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No Madmen
Sunday Sarafan
After a year of intense work with a psychoanalyst, Bunny the Killer decided to end the exhausting sessions. The final meeting is full of tension. Can the psychoanalyst understand Bunny’s pain and find a path to reconciliation, or are their relations doomed to break?

No Madmen

Sunday Sarafan

Developmental Editing Vyacheslav Komkov
Copy Editing Colm Farren

© Sunday Sarafan, 2024

ISBN 978-5-0064-5584-9
Создано в интеллектуальной издательской системе Ridero

No Madmen
Bunny stares intently into my eyes, as if trying to see my thoughts, and remains silent. Well, I’ll try to relax under that gaze. The end of the work day. The clock behind the patient has already ticked off six minutes. Has he blinked in all this time? Alright, let’s keep silent a bit longer.
It seems Bunny’s shoulders are wider than an armchair. Is he putting something under his jacket? A huge man. How he resisted saying his name the first time he came. Protested loudly: I’m just a person… What’s with all the questions? I only came to discuss something. At the end of the session, he came up with the nickname «Bunny the Killer». I then suggested that he saw himself as an innocent being, pushed by others into committing violence. This idea touched Bunny, and he obediently came to see me every week for the following year.
Later, it turned out that he had made up a funny nickname to prevent me from denouncing him, but Bunny, of course, made a mistake. I found out his name from his payments, and thanks to my connections in psychiatry, I know how to have someone sent to a mental institution. I doubt he’ll forgive me for this. As Bunny walked into my office, he proudly declared that today would be our final session. I accepted his decision in silence.
Now, Bunny seems to be practicing telepathy, staring so intently that it’s as if he might uncover my thoughts at any moment. So, go ahead, tell me – how was your time on the psychiatric ward? You’ve only just come out.
The patient’s gaze has changed. I see a glint. Tears? It doesn’t seem so.
Bunny the Killer leans forward and whispers:
– To be honest, Doc, at first I was angry with you for sending me to the asylum, but then… do you know what I realized?
It seems Bunny is enjoying making me wait. He leans back a little, makes himself more at ease in his chair, and says daringly:
– There are no insane people.
The room fills with a mysterious feeling due to his confident voice. An almost forgotten, childish feeling rises within me – an exploratory spirit, hungry for the unknown and the transcendent. What is this? A rebellion against the system? Or perhaps he sees me as insane?
Bunny continues, taking out a handmade crown of thorns from his bag:
– There are strange people there, I borrowed this from one of them, but there are no insane people.
Bunny puts the crown on his head, and the mysterious feeling fades away. Megalomania is back in full swing. Now he’s not even ashamed of it. Could this be a sign of progress? A sign of trust? Can I dig a little deeper? I ask, almost tenderly:
– Does the crown symbolize all your suffering in this therapy?
Bunny the Killer laughs for a few seconds, then suddenly becomes serious.
– Yes, Doc. Last time you convinced me that I should express my negative feelings for therapeutic purposes. I could have held back then, but you were so pro-movement in therapy. Why didn’t you like the result? I pushed a little too hard as a joke, and the orderlies were already waiting for me on the way out. So today, I am the lamb.
– Who am I then? Pontius Pilate?
– Exactly. I completely forgot!
Recalling something, Bunny takes a package out of his bag, awkwardly jumps up from the chair, and hands it to me.
– This is a black raven. More your measure than Ponitus Pilate.
I naively thank Bunny, and then realize that I’m holding the head of a dead bird. There’s not a lot of blood in the bag, but it’s enough to make me start feeling sick. To avoid losing my composure, I quickly place the bird’s head on the coffee table. Bunny watches my every move with delight. I need to say something; he’s waiting for my reaction.
In a calm voice, I say:
– Sinister. Poor bird.
– Poor? That’s a flying rat. Used to be, you could shoot them freely. It perched across from my window. It was cawing so annoyingly. I automatically grabbed my gun and shot it.
– How did its head come off? I ask.
– Shotgun. Special ammo. Got it in one shot, blew its head clean off. Though you’d better forget about it, or you’ll go and report me. Funny thing, the crow fell right next to an old lady sitting on a bench near the entrance. So much screaming. She called me a psycho. Why a psycho, right away? Why not a hunter? People’s sense of things is so twisted now. Birds are more important to them than people, right Doc?
– What concerns me more is, why am I the crow for you today?
Bunny doesn’t hurry to continue, holding the pause with a cheeky smirk. Adding weight to the moment. Meanwhile, the sun peeks through the window, and the crown of thorns casts its sharp shadows on Bunny’s no-longer-young face. He raises his hands to support his words:

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