After the Death of Bunsen

"So mr Lipton, you believe that you are not only a revered Shaman, a friend of witches and Druids but also an Archangel now. It seems that your talents have developed even further than last time you were here."

Lipton muttered a curse under his breath before swiftly retracting. His curses now weren't mere insults. A lazy comment could ruin lives.

"No doctor. I was under a number of illusions when I was sectioned. These hallucinations have now passed and I feel well enough to reintegrate into society."

The psychiatrist peered from behind his half lens glasses, scrutinising his patient, looking for honesty. Patients, particularly smart ones would often learn the right answers and project sincerity whilst still suffering from serious mental illness.

"You were quite insistent when you arrived mr Lipton that you were able to fly,"

His mocking tone irritated the Shaman and it took immense self control for his eyes not to dilate. Lipton had stopped arguing with the staff at the mental hospital weeks ago now.

Smiling in an affectation of humour in his condition on arrival, "Wow! I really was messed up back then. Imagine believing I could fly? The stupidity of it all is embarrassing now sir."

Of course he could fly. All angels, even humble beginners could.

"Indeed. And no more delusions of the financial elite boarding spacecraft."

Lipton summoned up a chuckle he half believed himself, "ridiculous, I know. And wasn't i babbling about sir Rupert Bunsen or something? I must have heard something on the radio about his tragic death. The sea has claimed many lives but few as noble as the great entrepreneur. I, of course, shoulder some blame for my bout of psychosis. Serves me right for experimenting with mind altering drugs. I'll not be doing that again."

Dressed in a white lab coat, as though he were a real scientist, worse still, talking as though his chosen field was as respectable as a surgeons. The incarcerated shaman could see the irony. The study into mental illness in 2023 was in a similar position of other medicine in medieval times. Before the discovery of bacteria the world beyond the reach of the human eye led to superstitions. Modern psychiatry, until an understanding of how meat can think and feel will remain subject to similar superstition. Yet psychiatry and its adherents would continue, oblivious to the comedic irony in claiming the same reverence that other fields of medicine enjoyed. This twisted notion is perhaps most obvious to any shaman than it is to anyone else.

"No doctor. I'm grounded back in reality. All thanks to you and your team too sir for which I shall remain eternally grateful."

Just for a second the psychiatrist wondered if he was being mocked though this second slipped like a drop in to the ocean of seconds that had gone before making up his morning before his self assurance reasserted itself and he returned to his pompous self regard.

"Well I've discussed it with the team and we're mostly in agreement that you are free to leave. I must insist on the importance of continuing with your medication. Any lapse in this could result in a return of your condition. I'll be seeing you on a weekly basis for a while until we're quite sure that you're okay. And remember should any symptoms, however small start to reemerge please call us here at the hospital."

Lipton stood up and smiled. He gave the idiot a firm handshake and looked him confidently in the eye.

"I'll not be back sir. And thanks again for all your support and understanding."

With this Lipton strode away, down six flights of stairs, along a strip light lit white corridor, past an elderly man mumbling about umbrellas, avoided a woman in her twenties crouched urinating choosing not to look at the widening yellow tinged puddle, "goodbye Jenifer," he bid her, took a right turn and found reception. Here the decor shifted to the feel of an infant school, brighter colours and a collage of paper animals made in the art therapy group with upholstered wooden furniture in small clusters where family visitors drank tea and coffee from the coin machine near the entrance. The look of municipality betrayed the fact that the doors were locked until a staff member was there to open them.

He gave his name to the receptionist who produced a file where various papers were pushed his way to sign and a Tesco bag for life containing the few belongings he had arrived with three months earlier. The receptionist smiled and said "goodbye mr Lipton. I'll click the door as you reach it." Seven more paces towards the thick sheets of glass before he heard the locks triggered. A further four and he could feel the wind on his face.

Lipton paused and breathed deeply. His first clean air; free from the scent of badly cooked food, piss and disinfectant since he had been dragged in here screaming by four burly nursing staff back in January. It felt cold to his skin, too long attuned to central heating. Spring was on its way and birdsong twinkled over the noise of traffic.

It felt good to be free.

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