Seal-Breaker Beth Cope
“Bedlam. And in that place be found many men that be fallen out of their wit. And full honestly they be kept in that place; and some be restored onto their wit and health again. And some be abiding therein for ever, for they be fallen so much out of themselves that it is incurable unto man.” – William Gregory, Lord Mayor of London, 1450. She nibbles her nails. She never bites them off, just crunches the ends so they grow rather crooked and thin. She often peels the skin from the edges of her thumbnails, drawing blood and sucking it all away. I watch, looking down my nose at her and making subtle notes. It’s difficult to say what’s wrong with her. I search, seeing my hands sifting through the inner workings of her mind, pushing squiggly, pink flesh away from electric connections. In brain scans, the amygdalae light up in people like her. The amygdalae are pulsating, throbbing things in people like her. But it’s wrong to put them all in the same box; there are so many differences, so many anomalies. “I don’t want to talk.” Her accent is Northern and dark. She hasn’t spoken for our first few sessions. I had asked, first and foremost, if she was OK, and she had sniggered. After that I thought it was best to wait until she wanted to speak-after all, she isn’t refusing to come to the sessions. “Well you won’t progress if not. Do you want to get better?” I smile. Her teeth click against her fingernails. “What does getting better matter?” Her eyes are deep, like tunnels. “Isn’t it too late?” She smiles. There’s something sinister about the revealing of her teeth. I take my glasses off and set them down on the table between us. I cross my legs. “I don’t believe so, otherwise I wouldn’t have a job.”
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