The doors at the rear of the hall burst open, forcing the professor to pause in his lecture. Students craned their necks and openly gaped when two men in white uniforms dragged a straitjacket clad figure forwards and deposited it in the back row.
�We�ll be outside if there�s any trouble,� one of the men said, and the pair calmly made their exit.
Horror curled through the professor. �Wait! What did you bring in here...?�
The two men didn�t seem to hear. All the professor could do was stare, one fist crumpling his lecture notes. The students didn�t seem to share his fear, instead gazing avidly at the figure. It sat hunched over, squirming so the buckles and rings on the straitjacket clanked loudly. A shockwave of whispers spread through the room when the figure lifted its head to reveal the scarred face of a young man, a black patch over his left eye.
�What are you staring at?� he hissed.
Instantly all attention snapped back to the front of the room, fixing on the professor intently as if he were still lecturing.
Shaken but determined, the professor straightened his notes and resumed speaking. �While many traditionalist psychiatrists dismiss multiple personality disorder, more progressive doctors accept the theory and...� He slid easily back into the rhythm of the lecture, the anomaly brushing itself from the back of his mind even though he occasionally glanced to the back of the room to see that bizarre figure slumped over, squirming futilely.
Eventually it stilled, and the image faded from his mind altogether.
Halfway through the legal impacts of multiple personality disorder, a hand went up from somewhere in the back. The professor could barely see the student, glimpsing utterly white hair and an intense golden gaze � an unfamiliar face. The professor ran his finger down the list of students.
�I�m still not good with all your names. Could you tell me yours again?� He lifted his head, peering at the unfamiliar student.
�Farfarello,� a deep, accented voice answered.
The professor frowned. That name wasn�t on the list�but he�d heard it somewhere before...
�Did you have a question?� he asked anyway.
�How can courts justify the culpability of someone if the personalities don�t communicate with each other? And even though the primary personality is held legally responsible because the other personalities are merely magnified facets of it, it�s not the patient�s fault he or she has the personalities, nor does he or she have control of the other personalities,� Farfarello said.
�Even if the personalities don�t communicate, the guilty one can be drawn out, and the same body committed the crime. Even if the primary personality isn�t guilty, until the person is healed he or she is still a danger to society,� the professor answered smoothly. Well, this Farfarello kid was brighter than most of his students, at least.
�Well, let me play devil�s advocate, then,� the deep voice continued. �Suppose that there is no such thing as mental illness.�
Tension in the room skyrocketed. �What do you mean?� the professor asked stiffly.
Farfarello chuckled, his amusement permeating the room and making the tension in everyone wind tighter. Was he insane?
�Indeed, suppose there�s no such thing, that it�s simply a concept constructed for social control?�
The professor frowned, thinking that he had perhaps underestimated this Farfarello, but urged him on out of morbid curiosity. �What do you mean?�
�That we label insane those whose behavior is outside the social norms as a means of control. We label them insane and treat them in an attempt to normalize them, when they are in fact truly sane but merely act the way they please?� That golden eye glinted wickedly.
Suddenly the professor caught on. �The theory of social control? I see you�ve read your Foucault, but � � A glance up at the clock told him his hour was up, and the students were all packing their books away, so he cut himself off in defeat. Curiosity piqued once more, the professor craned his neck, trying to see that Farfarello student. There!
One golden eye shone, scarred lips drawn back in an animalistic grin as a long hand ran itself through bleached white hair, a young man dressed in black perched casually on the edge of a desk. Smirking, Farfarello stood up and kicked something aside, something that jangled.
The professor, annoyed that the students kept kicking it and no one picked it up, went to get it, but he paused at the row of desks, staring down at it when he realized about Farfarello in a fresh wave of horror: it was an empty straitjacket.
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© 2004 Carlotta - except for Farf *grins*