Subject 44, the protean psyche

Madness, the enigmatic chameleon of the psyche...a character ripe for intrigue! The curious case of the ever-shifting patient, as narrated by Doctor Arthur Mangus.

A Protean Soul.

In the dimly lit corridors of St. Dumah Asylum (named for the archangel of madness), there exists a patient who defies all psychiatric norms. His name--well, that’s a matter for debate. The staff simply refer to him as “Subject 44", always guessing at the identities he embodies.

.......

He meets a mirror, to his mind a mocking gateway to introspection and perhaps a labyrinth of reflections for our enigmatic Subject 44. Let us step into that moment when he faces his own doubtful self.

Remember...all of the characters which you will encounter, embodies our subject.

Reflections of the Protean Soul

Subject 44 stumbles upon a full-length mirror in the asylum’s dimly lit hallway. Its ornate frame, chipped and faded, seems to whisper secrets. And as he gazes into its silvery depths, he ponders his Reflection.

Subject 44 stands tall, robes draped like a philosopher of old. His eyes, ancient forgotten pools, meet their twin in the glass. For a moment, he believes he’s found a kindred spirit---a sage from another dimension, perhaps. They exchange nods, as if sharing cosmic insights.

The mirror-Socrates raises an eyebrow. “You quote Heraclitus, yet you’re lost in your own labyrinth. Are you questioning his assertion, that the world exists as a coherent system in which change in one direction is ultimately balanced by a corresponding change in another"?

Subject 44 frowns. “I am the questioner and the questioned".

The mirror-Socrates smirks. “And therein lies your paradox".

The Mischievous Imp vs. His Reflection.

Tuesday’s Puck, the mischievous Shakespearean sprite, grins, mischief dancing in his eyes. He winks at the mirror, expecting a conspiratorial chuckle.

But the mirror-Puck frowns. “You’re a caricature, a jest".

“I am the jest,” Subject 44 retorts, “and the punchline".

Mirror-Puck leans closer. “Beware, for jesters often reveal truth".

The Brooding Artist vs. His Reflection

Charcoal-stained fingers trace the mirror’s surface. The tortured landscapes stare back...twisted trees, stormy seas.

Mirror-Frida Kahlo raises her unibrow. “Art is your asylum".

“And madness", Subject 44 whispers.

“Perhaps", she says, “but art births catharsis".

The Paranoid Detective vs. His Reflection

Subject 44 inspects the mirror’s edges for hidden cameras. “They watch"!

Mirror-Sherlock scoffs. “You’re the conspiracy".

“I am the cipher", he counters.

“Decrypt yourself”, says mirror-Sherlock.

The Romantic Idealist vs. His Reflection

Cravat adjusted, Subject 44 serenades the mirror. “Love transcends dimensions".

Mirror-Keats raises an eyebrow. “Or delusions".

“I am both poet and fool", he admits.

“Write your own sonnet", mirror-Keats suggests.

The Zen Gardener vs. His Reflection

Bonsai scissors in hand, Subject 44 trims imaginary branches.

Mirror-Mr. Miyagi nods approvingly. “Balance, young grasshopper".

“I am the pruner", he murmurs.

“Prune your soul", mirror-Miyagi advises.

The Blank Slate vs. His Reflection

Sunday’s void stares back---a mirror within a mirror, infinity folding.

“Who am I?” Subject 44 whispers.

Mirror-Nothingness replies, “You are the question".

“And the answer”?

“That, my friend, is your journey".

And so, Subject 44 leaves the mirror, each reflection etched into his psyche. Is he fractured or whole? Perhaps both. But one thing is certain: mirrors reveal what we dare not see...a papier mache of selves, waiting to merge or shatter.

Seek your own reflection.

.............

On Monday morning, Subject 44 emerges from his room with a serene countenance. His eyes, deep pools of ancient wisdom, seem to hold secrets from epochs past. He quotes obscure philosophers, recites poetry in dead languages, and gazes at the sky as if deciphering cosmic riddles. The nurses whisper, “He’s channeling Socrates today".

Tuesday, that Mischievous Imp dawns, and Subject 44 is unrecognizable. His laughter echoes through the common room. He wears mismatched socks and dances a jig, twirling an invisible partner. His vocabulary shifts to slang, and he regales fellow patients with absurd anecdotes. “Call me Puck,” he declares, winking. The staff sigh, “Midsummer Night’s Dream, clearly".

On the third day, the Brooding Artist Wednesday arrives, and Subject 44 dons a beret. He sketches feverishly, charcoal smudging his fingertips. His room becomes a gallery of tortured landscapes...stormy seas, twisted trees, and faces half-hidden in shadow. When asked about his muse, he murmurs, “Van Gogh, my dear. Or perhaps Frida Kahlo". The art therapist nods knowingly.

The Paranoid Detective, on Thursday awakens and Subject 44 barricades himself in his room. He rearranges furniture, convinced of hidden microphones. His eyes dart, scanning for coded messages in wallpaper patterns. “The Illuminati", he whispers, scribbling cryptic notes. The psychiatrist sighs, “Sherlock Holmes meets Mulder from ‘The X-Files".

When the Romantic Idealist Friday arrives, Subject 44 wears a cravat. He serenades the moon from the courtyard, reciting sonnets to an imaginary lover. His heartache is palpable; he believes he’s lost a soulmate across parallel dimensions. “Keats would understand", he murmurs. The night nurse rolls her eyes, “Or maybe just a dash of ‘Twilight".

On day 6: The Zen Gardener Saturday blooms, and Subject 44 cultivates bonsai trees. He trims leaves with precision, whispering affirmations to each miniature forest. “Balance”, he intones. His room smells of damp earth and tranquility. The occupational therapist muses, “Zen master meets Mr. Miyagi".

Sunday arrives as a Blank Slate, and Subject 44 retreats. His eyes lose focus; he becomes a cipher. No name, no history. The staff watches, helpless. Is this the truest version of him? Or merely a void where personalities collide?

And so, the days cycle—a repetitive matrix of selves. Psychiatrists theorize: dissociative identity disorder, perhaps, or a cosmic glitch in the matrix. But Subject 44 remains inscrutable, a living Möbius strip of personas, a one sided, half-twisted end of a rectangular strip, with one end affixed.

As for me, I wonder: What if he’s not fractured but whole? What if he’s the embodiment of humanity’s collective madness—the sum of all our masks? Maybe, just maybe, Subject 44 is the sanest of us all.

"Doctor Mangus, doctor Mangus...open your eyes...on the count of three. One. Two. Three". Snap!

Mangus opens his eyes, violently trying to jerk upright in his bed.

"Where is my patient"? he asks, perceiving the restraints on his hands and feet.

"What patient"? Someone asks.

"Patient 44".

"Doc, you are patient 44".

The doctor looks around the room, sterile...with machines clicking everywhere. Bound to the bed...he remembers...vaguely...when the madness had slowly started to creep in.

.................................................

Disclaimer: The above account is a fictional creation, inspired by the prompt. Any resemblance to actual patients or institutions is purely coincidental. For real mental health concerns, seek professional help.

Now, my dear reader, what do you think? Is Subject 44 a tragic puzzle or a product of an over stressful cosmic life? And which personality would you like to meet?