to the living room. I'll explain the disgraceful display you put on last night while I make some brekkie. Oh, and by the way, the coffee's instant and it's been oxidising for a while. Don't take it personally."
"...Disgraceful display?"
"Just get over here, mate. Oh, right. Eileen said she'd call the agency and get you the day off. So there you have it, Ricky. Today, we're gonna sit down and have a proper long talk."
I have a bad feeling about this. Patrick, feeling a pain in the pit of his stomach, slowly made his way to the living room.
The flat Carlo Santos lived in seemed too luxurious for a single person. The new flat the ASI had provided for Patrick was also quite nice, but it could not compare to this.
Each room was spacious, and there were many of them. There were two guest rooms alone. And the built-in furniture exuded an air of high quality. And the kitchen, which was connected to the living room, was huge and well-equipped. The refrigerator was as big as a commercial one, and the oven under the counter looked to be of very high quality.
As he entered the living room, Patrick looked at the luxurious kitchen and his friend standing there, and thought, He's living the good life. His friend probably lived a life where he never had to hear his neighbours' voices.
"Sit down and wait there."
Carlo Santos, noticing Patrick's dazed state, called out to him. He then pointed to the dining table in the centre of the living room.
Patrick sat down at the designated spot and watched the doctor wandering around the kitchen in his briefs. Carlo Santos then began.
"Let's start with what happened last night."
Carlo Santos took two mugs from the cupboard and placed them on the kitchen counter. He then took a jar of instant coffee powder from under the counter and placed it on the counter, then went back to the cupboard and took out a teaspoon. He opened the jar of instant coffee, scooped out some powder with the teaspoon, and put it in the mugs. He then reached for a small jar of sugar cubes that was on the corner of the counter and opened it. He then turned on the electric kettle and continued to chat.
"Last night, around half past eleven, I think. I got a call on my mobile from your number. I thought it was you, so I answered, but it wasn't. It was a woman."
"...Eileen?"
"Yeah, that's right. Eileen. And she sounded pretty panicked. She said you'd disappeared from the house. She said you went for a shower right after you got home, but you left the water running and disappeared."
"...?!"
"So she called me. It was a bit weird how she knew me... but she asked if you'd come to my place. And when I heard her story, I immediately suspected a fugue state and went out to look for you. In the middle of the night. Fortunately, I had a good idea where you'd go, so I found you pretty quickly."
A fugue state. It is a condition in which a person suddenly disappears to escape from reality. And in the case of a dissociative fugue, the person who disappears may forget their own identity.
Another troublesome aspect of dissociative fugue is that it is not obvious to an outsider that something is wrong. In many cases, even if the person's memory is gone, they can still perform everyday actions normally. They can drive a car, ride a bus, buy a ticket, and do so naturally. Therefore, few of them behave suspiciously, and people passing by them would not notice that there is someone with memory loss nearby.
And what Patrick was experiencing was exactly a dissociative fugue.
"Eileen was going to look for you too, but I figured she wouldn't be able to. And I couldn't let a lady go out alone in the middle of the night. So I promised her I'd find you and bring you back. And I kept that promise. That's why you were sleeping in my bed this morning."
"...So. Where was I, and what was I doing?"
"You were just jogging through the streets of Canberra. On the usual jogging course for public servants who live around here. You were running with earphones in, listening to a pop song that was popular fifteen years ago. And when I spoke to you, you treated me like a complete stranger. When I asked your name, you just went quiet and tilted your head. I figured it was a lost cause, so I had to force you to come back here."
"...I don't remember any of it. Me, jogging?"
"I'd say not... How many times have I had to bring you in now? Honestly, I don't understand how you managed to become an agent and then transfer to the ASI."
As he spoke, Carlo Santos placed the instant coffee he had made in front of Patrick. Patrick tilted his head again. How many times, Carlo Santos had said, but had he really been in his care that often?
Carlo Santos then looked at the perplexed Patrick with a grim expression. He took a sip of his coffee and said, "Not that you'd remember, anyway... You used to have fugues all the time when you were a teenager, didn't you? And always after a counselling session."
"My parents mentioned something like that... But how do you know?"
For Patrick, Carlo Santos was a friend he had met in university. They should have met for the first time there. At that time, Patrick was not going to a psychiatric clinic, and his mind was stable. And yet, Carlo Santos's words suggested he knew about the time he had been going to the clinic, and Patrick felt a sense of unease.
Seeing the puzzled Patrick, Carlo Santos burst out laughing. He then pointed at Patrick and said:
"Patrick Lerner. Just so you know, I was always the one who found you and brought you in whenever you had a fugue. You've probably forgotten, though."
"You were?"
"Yeah, you idiot. I'm the son of your former psychiatrist. Custodio Santos. You must at least remember the name of the quack doctor you were with for five years, right?"
Carlo Santos said this and sat down in the chair opposite Patrick. Still in his briefs, he stared at him. Patrick, on the other hand, could not meet his gaze and looked down slightly.
A man in his underwear was about to have a serious conversation in front of him. The situation seemed utterly ridiculous to Patrick. But Carlo Santos was serious.
"So, Ricky. Do you remember my father saying this? There's nothing shameful about not being able to remember. It just means that your mind has judged those memories to be unnecessary and has discarded them."
"Yes, I remember."
Those were the last words the doctor—Carlo Santos's father, Dr Custodio Santos—had said to him when his treatment had ended.
For Patrick, that doctor had not left a very good impression. Because he still did not know if the five years of treatment had been effective.
But it was because of those last words that he had been able to live until now. Forgetting, not being able to remember, was not a bad thing. Even if there were memories he could not recall, he had been able to make that excuse for himself.
But the doctor in his briefs bluntly refuted his own father's past words. "Those words are proof that my father is a quack."
"Eh...?"
"I believe that humans can move forward in the right direction by reflecting on their past. So, sealing away your memories and looking away from them is a shameful act. Sealing away your memories won't change what actually happened, and they'll follow you for the rest of your life. Like a shadow. If you keep running from your memories like you are now, you'll be held back by your past and you might end up going off the rails. That's why you have to face your past. Even if that past is something that exceeds the limits of what your mind can handle, you have to face it squarely and come to terms with it."
"...Um, well..."
"In short, I'm resuming the treatment that my father irresponsibly interrupted. If you're going to stay at the ASI, this is necessary."
At Carlo Santos's resolute words, Patrick shrugged. He did not want to do it. Seeing this, Carlo Santos continued.
"That being said, you're not keen on treatment. Even if we do it as counselling, you'll just remain silent. So, this time we're going to take a slightly rougher approach. I'm going to dig up your memories without mercy, but don't take it personally. This is all for your own good."
With that, Carlo Santos stood up from the chair he had just sat down in. He then moved to the chair to Patrick's right.
"First, listen to my analysis, as someone who's been observing you for many years. You don't have to say anything. Just answer yes or no when I ask you a question. Got it?"
Patrick, slightly startled, nodded. And so Carlo Santos's rough treatment began.
"First, about your family environment. Your relationship with your parents and siblings is good. You probably don't have many complaints about your family. But you felt inferior. Am I wrong?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"Was that triggered by the kidnapping by your uncle?"
"..."
"Ricky?"
"...Sorry. I don't remember that."
"Hmm, I see."
He had been kidnapped by his uncle when he was a child. Patrick had heard that story from his parents. He had been taken away in a car and driven around for several hours. But since it had happened when he was barely old enough to remember, it was not in his memory.
...Or rather, he may have sealed it away.
"Well then, let's move on. You believed that you were an outsider in your own family because of your different skin colour. And you felt inferior for being loved and protected by your family. Furthermore, you believed that it was natural for you, as an outsider, to be oppressed by others, and that it was your own fault. Is that right?"
"Well, it is, isn't it?"
When Patrick replied, Carlo Santos furrowed his brow. But Patrick could not understand why he had done so. Carlo Santos then said, "Hey, Ricky. Do you seriously think that?"
"I've always felt it, somehow. That this world won't accept someone like me. I can't join the community my family belongs to, and it's uncomfortable there. And I can't relax when I'm in a group. It's much easier to be alone..."
There were always people around Patrick. They were enemies, family, acquaintances, colleagues, enemies. But no matter how many people surrounded him, there was always loneliness by his side. An unshakable distrust of people, a vigilance that could never be relaxed, was always in his heart.
The world had always been his enemy. But the doctor in his briefs said:
"Listen, and listen carefully. The answer is no."
"..."
"This world just is; it neither accepts nor rejects anything. And as long as you're alive, there's a place for you anywhere. You've just lost sight of it. And community is an illusion, it doesn't exist. People are just looking for it because it doesn't exist. And I'm always on your side."
"..."
"You're sick. It's called complex post-traumatic stress disorder."
Post-traumatic stress disorder. The moment he heard those words, something snapped inside Patrick. But sensing the change, Carlo Santos did not stop.
"The kidnapping by your uncle triggered a gradual distortion in your perception, and that distortion brought stress to your interpersonal relationships. And in primary school, you were bullied because your skin colour was different from your parents'. That made you distrust people. You developed a habit of trying to blend in, of being overly aware of others' expressions, to avoid attracting attention. You acquired the ability to adapt to any environment."
"..."
"And when you were ten, you were captured by a monster. You were kidnapped and held captive in the mountains for two whole days. You were tied to a chair, given no food, and not allowed to speak a single word. You were only given pain, endlessly. Your legs were repeatedly hit with a hammer. But you endured the pain. No, you abandoned your senses at that time. You tried to survive that way. It was a defence mechanism. But at that time, you also broke."
"...I don't know about any such incident. I've never heard that story..."
"When the ABoI special agent shot the culprit and rescued you, your legs were so swollen you couldn't stand on your own. It must have been beyond painful, normally. But when you were rescued, you didn't say it hurt or anything. You didn't even cry... You should know the name of the agent who found and rescued you."
"..."
"Thomas Bennett. Noemi's boss, and your former boss."
Patrick's head began to hurt, as if his brain was refusing to remember. The pit of his stomach ached, as if it were being pierced with a needle from the inside. His chest, his heart, felt tight and painful. It was hard to breathe.
But these were not words describing a change in his feelings. It was a physical ailment. It was not a proper noun given to an emotion.
"In your counselling sessions with my father, you said you were afraid of women with mousy hair. That's because the person who hurt you was a woman with mousy hair, wasn't it? But your ex-fiancée, Sigrid, was a woman with mousy hair."
"..."
"And during your time at the ABoI, you were always jumping into danger. Like a moth to a flame."
"..."
"What you were doing could be called a suicide attempt. A quack doctor would probably say so. But you're different. You weren't doing those reckless things because you wanted to die."
"..."
"You wanted to re-experience it, didn't you? Pain induces dissociation. The moment you stop being yourself, you can forget reality. And for you, being oppressed is normal. Do you get it, Ricky? You're not normal. Because of your illness, you've become a thrill-seeking masochist."
Carlo Santos grabbed Patrick's shoulders and shook him back and forth violently. Patrick's eyes were vacant, his consciousness somewhere else.
Carlo Santos pinched his cheeks, slapped them lightly, but there was no reaction. He then placed his hands on his shoulders and muttered, "Oh dear, this is going to take a while..."
And so, how much time had passed?
"How's that, Ricky? You must feel a lot better now that you've purged twenty years of filth."
"...I'm sorry. Um, really, I'm..."
"This is my job. So don't apologise. Here, a tissue."
"...Thank you... sob..."
"And your crying face really does look like a kid's. You look just like a kid."
"...Shut up. Shut up, you quack. And put some bloody clothes on."
"Oh, that's the spirit. The Patrick Lerner I know is back."
Patrick wiped his tears with the tissue Carlo Santos had given him and blew his nose. His eyes red and swollen from crying, he glared at Carlo Santos with bloodshot eyes.
The sun had set outside, and it was now night. His empty stomach ached, and the half-finished coffee in his mug was long cold. Carlo Santos, still in his briefs, was laughing his head off at the sight of him blowing his nose.
"Well, that's the end of my torture for now. You did well, Ricky."
Carlo Santos said, wiping away tears of laughter with his finger. Patrick threw the used tissue in the bin, took a new one, and said, "...I never want to do this again."
"Me neither. I hope you're the first and last patient I have who keeps dissociating and running away."
Carlo Santos said with a laugh, then shivered in his shirtless state. And so the treatment that had been abandoned ten years ago was concluded by the son of the former doctor.
The first six hours. For Carlo Santos, it had been nothing short of an ordeal.
First, for the first hour of the first half, he had tried to tell Patrick about the past he had forgotten, to make him remember rather than just recall. But every time he came across a painful memory, Patrick would cover his ears and shut down his thoughts. He had run away again and again.
Carlo Santos then thought that he had to do something about this habit of running away. So he had tried a technique often used with dissociative patients, 'grounding'.
I am here now, and my feet are on the ground or the floor. Whether one is aware of this or not makes a dramatic difference in one's mental stability. The act of grounding oneself is actually very important, even without any spiritual meaning.
But many dissociative patients have a weak sense of this. In depersonalisation, a common symptom of dissociation, the five senses—sight, taste, smell, touch, and hearing—can be temporarily lost. Patrick was one of them.
So, he had hastily tried 'grounding' and had focused on restoring Patrick's weakened five senses. He had made him stop his habit of crossing his legs and made him consciously place both feet firmly on the floor. He had corrected his posture, which would immediately slouch if he was not careful, and had also given him moderate stimulation by lightly slapping or pinching his cheeks.
And after five and a half hours of persistence, when Carlo Santos had placed a plastic bag full of ice on Patrick's lap, his expression had changed, and the memories that had been sealed deep inside him had suddenly overflowed and would not stop.
For the last four hours, Carlo Santos had listened. Patrick, with tears streaming down his face, had begun to talk about the past events he had remembered.
His childhood, spent bullied, twisted, and with a frozen heart. The sense of inferiority he still felt towards his parents and siblings. All the heartless words that had been thrown at him, and the countless cold stares he had endured. The incident that had happened when he was ten. And the unfortunate encounter with the woman named Sigrid Colwitz, and the guilt he felt towards her...
And the memories that had surfaced had also brought back the pain that had been spared by dissociation at the time. With the memory of being beaten and kicked, the places where he had been injured had begun to ache again. The feeling of blood overflowing from old wounds, from being cut with a knife or cutting himself, had been reawakened. The intense pain of having his legs broken with a hammer had also been remembered.
In the past, he had felt pain. He had felt that living was painful. He had felt that all other people were scary. So he had wanted to run away from everything. So he had turned his back on the past and had continued to run away until now.
But running away would not make the past disappear. The time would come when he had to accept all of himself, including his past.
For Patrick, today was that day.
"...Still, it's a strange thing. My legs are prosthetic now, unlike back then. But for some reason, I can feel the pain now."
Patrick said in a trembling voice, looking at his still shaking legs. Both of his legs below the knee were a glossy black. Metal prosthetics served as a substitute for the legs that had been taken from him.
There were no blood vessels or nerves in the prosthetics. They should not be able to feel pain. But Patrick was now feeling a pain like a blunt object being repeatedly slammed into them. It was a pseudo-experience of the pain from that time, when he had been repeatedly hit with a hammer.
"The brain remembers the memory of feeling pain. And now, the brain is replaying it. The human brain is a really strange thing, isn't it?"
This is why I can't quit being a clinician. Carlo Santos said with a laugh. Then, his stomach rumbled. And the two of them realised it for the first time.
"Come to think of it, we haven't eaten anything since this morning."
"And you've been in nothing but your underwear since this morning."
"No wonder I'm freezing."
"Then put some clothes on. You're a doctor, you'll catch a cold."
"Even if I'm a doctor, I'm not in internal medicine or surgery. I'm a completely different thing, a psychiatrist."
"Stop your bloody whingeing. Just get dressed already. Boxers would be one thing, but briefs are just unsightly."
"Alright, alright. I'll go put a shirt on..."
And so Carlo Santos left the living room for a moment to find some clothes. And at almost the same time, Patrick's mobile phone chimed with a new email notification.
He opened the email and read its contents. The sender's name was 'Lucan'—it was probably from Eileen.
"...Tomorrow's a day off too...?"
The body of the email contained a short message of a few lines.
Take tomorrow off as well. This is the Sir's decision.
Don't come to work just because it's a weekday.
More details tomorrow. Be back home by 2 PM tomorrow.
"..."
Sir Arthur's decision. That probably meant it was not out of kindness, like take another day off just in case. Something was definitely up.
Patrick sent the email to the trash and deleted it immediately. He then crossed his arms, frowned, and muttered.
"...I've got a really bad feeling about this."
Just then, Carlo Santos returned, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He then went to the fridge and took out some minced meat, tomato sauce, garlic, and Worcestershire sauce. He took some carrots and onions from the vegetable drawer, along with some unidentifiable mushrooms, and then asked Patrick:
"You're staying for tea, right?"
And Patrick replied instantly. "No, I'll pass."
"It's the Santos family's secret recipe spaghetti bolognese, you know."
"I'm going home. Goodbye."
Patrick's intuition told him it was definitely better to leave. Those mushrooms seemed suspicious. That is what he felt.
Carlo Santos did not press him, but instead said, "Wait a minute." He quickly put away the things he had just taken out of the fridge and started looking for his car keys. "Then I'll give you a lift. So just wait a minute while I get ready."
"It's fine. Really, I'm fine now. I can go home on my own, so you don't have to."
"No, you can't. When you say you're fine, you're usually not. So, no."
"But—"
"I'm driving you home. I can't have you dissociating again on the way. Consider this a doctor's order. Stop arguing and just do as I say."
When the words doctor's order were used, a patient had no choice but to be quiet. Patrick reluctantly agreed. Then Carlo Santos, getting carried away, said:
"That's the spirit. Haaa, you're a really troublesome little brother, you know."
Patrick glared at him, as if to object to his words. But Carlo Santos ignored his glare. In fact, he even whistled and put on a clueless face. He then said, "More trouble than my actual brother, who's always asking me for money."
"..."
"If that's the case, your actual siblings must have had their hands full with you. Hahaha."
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