pneumasthesia - Tumblr blog

[pneumasthesia]

Epilogue

Epilogue

 “Hey, kid! Your time’s up. Get out so the real psychologists can use the room” says a mildly annoyed voice from outside the room.

“Yes, yes, yes, of course. Just give us a moment and we’ll be right out” responds the therapist, with more than a mild tone of annoyance.

“Come on, sleeping beauty, we’re going to have to end the show here and get out now” he says, shaking awake the middle-aged woman passed out on a reclining chair in front of him.

“Ugh, just when I had started to have an actually restful sleep. How annoying” the culprit sleepily responds.

“Oh, so you were actually sleeping this time” the therapist exclaims with further growing annoyance, “I had thought you were having another trip, but now that you’re done with that you’re just trying to fool me into letting you off any further examination, isn’t that right?”

“Obviously. I just relived the most traumatic moment in my life, of course I’d want a rest afterwards” she answers while getting off the chair to leave the examination room.

“That’s all well and good for you” says the therapist, his annoyance reaching its peak, “but some of us here have research to do and precious little time to get it done.”

“Don’t worry ‘Pet’, I’m not going anywhere” the culprit reassures, “I’ll surely be in this psychiatric ward for the rest of my life.”

The patient and doctor-to-be walk down the psych ward’s hallways, passing by patients and therapists alike on their way back to the culprit’s room.

“That’s exactly why I have to rush” the therapist says, a note of faint concern in his tone, “don’t you want to see the other pneumasthetes again?”

“Is that the name you’ve given us sufferers?” the culprit questions, “you’ve really taken to continuing the old man’s research, even using the same name for the disorder.”

“I may not have liked his methods or his reasons, but his hypotheses are still worth considering” Pet answers somewhat defensively, “besides, those theories of his are just as much mine.”

“Hmm? What do you mean? You came up with that fantastical theory?” the culprit says.

“I wouldn’t say it’s all that fantastical” the therapist explains, “given that it’s based on experience.”

The culprit suddenly halts her advance down the psych ward hallway and turns back to her therapist, mouth agape.

“You have pneumasthesia too?” she exclaims.

“Of course” Pet answers matter-of-factly, “you’ve seen through my eyes, I mean walked in my shoes, you must have noticed that.”

“I thought that those were my abilities” the culprit says with some degree of embarrassment.

“But you’ve never experienced those things before, have you?” the therapist questions, “from what I’ve gathered your particular type of pneumasthesia is based around seeing people as stock personality archetypes, whereas mine manifests as ‘seeing’ people’s current thoughts and emotions.”

The culprit starts walking again, deep in thought. Eventually she speaks up, “but that doesn’t explain what I experienced. I saw the thoughts and emotions that other people had in the past. Neither of our abilities can do that.”

“It’s not accurate to call our conditions ‘abilities’” the therapist explains, “if you talk about pneumasthesia like that, the other psychologists will discount my research as nonsensical postulating about ESP.”

“Is that not what it is?” the culprit rudely interjects.

“Hurtful, but not true this time” the therapist says with an amused chuckle, “from what little research I have been able to do, I can say with some certainty that there is a mostly logical explanation for everything we have experienced.”

“’Mostly, huh? Very well then, explain it to me, Professor” the culprit says with a wide smirk.

The therapist returns the smirk and begins “well, surely you remember the late Professor’s explanation?”

“Yes, empathy is supposedly a sixth sense all people possess and, in some people, these ‘pneumasthetes’, that sense becomes conflated with another sense” the culprit continues.

“Quite right” the therapist congratulates with the tone of a kind teacher, “in some cases, that is. For example, that young man had his personal empathic judgement of other people’s personalities conflated with his ability to perceive color.”

“Only his own judgement of personalities?” the culprit asks, “I thought empathy was some sort of secret infallible sense, not something that subjective.”

“No. Like I said, there is nothing fantastical about this condition” answers the therapist, “a less charitable psychologist may simply disregard that young man’s ‘powers’ as hallucinations since they are only based off how he subjectively views other people.”

He continues with his explanation “that is why he was unable to tell two people that he perceived as ‘Green’ apart. After you, the great blue ocean that you are, had a sudden change of heart, he perceived your ‘soul’ as that of a different person, due to his flawed judgement of your surface-level change in persona.”

“Hmm, alright, but that still doesn’t change why he couldn’t tell us apart without his color-personality hallucinations” the culprit says, “It’s not like he was blind as well.”

“Not blind, but face-blind” the therapist says.

“What?” the culprit says incredulously.

“It’s called Prosopagnosia. He generally just tells people apart by their hair, height, and clothes, but since you and the older man were similar in those regards, he had to rely on your colors to tell you apart” the therapist says, “it took a lot of testing to convince him that he had that condition. He was so adamant on insisting that he was ‘normal’.”

“Huh, so even he had a condition like that” the culprit says, contemplatively, “what about the others. What about that girl?”

“Her?” the therapist says, caught by surprise for a moment before beginning to smile at the culprit’s touching concern, “her condition is much simpler, she was highly empathic and sensed her exceedingly accurate judgements of people’s personalities as noise. It should have been a very easy condition to diagnose, but her Schizophrenic auditory hallucinations somewhat complicated my analysis.”

“Schizophrenia” the culprit muses, “I had thought her condition was more like mine, but that makes more sense.”

The therapist lets out a good-natured laugh, “well there was certainly something about you that made her open up to you more quickly than anyone else. It took me at least a dozen meetings to get her to speak. She just kept having those panic attacks whenever I was nearby.”

The culprit lets out a mocking laugh, “that’s to be expected. You try to pretend that you’re extremely empathic and all that, but deep down you’re just an awkward little kid.”

The culprit quickly transitions into another line of questioning, “speaking of awkward children, what about that strange older man?”

“Wow, that was extremely rude” the therapist notes, “it’s a good thing he’s not here so I don’t have to lie and tell you that your judgement is false. His condition is a little bit more complex. His sense of empathy is crossed with the part of his brain that recognizes quantities of objects.”

“Counting is its own sense?” asks the culprit, “I didn’t know that.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s a sense per say” the therapist explains, “that’s why I said that the Professor’s explanation was incomplete. From what I’ve seen Pneumasthesia can include the crossing of empathy with less straightforward neurological processes.”

“Is that the reason why his judgement of other people was so flawed?” the culprit asks, “he even thought that I was kind and ‘complete’ or some nonsense like that.”

“I wouldn’t say that particular judgement of his was entirely wrong” the therapist says with a smile, “the fact that he is on the autism spectrum is probably the reason for his somewhat, let’s go with ‘awkward’ empathic senses.”

“Autism?” exclaims the culprit, nearly tripping on the stairs as the two pneumasthetes walk up them to her room, “that makes sense, but I wouldn’t have expected it from the way he acted.”

“Me neither” the therapist laughs to himself, and at himself, “I feel ashamed as a psychologist to have been so closeminded as to think that someone so functional in social situations couldn’t be autistic. He was simply well adjusted to working with his condition.”

The culprit is silent for a bit, reevaluating her judgement of the older man, before speaking up, “and what about that old lady? What was her deal?”

“Her ‘deal’, as you put it so crudely, is memory loss” the therapist answers.

“And what about her type of pneumasthesia?” the culprit probes.

“She didn’t have it, at least I’d wouldn’t say so from what I gathered” the therapist says with a shrug, “the Professor misdiagnosed her. These things happen.”

“Oh” the culprit ruminates on this thought before realizing something and speaking up, “wait, but what about yours and my conditions? That’s what I was asking about at the start and you didn’t answer.”

“Yes, yes, yes, of course. I was getting to that” the therapist says with a laugh, “I was just taking my time to ease into that whole complex affair.”

The therapist takes a deep breath as the two reach the floor that the culprit’s room is on, then begins his explanation, “my condition is fairly simple to explain because it’s the basis for the initial theory that guided the Professor’s research after he examined me. My sense of empathy is crossed with the part of my brain that recognizes visual information, but because my eyes do not function due to a birth defect, that part of my brain works entirely on processing empathic information, causing me to ‘see’ people’s thoughts and emotions with great clarity.”

“That’s basically what I figured that it was” the culprit says, “but you would only be able to see people’s current thoughts, right? How does that lead to seeing people’s memories?”

“That’s where your peculiar condition comes in” the therapist says, “I theorize that your sense of empathy, that being your subjective judgement of other people’s personalities, has been crossed with your long-term memory.”

The culprit appears befuddled by this explanation, “what exactly does that mean?”

“It means that when you first see a person, you judge them as possessing a particular set of personality traits, you then associate those traits with a familiar personality archetype in your head” the therapist theorizes, “in your case people are conflated with the archetypal Arcana of the Tarot.”

“So in simple terms, it’s a crossing of memory and empathy” the culprit suggests.

“Yes, you could say that” the therapist says.

“And you said it’s based off my ‘subjective judgement’, not anything more concrete than that” the culprit says.

“Yes, it’s no different than that young man’s condition” the therapist agrees, “well there is one difference, because this condition causes you to associate people you’ve just met with familiar archetypes, it causes you to falsely assume familiarity with people, potentially leading to an inflated sense of your own accuracy in your judgement of people’s personalities.”

The culprit gives a sharp laugh in response to this statement, “well, if you put it like that, it can hardly be considered a superpower at all, it’s basically a curse!”

The therapist does not smile in response to this self-deprecation, “I wouldn’t say it’s bad exactly. It’s just a different way to see the world.”

The culprit turns her head away from her therapist, “you are nice, you know that. Saying these things to me even after what I’ve done. Calling me a man and all that.”

“You may be a murderer, but your life is still your own” the therapist states without hesitating, “you should be able to enjoy it however you are able and make your own choices about how you want to spend it, and who you want to spend it being, so of course I’ll support your transition.”

The culprit turns his head back to his therapist, a wry smile on his effeminate face, “you’re sure that you don’t want to diagnose me with some sort of self-hating delusion? Something to do with my bipolar personality disorder, or whatever they call it?”

The therapist returns his patient’s mocking smirk, “it doesn’t matter if you believe you’re a man because you’re crazy or not. If it makes you happy, and you’re not hurting anyone, it’s not my job to tell you what to do.”

The duo begins to laugh to themselves as they stand in front of the entrance to the culprit’s room. The culprit stands with his back to the closed door, clearly not wanting to retreat to his quarters alone again.

After a moment of contemplation, the culprit speaks up, “so I know what my condition is, but how did that whole ‘memory trip’ thing happen?”

The therapist turns away for a moment and speaks with less confidence than usual, “I’m not fully sure in this case. That one was a first for me too. I just had a theory that if the two of us stimulated our empathy and memories with a few pointed questions, that something potentially therapeutic might happen. I can’t be sure that what I experienced was the same as what you experienced, but I have a vague idea as to why it happened.”

The therapist continues, “my condition causes me to perceive the emotions or others as if they were my own vision, and your condition causes you to perceive the emotions of others as part of your memory, so perhaps when the two of us began to look into each other’s heads, the thoughts of others and your memories were temporarily entangled, causing us to witness the memories of other people.”

“That seems like a leap of logic” the culprit says, “something like definitely sounds like Sci-fi nonsense. It’s not like either of us ever witnessed those memories ourselves, so how could they have been in our heads?”

“I don’t think those were anyone’s memories” the therapist says, “I think they might have been our own fabrications of what we thought their memories might have been.”

The culprit stares back at his therapist incredulously, “you mean that those things we witnessed were not the truth, that we just made them all up and thought they were other people’s memories?”

“Perhaps” the therapist reluctantly says.

The culprit slumps back on the door, “you’re telling me that none of that was what really happened?”

“No” the therapist answers, “but just because it was not true, doesn’t mean it can’t be useful to believe in it.”

The culprit answers back, “how can a lie help me understand the truth of myself any better?”

The therapist takes a long pause, contemplating how to say this, and finally speaks “all observation is a lie that our brains tell us. We have no way to know if our experience of the world is true, so all people experience their own false truth. I think that we should be allowed to believe in whatever lie about reality helps us live better.”

“I refuse to live a life built on a lie” the culprit states flatly.

The therapist looks disappointed, but not surprised, “I understand, but I think that lie did do good for you.” The culprit looks away, unwilling to admit to it. The therapist continues, “please, just think about it.”

The culprit does not respond, taking a long moment to sort through his thoughts. He doesn’t seem to come to a conclusion, and simply pushes those thoughts aside before saying, “so tell me, what actually happened, in the objective reality?”

The therapist gives a sad smile and begins to recount the “true” story of events, “what actually happened was that after we discovered the body, the police were called over and all of the people present were taken under custody for questioning. I was suspected at first, but suspicion was quickly dropped after it was discovered that I was blind. The investigation took quite a while, but after some handprint analysis on bloodstains found on the gun and the determination that you had Bipolar Personality Disorder, you were charged with the crime.”

“What does me being bipolar have to do with anything?” the culprit asks.

The therapist sighs, digging up unpleasant memories, “that investigation was not pretty. The police interrogated all the guests rather forcefully. Everyone present was considered guilty until proven innocent owing to their mental illnesses. The detectives in charge thought that any one of us could have been a psychopathic murderer. When they finally determined you to possess violent mood swings, they indicted you without any further investigation.”

“Are you saying that I may not have killed the Professor” the culprit questions, a faint note of hope in his voice.

“Do you truly not remember at all what happened in that room on that night?” the therapist asks.

“No” the culprit answers, “it’s all just a blur. It frightened me, thinking what I might have done in that moment.”

“You must have had some selective memory loss” the therapist postulates, “perhaps by separating your memory of yourself from your own personal memory, you constructed an archetypal personality distinct from yourself that you could blame for your own past actions.”

The culprit looks away from his therapist, ashamed. The therapist puts his hand on his patient’s shoulder, having to reach up quite a distance to do so, “it must have been an unconscious self-defense mechanism. Something like that is very common among sufferers of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I’d know, I’ve had a lot of experience working with that condition.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re about to admit to having that condition too?” the culprit jokes.

“No, no, no” the therapist laughs, “but a previous patient of mine that you might know quite well did. One of my responsibilities as his assistant was to help him deal with his condition and calm him down when it flared up.”

The culprit is incredulous once again, “you mean to say that the Professor had PTSD? Is that why he shot at that girl in such a panic?”

“I believe so” the therapist says with a sigh, “his symptoms were very severe: hallucinations, panic attacks, violent tendencies. That wasn’t the first time that he’d struck out at some ghost of his mind’s invention, neither was it the last.”

“What do you mean?” the culprit asks.

“At the scene of the crime” the therapist hesitates, then speaks, “there were signs of a struggle.”

“What? I don’t remember any struggle.” The culprit says, realization beginning to dawn on him.

“From investigation that was done after the case was laid to rest, evidence was found that may suggest that the Professor was the one who attacked first, not you” the therapist says, looking his patient straight in the eye, at least as accurately as he can manage.

“You mean…” the culprit slides down the door he is leaning against and crumples down to the floor, “I killed him in self-defense?!”

“It is possible” the therapist says, “he was in a dangerous state of mind. Seeing you enter with a gun, he may have attacked you, and in the confusion, you may have accidentally ended his life without having truly intended to from the start. After a traumatic experience like that, you could have shut away that memory and convinced yourself that killing the Professor was not a mistake made in the heat of the moment, but a calculated plot from the beginning.”

The culprit holds his knees close to his chest and chuckles a bit to himself, “that seems like something I’d do. Even in a time like that, I couldn’t admit to myself that I could have made a mistake. That is some seriously destructive self-love.”

“Perhaps it was done out of self-hate, not self-love” the therapist suggests. The culprit stops laughing at this suggestion and looks away.

The two are silent for a long few seconds. Then, the therapist reaches his hand down to his patient to help him get up. As soon as he does this, the culprit stand up on his own, a smile having erased all other emotion that was on his face before.

“One last question” he blurts out, “I never got your name. What is it, in full?”

The therapist is taken aback, for numerous reasons, “I could have sworn that I introduced myself properly when we started the therapy session today.”

“You probably did, but I didn’t pay attention” the culprit says without any shame, “so tell me it again.”

The therapist seems mildly offended but shakes it off and says, “Peter Eric Tomas-Jacobs, that’s my full name.”

“Doesn’t that make your initials PETJ?” the culprit questions, “I thought you were the ‘PET’.”

“Well, at the time that we first met, my name was only Peter Eric Tomas” Peter answers, “the second family name is a recent addition.”

The culprit stares blankly as he ponders why this could be, before suddenly realizing. He shouts out, “y-y-you mean that you got married?”

Peter places his hand over his patient’s mouth to prevent the sound from traveling through the echoing psych ward hallway and says, “quiet down! I can’t let anyone else know that I’m married. The people here don’t even know that I have a boyfriend.”

The culprit looks more incredulous than he’s been throughout his entire pseudo-psychic mind-trip. His mouth is so agape beneath his therapists’ hand that he almost accidentally bites down on that hand. Eventually he whispers, “you swing that way?”

Peter gives a big smile, “yes, of course I’m into men, why do you think that I was flirting with you before?”

“So you were flirting with me!” the culprit shouts out and then realizes how loud he is being and shuts his own mouth.

“Of course not. I’m a happy newlywed, even if the two of us haven’t gotten the union properly officiated. Besides, if me and you were together than I’d be Mr. Tomas-Rider, which is a name I don’t like nearly as much, though when I do get my doctorate, Dr. Rider would be a pretty cool name” Peter muses to himself, “oh that reminds me, you probably don’t go by Regina anymore, so what should I call you now? Wait, let me guess … Reginald is your new name, right?”

“I go by Rex” says the culprit.

“Like, the dog name?” says Peter, now his turn to be incredulous.

“I think it’s a cool name, Rex Rider” the culprit chuckles to himself with unabashed pride, “it struck fear in the hearts of all the girls I faced in the ring when I was in prison.”

“Oh right, I do remember that in your file” Peter says, “you were the undefeated boxing champ at the woman’s prison. The resident therapist at that prison wrote about it as evidence of your ‘persistent innate violent tendencies’.”

“It’s not my fault if I’m good at being a boxer” the culprit says, pride not fading one bit, “I have the physique of a natural-born man and all the time in the world to train. I just wish I could have some opponents more my size.”

Peter smiles at that, happy that his patient has some hopes for the future, no matter how small, “if I can prove to the world that your condition is real and not just some dangerous hallucination, then you might be able to get out of this place and do some real boxing.”

The culprit smiles, joy and melancholy both mixed in his expression, before turning away, opening the door to his quarters and entering, “then I’ll be waiting for you, as long as necessary, my savior.”

Peter looks blankly down at his toes, smiling the same smile, “you might have to wait for a while yet, maybe longer than a lifetime.”

The culprit’s expression does not change, “That’s fine. I expected that, but I’m glad you’re trying, for everyone’s sake.”

The culprit suddenly turns back, startling his “savior”, and says “there’s one more thing that I want to tell you?”

Peter answers back in an apprehensive tone, “what is it?”

“I just need to get this off my chest?”

“Yes?”

“I need to tell you how I feel.”

“You feel …”

“I… I…”

“…”

“I really don’t like you.”

“I could say the same thing.”

“Then go on and say it, right to my face.”

“I absolutely despise you.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant.”

“You know me so well. That’s definitely what I hate the most about you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“I hope I never see you again.”

“I wish for the same, but it seems that we can’t be rid of each other that easily.”

“What a shame.”

“Well, see you tomorrow?”

“I will, but I don’t think that you will see me any time soon.”

“If you make that joke one more time, I will have you sent back to the prison.”

“Well, fuck you too!”

“Fuck you and I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“Fantastic, I’d love that!”

“The feeling is mutual!”

The culprit slams his door on his therapist, the widest smiles of each of the pair’s lives on their faces. It had been an eternity, it had been several years, it had been a few hours, but at long last, they could finally begin, to understand.

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 19

C. The middle-aged woman

Third Act – Cognition: Part 5 / Fourth Card – Future: Coins

 I’m falling.

I have been falling for some time. Ever since that moment. That moment of such pure clarity. Such pure confidence. Such pure conviction.

But then I started to fall.

My clarity was shattered. My High ended. I had nowhere else to go but down.

So I fell. On and on, for what seemed like an eternity. Every moment they, I, we, got one step closer to the truth.

I was afraid.

When I find the truth, I will finally fall to the bottom. I will be in a Rut. My deepest Rut. A Rut that will last years.

My clarity was only a High. Only an illusion invented by my addled mind for my own self-satisfaction. This Rut is the truth.

They are talking, discussing, determining something. The truth, most likely. It won’t be long. I have resigned myself to this, my future, and my past. I am a murderer. I’ve never been anything else.

The Hanged Man speaks up first. She accuses me. I’m so happy for her. I’m sure that she has the strength, and the weakness, to carry on. This moment, this trauma, will be the basis for her achievement of true catharsis. It’s not as if that was what I was aiming for in doing this, my deeds were always purely selfishly motivated. I thought myself a savior, but I was only a savior to myself.

The Magician takes my arm. He holds me in place. I expected this of him. I knew that the two of us had much in common. We both think for more of ourselves than we are worth, and that is our strength. We have the inner strength to brave any outside threat, and any inside one, at least that is what I thought. But I know now that we differed in one key way, the Magician truly likes himself. The Ace despises that they can only allow themselves to be the Ace.

The Hermit takes my other arm. I can no longer struggle even if I wanted to. I’m proud of him. In many ways, the two of us were alike, that is the one thing that my victim said that I agree with. But regardless of how intelligent, composed, and perhaps even kind we may be, I lack one thing that the Hermit has, I never allowed myself to embrace being alone. The Hermit is awkward and difficult, he could never understand anyone else, but because of this, he let himself enjoy the company of his own self. I always searched for someone, anyone who could complete me. I never tried to fix what was broken in myself on my own. I always searched for answers outside of myself, and when I found none, I took my self-hatred out on the world.

The High Priestess reveals the final piece of evidence. This is my damnation. I truly despise her. She is everything that I defined myself in opposition to. She is dependent and emotional and frivolous. I saw her as weak, so I convinced myself that I was strong. I do not envy her. She is weak, but I am as well. We both have weakness and we both have searched our whole lives for a way to cover it. Neither of us have been successful and I don’t think either of us ever will, but one became a murderer, so perhaps the other has the right of it.

Finally, the Fool steps forward. He gently places his hand on my bare arm and scrapes away my cover. Below the thin layer that I had thought would protect me is my weakness. Cuts, gores, gashes. A mark of my mistake, created by the desperation of a weak individual. It’s unsightly, seeing so deeply under my own skin. This is what is inside me? It is the same thing that was in the Professor. Well of course it is, how silly of me to be so surprised.

The Fool looks me straight in the eye. That must be difficult for him. I think I can understand. I know those eyes, I have seen them and failed to see through them so many times before. We really were the same deep down. That’s something I’ve been realizing more and more with everyone here. But with him especially, I felt that we are the same person, only seeing the world with different eyes, or not seeing it, in this case.

I can’t help but laugh. I have been feeling in good humor lately. I can hardly think without cracking a joke. If I laugh out loud now, what would they think of me? Perhaps they’d see me as some maniacal villain, an insane murderer, an unfeeling monster. I can’t tell them that they’re wrong about that, but that’s not the reason why I want to laugh. It’s just … instinct: basic evolutionary psychology.

I am fading.

I have been fading for some time. Ever since we started the evaluation. That moment of such clarity. Such pure camaraderie. Such pure catharsis.

But then I started to fade.

My clarity was sharpened. My Rut ended. I had nowhere else to go but reality.

So I faded. On and on, for what was only a few hours. Every moment I, he, we, got one step closer to the truth.

I am afraid.

Now that I have found the truth, I will know that I am at the bottom. This Rut will be my truth. Ever Rut before will have only been a High. A High that only lasted an instant.

This clarity is the truth. A truth invented by my addled mind for my own self-satisfaction. This truth is the Rut.

They are asking, questioning, demanding, that I tell them: the guests, the police, the therapists. That I tell them why I did it. That I explain my side. They ask for the whole story. I cannot give it to them. I do not know myself. The murderer that I am is in the past. I am no longer the Ace of Swords.

It is all a haze. The past is but a fading cloud above my head. No more real than the future. The only thing is the present. I am for once in my life fully conscious of the present. I despise the present. The present can never be anything but the result of the past. But the past is immutable, ephemeral, an unreal truth. So the present can never be right as its foundation is wrong.

Slowly, I fade. I sit in a corner, and I fade. I speak about myself, and I fade. Every moment of every interminable day, I fade.

To kill is to die. The moment that I committed my greatest mistake, I was more myself than ever before in my life. That mistake was my purest truth. I will never again feel that pure clarity, nor will I ever again feel the resulting confusion. I have left my truest self behind. I am only her shadow. My life is not hers, nor is it mine. I simply live.

So I lived. I lived and I faded. I did the right thing. I allowed myself to fade. Every moment my existence became less and less real and every moment I became closer and closer to the material. Slowly, I escaped my head. I could not bear to be in there any further. It was too crowded.

Then, he came. I knew he’d come. He came for me before, an eternity ago, a few hours ago, right when I needed him.

At first, I didn’t listen to him. I didn’t want to hear. I didn’t want to hear what he thought of me, because I knew that it would be true. I simply sat, and I faded. I waited for him to leave, like everyone else. I wanted to be alone. I thought that I was myself when I was alone. I thought that he would only make me her, my true self. I didn’t want that, I don’t want that, but I need that, I have always needed that. I didn’t realize that. How could I? Not when I was alone. I could never have been able to admit to myself who I was, until he said …

“Just start by telling me how you feel right now.”

How do I even begin?

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 18

A. The young girl

Third Act – Cognition: Part 4

 “I can’t say right now who was the murderer” I begin, “but I know another person that can’t be the murderer.”

The whole room goes silent as each guest holds their breath. They really must have begun to trust in my judgement if they’re so frightened by my announcement of a deduction. After everything that I’ve done, it seems like they no longer even think about arguing against my claims. I’m flattered.

“The only time when the murderer could have stowed the murder weapon somewhere was when we were all leaving the Professor’s room to go to this basement” I continue, “during that time there were two people who were alone in the Professor’s office and could have hidden the gun.”

“Those are you, and you” I say, pointing vaguely in the directions of where I believe the older man and the middle-aged woman are standing. The older man recoils at the accusation, while the middle-aged woman stays as placid as ever, but I think I can notice a hint of fear emerging from her normally composed bearing.

“Y-you mean I’m no longer a suspect?” meekly says the young girl, speaking up for what I think is the first time since the murder.

I nod yes to her. She lets out a sigh of relief and moves towards the middle-aged woman, who puts her hand on the young girl’s shoulder to comfort her. They seemed close before the murder, but after they both saw the body, they had been avoiding each other. I suppose it the young girl who was trying to stay away from the middle-aged woman, perhaps out of concern that the woman might suspect her.

“So, what now?” says the young man, breaking up the nice moment between the two women, “we’ve narrowed things down to two people, but what else can we do? If there’s no other clues, then I say we go with the old man right here, like I said before.”

“No, no, no, there are still more clues, my adorable little assistant” I say jokingly. The young man appears taken aback by the statement, but I don’t care. I’m feeling playful right now. It won’t be long until I can crack this case wide open, so I hope my audience can forgive me for celebrating a little early.

“If we go to the scene of the crime right now, and properly watch each other for suspicious movement, we should be able to find the murder weapon hidden in the Professor’s room” I suggest, “and once we have the murder weapon, we’re likely to get a lead as to who used it.”

Each of the guests quickly agree with this idea, likely just to get out of the basement, except the elderly woman. She takes a bit of persuasion to get to leave her hiding place and come to the scene of her lover’s murder. The young man gives her a rousing, albeit overly-forceful, pep-talk to no avail, but it’s a whispered conversation between her and the older man that eventually gets her to come out of the basement with us.

We make our way to the place where this whole ordeal began in a single file line. I bring up the back of the solemn suspects line-up so I can watch over all the potential suspects, well, not watch them, but something similar.

Before long we enter the Professor’s room. The scent of drying blood reaches my tender nostrils once again. I hate that we have to enter this room again, but it is fitting to end this all where it began.

“So what do we do now” the middle-aged woman impatiently says soon after we get to the scene of the crime.

“We need to inspect the room to find the murder weapon” I say, “we’re looking for somewhere that the killer could have hidden the weapon. Well that is except for you two” I point to where I believe the middle-aged woman and older man are now.

“Oh, because you don’t want us to mess with the scene. I understand” says the older man, who leaves the room. The middle-aged woman soon follows him.

Each of the exonerated suspects take a different corner of the room to search, well that is except me. Obviously, I’m not very good at searching. I know the layout of these rooms well enough to clean them when given the time to do so, but in order to search this place I’d have to tear it all apart by hand and grope around entirely by hand. Instead I have my assistant do the dirty work for me.

“I need you to count how many books there are on this shelf of a particular genre” I order the young man, acting on a hunch.

“Sure, but why?” he asks.

“I know all the books on the Professor’s shelves by heart, so if the number is different, I’ll know that someone has moved these books and that might give us a clue as to where the murder weapon was stashed” I lie. I know this place quite well, but of course I can’t know what the genres of these books are, owing to my inability to read them, but now I do know, because of one very useful and very obsessive individual.

The young man accepts my request and counts the books: 17 books on miscellaneous subjects, 11 Sci-fi books, 22 books on philosophy, and 43 books on psychology. Like I thought, there is something wrong. I tell the young man to inspect the psychology books more carefully for anything that is out of place. He finds a large leather-bound volume on Stoic philosophy that was mistaken placed in the psychology section. He opens up the book to find that a large handful of the pages in the middle of the book had been torn out, and between them, where the text once was, is stashed a small and very familiar gun.

The young man shouts out to the rest of the group in triumph. We have found the murder weapon at long last. His enthusiasm is infectious. I can feel a smile creeping across my face and for the first time in what seems like an eternity, I allow it. But this isn’t quite the end of our investigation, there is one more step left.

The whole mystery-solving gang gathers to investigate the gun, still clutched in the young man’s hand. Of course, except for me, owing to the condition that I’ve been finding increasingly inconvenient for this whole mystery-solving business lately. The sighted guests discuss with each other about what they see in conspiratorial whispers. I presume that they are keeping their voices low out of an unconscious, irrational fear that a killer will overhear them, but it’s a little hurtful that they don’t even think to raise their voices so that I can properly hear them. Luckily for these rude sighted people, I’m plenty practiced at overhearing what people whisper behind my back.

The investigation of the gun is mostly focused on a few bloodied handprints that are noticed on the object. The guests discuss back and forth who they could belong to. The older man brings up that they appear to have been made by more than one person owing to the different sizes of the prints. This causes the conversation to get even more confused as people begin to bring up the possibility of multiple murderers. How disappointing, when I can’t mediate the discussion, this is what they all resort to? I prepare to enter the conversation to steer the sighted to a more productive direction.

Suddenly, the elderly woman speaks up, “this powder on the gun, most of it is mixed in the blood so I hadn’t noticed before, but I think I recognize it.”

Everyone present turns their attention to her after this statement. She recoils a bit from the sudden attention, but quickly gathers herself and begins to speak again, with a note of pride on her voice.

“I’m not an expert on much, but this is something that I know quite well” she says, “this is foundation, as in skin-tone makeup that you put on under other makeup.”

Now I can’t possibly keep my smile from turning into laughter. This is a massive clue! Something like this will surely bring us to the culprit. I don’t know why exactly there would be makeup on the gun, but that’s nothing that a little trip can’t solve. While my sighted investigation team here are still stunned by this revelation, I’ll take a little journey to find out where this makeup was used and by the time that I’m back, I should have the answer to this mystery at long last. It’s been a winding process to unravel this web of the unknown, but with the strength of my own mind and the help of a few others, there will soon be nothing more to worry about.

 Fourth Movement: Calming Sonata

 “There’s nothing to be worried about” sounds the Piano, “you’re safe here.”

I sit on the floor of the hallway outside the Professor’s office, the Piano cradling my head in their arms. They smell nice. I can feel their heartbeat, quick and strong. They seem to be as excited as I am, but not out of fear. Hearing their independent, commanding Music makes me feel at ease, like they will take care of me even if no one else will.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” the Piano asks.

I shake my head no. I’m not ready to talk about that. I’m still not entirely sure what exactly happened there that caused me to be shot at, and I don’t want to know right now.

The Piano strokes my hair before speaking in a soothing tone “you know, you remind me of myself when I was young. I was always an excitable child. I’d have times when I would run throughout my mother’s house breaking things while dancing around for no good reason. Then my mother would yell at me, and by that point I’d get so depressed that I’d just sit in a corner and do nothing for hours on end.”

A strong Instrument like this one, being like that when they were younger? I don’t believe it. People can change how they look or their personalities, but what’s inside, the Sound of their soul, that does not change.

“I can’t say that I know what is going on in your head” the Piano continues, “I highly doubt that it’s anything like what goes on in mine, but there is something that I know about your mind. I know that your mind has the strength to overcome anything that ails it.”

That’s an easy thing for anyone to say when they don’t know what is going on in someone else’s head. If I could help myself, I would have done it already. I need help from someone else, a professional who truly knows how to deal with my condition.

“Whatever you see to be wrong with your mind, is something that your mind created” the Piano elaborates, “therefore your mind can control it just as well. All that a professional will do for you is point you in the right direction to help you tame your mind on your own. I believe in you. You’re an outcast. A person that has been left on the outskirts of society only hanging by a thread to your place in it. But being alone like that makes you strong. You can trust me; I know these things about people.”

Perhaps they are right. Maybe I have had the ability to solve my own problems myself all along. Perhaps I was simply too weak and self-pitying to realize it.  This Instrument, they really are much stronger than me deep down. I want to be like them, to have that confidence, that poise, that self-control. If I were like them, then I could never be hurt like this.

“Y-you’re bleeding!” I scream out in a raspy whisper, my voice not used to being raised.

“Hmm?” the Piano seems uncharacteristically startled and looks straight to their arm, where a thin trail of blood has traveled down their sleeve. The Piano collects their self, stops cradling my head and pulls up their sleeve. They take out a palate of makeup and a handkerchief. They wipe the blood off of a fresh-looking wound on their arm and spread foundation on the cuts, wincing occasionally at the pain of putting chemical powder in an open wound.

“W-we should find you some bandages for that wound. It looks pretty deep” I suggest, hesitantly starting to get up off the floor.

The Piano grabs my shoulder to get me to sit back down, “no, I’ll be fine. I can’t bother the help here with a little cut, and besides, I have to look presentable. That’s why I carry this stuff. My mother always told me that you always have to cover up the little blemishes on your appearance when you are seeing new people. You have to put the best version of you forward, even if that isn’t the full you. It’s hard to be someone like us. If others see a little bit of weakness, they’ll use it as a reason to disregard us entirely. So you have to cover it up, at least until people can see how manly we are on the inside.”

I don’t know if I want to be “manly”, but I do want to be strong. If the Piano can be this strong while they’re bleeding, then surely, I can as well.

The Piano finishes covering up their wound and grasps my shoulders before saying “I need to do something really quick, so I need you to do a favor for me.”

I nod in agreement to the Piano’s request. They give a gentle, harmonious smile right back and say “I’ll be gone for a few minutes, then I’ll be right back to keep you company. Can you go into that bedroom across from the Professor’s office?”

I hesitate. I don’t want to go any closer to that place after I was shot at. But if I can close the door behind me and stay away from the Flute, then I’ll be fine.

“Alright. There’s someone in that room that will keep you company” the Piano says. I know who they are referring to. I heard the Guitar enter that room earlier. I’m fine with staying with them for a time. They were nice to me before even the Piano was. I trust them. The piano continues “in a couple minutes you should leave the room and go down to the first floor. I’ll catch up to you soon after you get down there.”

I accept this request and reluctantly part with the Piano. I go to the bedroom opposite the Professor’s study where the Guitar greets me. They bear the same strong melody as the Piano so being around them is comforting as well. I close the door behind us to keep as much distance between myself and the Professor as I can. I stay there for a short time, having a mostly one-sided conversation with the Guitar as I calm myself down. Before long I finally feel something like a soothing Silence. The Drums abate and I feel my heartbeat return to normal. I silently thank the Piano once more. I realize now that the Instruments here have almost all been nice to me. The Bass comforted me at first, the Drum banished my first attack with their kindly presence, then the Guitar supported me when I was at my lowest, and finally the Piano gave me the courage to recover myself. The only one who didn’t help me was the Flute, ironically, and I suppose the Violin as well, though I never got to see them in person. Still, I have much to thank these people for.

 02:45:16

 “Are y-“

“Thank you.”

“Hmm?”

“I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“What brought this on all of a sudden?”

“Everything you’ve done for, that’s what brought it on.”

“Well … uhh … you’re welcome.”

“Haha, you got really flustered after that. Are you not used to compliments?”

“Well excuse me for not being the confident manly man that you are.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“It’s not flattery if I mean it.”

“Are you hitting on me now?”

“No. I told you, you’re definitely not my type.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“You are definitely in a better mood now.”

“I feel … lighter than before. Like a great load I was carrying around has suddenly been lessened.”

“That’s because you’ve let someone else help you carry it with you.”

“No, I think it’s because I’ve found the strength in myself to carry it better.”

“Is that so? Well I can’t argue with results. As long as it all works out, I have no reason to complain.”

“It’s not done yet.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I know who the murderer is.”

“Of course you do.”

“I truly know them. Inside and out.”

“Then it was a success.”

“That’s why I thanked you.”

“It’s nice to have my therapy methodology validated.”

“Is that all you care about?”

“Yes. I’m a selfish person after all.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“That’s fine. You’re allowed to believe in what you witness with your own senses.”

“Do you not trust my senses?”

“I trust my own.”

“What do your senses tell you about me?”

“That you’re a murderer.”

“Is that all? I thought you were more perceptive than that.”

“I can tell that you are kind, with a deep desire to do good for others. I sense that you don’t like to express yourself because you have a long-held complex about your own worth as a person, so you hide away. I can tell that you are prone to violent mood swings but try your hardest to cover them up whenever you can. I see that you consider yourself to be worth more than others due to believing that your own struggles make you somehow stronger than those that haven’t struggled like you have. I know that what drives you deep down is a paradoxical mix of shame and pride in equal proportions.”

“When you say it all like that, it really makes me sound like I’m a crazy person.”

“There is one last thing that I know about you; I know that everything that I’ve said, every bit of your complex, twisted personality, is nothing special or unique. I know that everything you think, a million other people have thought the same themselves. You are an ordinary person, in every aspect; just one more model of the same human machine.”

“…thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me. Just make sure to end this soon. There’s not long before we have to leave the examination room.”

“You really know how to ruin a nice moment, don’t you?”

“It’s a gift.”

“Hahahaha! Alright! I’ll tell you, for our final question, who the true murderer, the heinous criminal who stole your teacher’s innocent life, and the individual right in front of you, truly is!”

 >Pick one:

A.    The young girl

B.     The older man

C.    The middle-aged woman

D.    The young man

E.     The assistant

F.     The elderly woman

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 17

B. The time of the murder

Third Act – Cognition: Part 3

 This is the time where I should blurt a sudden realization. I should have a new answer for the question that these guests are asking that should bring us closer to the truth, but I don’t. I only have more questions. With the group arguing over the older man’s innocence like this, they need someone to unite them in search of the truth, but I can’t be that person. I’ve been pulling us further and further away from the truth with every trip I’ve taken recently. How am I supposed to face them knowing that I am betraying their trust?

“Everyone, calm down!” shouts a composed voice, “we need to think logically about this!”

The middle-aged woman was the one who broke the chaos that had resulted from the young man accusing the older man. She stands between the two of them with a smile in her soul, ready to stop any further conflict.

“This baseless finger-pointing has to stop” she continues, “look, you’ve even got our ‘Pet’ worried by fighting like this.”

Ah, so they have realized that I’m in ill spirits. They can’t possibly know why, but they have been around me long enough now that they know that if I’m not speaking up to provide a new hypothesis about the mystery, that something must be wrong. That’s not the understanding that I was yearning for, but I suppose it’s good enough for me. These idiots are counting on me, I might as well give them a little help.

“I’m not so sure about your accusation, friend” I say, addressing the young man in a way that I hope will earn me some good will with him.

The young man is taken back by this statement, whether for the fact that I don’t trust him or due to how I addressed him, I do not know. After collecting his composure he says “what do you mean? I saw what I saw, what is there to question?”

“When did you see what you say you saw?” I ask, knowing the answer.

“Well it was right after the two of us talked in the kitchen” he answers.

“You were with me in the servant’s quarters for a while and only left after something happened that made you want to leave to check it out. What was that?” I egg him on.

The young man starts at this and answers dejectedly “I left after I heard the gunshot.”

“So you mean you saw this supposed murderer going to the crime scene from the basement, after the murder had occurred” I conclude. I’m aware that the murder took place after the gunshot, but only myself, the murderer, and one other person here knows that. I need to feign ignorance about the truth of the murder in order to steer the conversation away from this topic. My partner-in-crime here may be correct in his accusation, but I can’t let things end without having determined the whole truth of these events with my own senses. They haven’t led me astray so far, so I will trust them until the end.

“That’s strange” says the middle-aged woman “we know that the murderer had to have gone to the basement to take the Professor’s gun to kill him with it and if the young man here truly saw this old fellow coming from the basement after the murder, that would mean that people came to the basement twice since the elderly lady here took up hiding in it. Is this true?” She turns her attention to the elderly lady still spellbound curled up on the basement floor, waiting for all the talk of murder to end.

“Huh?” blurts out the elderly woman. Her panic is clear in every facet of her being as her mind races, trying to get out of this difficult situation. It’s not difficult, Miss, you just have to lie, and I’ll take care of the rest, I try to silently say to her. Whether she heard me or not, she audibly gulps before saying “Yes. I say two people come into the basement. One of them stole my gun, and that was before the gunshot. I don’t know if they were the same person, because it’s so dark in this basement and all.”

Excellent. The middle-aged woman seems disappointed by this statement. She turns back to the rest of the group and says “well, if that’s the case I don’t know what other leads we have-“

“The gun” I interject.

“What about the gun?” says the older man, who had been keeping quiet and observing after having been accused.

“We know where the gun was before the murder, but what did the culprit do with it after the murder? If we know where they put it, then we might be able to figure out who could have put it there” I explain.

“That’s a solid idea” praises the middle-aged woman. I don’t need anyone to tell me that my suggestions are good, I’ve been the one solving this mystery the whole time.

“Well, that assumes that the gun isn’t in anyone’s possession right now” says the young man, “we need to search everyone to make sure that nobody is concealing the gun on them right now.”

Oh right, I forgot that was also a possibility. Perhaps the “great detective” here has some value as a voice of common sense to mention the obvious possibilities I discount as too simple.

We decide to go with the young man’s suggestion and all pat each other down, searching for weapons of murder. Everyone searches everyone else, making it a very long and tedious process. Searching the women in the group was especially trying, mostly the young girl given how much she squirmed and recoiled from my touch, though nowhere near as much as she did from the young man’s forceful pat down.

Eventually the search was finished. There were certainly suspicious objects that were found among everyone’s possessions, a pocket abacus on the older man, a 10-color pen on the young man, a 50-pack of disposable earplugs on the young girl, a full makeup kit on the middle-aged woman, and some … “toys” on the elderly woman, but there were no lethal weapons on anyone.

“Well that was useless” sighs the older man.

“No, it wasn’t useless” I say, “now we know that the killer had to have stowed the murder weapon elsewhere and we can track down where they could have hidden it by determining everyone’s movements.”

Everyone else in the suspects line-up seem confused and annoyed by this suggestion. It figures, they haven’t been inhabiting the perspectives of each other, so they have no idea how to start with tracking movements. Luckily for them, I’m willing to help them out with my own particular talents. I have seen much of every person here’s movements before the murder, including the killer’s, but I don’t know much about what comes after the Professor’s death. I need to determine what happened after he died, and specifically what happened to the murder weapon. I have to look back to the near past.

 May 31st, 10:04 pm

 It must have been only the near past that the Professor and I were together. Well, it was less than an hour ago that I last saw him, but he wasn’t the same person that I remembered then, and due to that, and the fact that he is currently dead, it feels like it has been much longer than it has been in truth.

This is the third stage of grief if I remember correctly. I have only just gotten over my anger after realizing how misplaced it was, now I am only left with sadness and longing, pining for the days when the Professor was my dearest brother-in-arms.

“Are you alright?” says Three.

“Yes. Uhh, why would I not be alright?” I say, feigning exasperation to cover up my surprise after having been shaken out of that mournful reverie.

Three is a good number. And Three is also a good Number, from what I’ve seen of them. They are complete, beautiful, the first odd prime, an approximation of pi and e, the smallest number of sides a closed polygon can have-

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Three repeats, “they’re leaving you behind.”

On second thought, I’m not sure if I like this Three. They are being awfully rude. Pythagoras said that Three was the noblest digit because it is the only natural number to equal the sum of all the natural numbers below it, but in the case of an individual, that just means that Three is a bit too overly self-reliant. Three is perfect in and of itself, so why would Three need to fraternize with less perfect Numbers? I am sure that is what this number is thinking. They must not want to be alone with a Number like me any further.

“I’m sure it has been hard” says Three, “having your old friend die. I can’t say that I understand, I’m sure no one can truly, but I know that you will be alright in the end. You’re strong deep down, and you’re stronger when you are alone. Believe me, I know about these kinds of things.”

“Thank you” I say, truly meaning the nicety for once in a long time. I am not sure if I am as strong as Three says, but it is a nice thought. I have lived alone for much of my life, and while I cannot say that I have been alright all of that time, I am ultimately happy with the person I ended up becoming. Perhaps living the rest of my life with a good friend like the Professor would have made me happier, but so long as I still have myself, I will always have a life left to live and I can make that life good if I try.

“Should we go catch up with the others?” I suggest after having composed myself as best I can.

“Yes” says Three, “but first, I think we should look around this office a bit. We’re going down to the basement to investigate, but I don’t think we’ve properly investigated this room yet.”

“I agree, though perhaps we should have the other three investigate here with us” I say.

“No. We’ll just do this quickly and catch up with them in a minute. We can’t delay them any further when there is a potential killer on the loose in that basement” Three explains. They are right. I would like to investigate this place more thoroughly, more as a trip down memory lane than as a murder investigation, but that can wait.

The two of us begin quickly and silently inspecting every nook and cranny of the crime scene. We wordlessly coordinate, taking opposite sides of the room and moving at a similar pace. Perhaps the late Professor was right, we may be as alike in our minds as he noted we are in our appearances.

I swiftly go over the small room inspecting each one of the Professor’s affects. There is not much, all he really kept in his office was books. Books of psychology make up a good portion of his first bookshelf, 42 books, then there are several books on philosophy scattered throughout the bookshelves in various sections, 23 books, then a surprisingly large number of compilations of short Sci-fi stories, 11 books, and finally a number of various other academic volumes on different subjects, one of which I recognize as a book about numerology I gave him as a present a few years ago and another I recognize as the Kamasutra, 17 books. By the time I am done counting and inspecting each book I have made a full clockwise circumnavigation of the small room and passed by Three, who had made the same round trip in the opposite direction and inspected every bit of the room as well, though I doubt they made as thorough of a note of the precise number of books on the shelves.

I turn away from my unproductive investigation and look to Three, who looks back at me, apparently having finished earlier and been waiting for me before leaving. They motion for me to follow them, and we leave the room. I ask them if they saw anything of note in the Professor’s office. They say no. We begin to speak with one another about our theories for who could have killed the Professor. I feel strangely comforted speaking with Three. They remind me of what I liked most about Zero when he was less self-absorbed and career-minded. I feel ashamed, not being able to give Three any information from my investigation or any new theories about who the killer could be. I had been so focused on the Professor’s assistant that I had not thought of anyone else, and I am not good at doubting people or reading their intentions, so this whole mystery business is beyond me. Three chuckles at that admission. That is another thing they have in common with the Professor, their humor, though Three’s seems more good natured and less mocking.

Together, we descend the staircase to the first floor and meet with the other suspects. It should not be long before the culprit is identified. With people like Three and the unexpectedly capable Five here, I am sure that the truth will come to light, but I am no longer filled with the anger that made me hasty to accuse someone. I do not think I can bring myself to blame someone for my old friend’s death. I do not want to know any further loss.

 02:33:33

 “I don’t want to lose you.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to lose anyone who was there on that night, so I will make sure that even the killer comes out of it alright.”

“Oh, I had thought you were hitting on me again.”

“Perhaps I was.”

“I appreciate the attempt at humor, but I’m not in the mood.”

“You are temperamental, aren’t you? That’s not something I expected after having only seen you before on that night.”

“Like the ebbing and flowing of the tides.”

“Hmm?”

“That’s how my mother described me. She said my mood is like the ebbing and flowing of the tides.”

“Hahaha.”

“Is there something funny about what I said?”

“No, no, no, of course not. It’s just that your mother seems to have been very perceptive to have diagnosed your condition so accurately in such clear layman’s terms. You certainly seem to be in a better mood than normal right now, is the tide flowing?”

“I would say it’s ebbing right now.”

“That’s good. I like the low tide. You can see all the little treasures that the high tide brought into shore.”

“What treasures are there to find? My predisposition towards lying?”

“I suppose that’s one of them, but I’d say that your inner kindness is the treasure I’m most excited to find.”

“You certainly went out of your way to search for that one.”

“But it was there, wasn’t it?”

“Just because something exists doesn’t mean it’s used.”

“If we judge whether people are good or evil based on their deeds, then very few people would be strongly in either direction. Most people live their whole lives without ever having done a significant good or evil act. So if we must judge someone’s moral worth, we need to evaluate their capacity for good and evil.”

“So you mean that even if I have performed an evil act, I can still be good if I have the capacity for good?”

“No. You are evil. You made your choice. No matter how much good you do, that will never erase your sin, but if I refuse to acknowledge that anyone is anything other than good deep down, because that would mean that a person like me that has considered evil may be truly evil inside and simply never been tested enough before to show it.”

‘So this whole endeavor has been selfishly motivated after all.”

“All things that people do is for their own self-interests. Even selflessness is just another way serving one’s own desires. People have an innate desire to do good for the fellow members of their pack, or herd, or gang, or whatever you’d call a human family unit. That desire is unassailable and programmed into every human’s brain by evolution. Being kind is simply satisfying your own selfish desire to feel good about how kind you are.”

“That’s an awfully cynical way of seeing the world.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I think that is beautiful. Good and evil are just two expressions of the same selfish functions of the human machine. It’s a gorgeously simple system, built by millennia of trial and error, but the fact that we can all be so different despite being built on the same basic system, that some of us can be saints and others murderers, that is the beauty of humanity.”

“There is no beauty in evil.”

“There is no beauty in an evil that you do not understand. You can find beauty in all things if you look hard enough.”

“Though you wouldn’t know anything about looking, would you?”

“I’ll let that jab slide this time. We do need to get going however, I only booked this room for three hours. Are you ready to continue?”

“Yes.”

“No hesitancy? No preconditions? You’re just plain and simply are ready this time?”

“Yes.”

“We are nearly at the end. It won’t be long until we both know the whole truth.”

“I think I am beginning to understand the truth myself already.”

“Of course, you were definitely the smartest among us. Well then, we are nearly at the moment where the culprit will be determined, but even If we have our suspicions about who it may be, we do not have concrete proof pinning the crime on them yet. What we do have is proof to determine who could not be the culprit.”

“The young man and the elderly woman, right? Oh, and the assistant too, obviously. We know from experience that none of them could have committed the crime.”

“Yes, but there is one other. We now know that the killer had to have hidden the murder weapon somewhere after killing the Professor. But most people present didn’t have any opportunity to do so where they weren’t watched by another person given that the guests were together during the time where the true culprit was being determined.”

“Except for one moment.”

“Yes. We now know that there is a time where multiple people could have hidden the gun after the area was already investigated and deemed free of any incriminating evidence. All we need to do is determine who was present in that place at that time, or more specifically, who among the remaining suspects was not present there. So, answer, who among the remaining suspects can we now rule out as the culprit with this new piece of evidence?”

 >Pick one:

A.    The young girl

B.     The older man

C.    The middle-aged woman

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 16

B. There is no proof

Third Act – Cognition: Part 2

 The elderly woman in front of me is not the killer. I’m sure of that, but I have no way to prove it. No one here can see into my head and know that what I have witnessed is the truth, that’s something that no one will ever understand about me.

I’m going to have to lie. There is no other way to find the truth. I have danced around outright falsehood before, but now I don’t have a choice. The method you use to find the truth is less important than the truth itself. I will achieve my goal, for everyone’s sake, by whatever means is necessary.

“The woman here, this fifth guest” I begin, more confidently than I expected I could be, “could not have possibly committed the murder.”

“Why so?” asks the middle-aged woman.

“She was here in the basement before the murder happened. In order for her to get to the Professor’s office to kill him she would have to go up through the first and second floors” I explain, “we were all there and this isn’t a very large building at all. If she went to the office, we would have noticed.”

“Perhaps, but she didn’t need to go through the first and second floors in order to get up to the office” says the older man, “you were the one who mentioned it, right ‘Pet’? She could have just gone up to the office directly using the dumbwaiter.”

Of course. This is the great flaw in my plan. I have no way to prove that she didn’t use the dumbwaiter. It’s entirely locked behind a wall, and no one was looking at it. Anyone could have used it to move around the building and never be caught. If I’m going to disprove this theory, I’ll need to lie.

“That’s impossible” I blurt out, “you can’t operate the dumbwaiter while inside it. You need to be on the outside to operate the mechanism without the dumbwaiter doors closing on you.”

All the guests turn to me, surprise and doubt apparent on every facet of their person.

“Believe me, I’ve been in this house for months. I’ve tried to use these dumbwaiters to transport myself, but even as small as I am, operating them from inside is impossible no matter what I try” I lie. I’ve used the dumbwaiters before and easily been able to transport myself from floor to floor. The process is so simple and easy that even a woman like the one in front of me could do it while in a state of distress and after having only seen the dumbwaiters for the first time that day.

The dumbwaiter-hopping woman in question is the guest that is most surprised by this turn of events. She stares at me, mouth choking out pre-vocalizations, starting to and stopping herself from explaining the truth. I give her what I assume is a conspiratorial look in the hope of getting her to play along.

“Hmm, well, you should know better than the rest of us about this, and you’re the only one who has been proven to be innocent here. Not to mention you lead us to a major lead by bringing us to the basement, so I think we should trust Pet, guys” says the young man. Having someone you can trust to trust in you is extremely useful in a time like this. This one is a good assistant after all.

“But now that we’ve put aside the matter of the fifth guest’s innocence” continues the young man, “I just realized that I have some extremely important testimony that will break this case wide open.” What? Withholding information like this is why no one trusts you, color-freak.

“Now that we know that the Professor’s gun was in the basement, it follows that the killer had to have gone to the basement and then up to the office to kill the Professor” he states with a smile, “so if any of us had seen someone going from the basement to the second floor, that would mean that the person they saw must be the killer.”

“That is why I accuse” he pauses for dramatic effect, like an asshole, “the old man right here!”

He spins around and points at the older man, who recoils from the accusation before blurting out “I’ve never been in this basement in my life! What are you talking about?”

“I saw you coming out the basement with a suspiciously gun shaped object tucked in your belt” the young man accuses, “fess up, murderer! I’ve caught you Green-handed!”

Green? Oh, of course, the young man here’s particular type of pneumasthesia, or whatever it is, is related to colors.

But is what he’s saying really true? This young man has withheld information before, but he’s never lied. I’m certain that he’s not the killer either given that I know that he is not the Ace. However, I get the distinct feeling that he doesn’t know the whole picture here. It’s probably mostly because I think that he’s an idiot, but I should verify if what he’s saying is actually what he witnessed. I need to search, not just my mind, but his as well, just like always.

 Fourth Piece: A Green Wave Crashing Against the Shore

 I need to search. I need to search and search and keep on searching, until I find the truth.

Everything about this is exciting. There has been a gunshot in a cabin in the woods full of insane strangers. I can feel my creative juices flowing, but now is not the time to retreat into my head. The truth of this incident must be uncovered, and who else is better suited for the task than myself.

Time to get out of these dirty servant’s quarters, leave the panicking little turd here behind, and truly investigate the scene of the crime.

I open the door to leave this repurposed kitchen, only to run straight first into someone standing directly in front of the door.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there” says the individual I just ran into. What a weirdo. Of course you didn’t see me there, you were on the other side of a closed door. What you should apologize for is the fact that you stood right in front of a door in the first place. What is this person, a child?

No, this one is Green. The tall, well dressed pine tree of a Color is staring down at me concerned as if I’m the child here. What a piece of garbage, being so rude as to bump into me and then acting like I’m the one who made a mistake. But it’s only to be expected from such an overly caring Color like Green.

Hmm? Green seems a little different to before. Their shade is a touch darker. Bluer, like a forest bathed in moonlight. They seem a smidge more mature, more focused, but still the same soft, gentle pine tree.

“I’m fine” I brush Green aside and move away. Checking out the scene of the crime comes before anything else to me.

“Oh, alright” Green says awkwardly, “but if there’s anything I can help you with, tell me. I understand that you have some problems with the way that the Professor has been running this ‘retreat’ of his. I’m on your side, so let me know of any concerns you have.”

Oh, this one also doesn’t like the Professor. I didn’t think they had it in them to be critical enough to realize how nonsense this whole business is. Respectable. I nod to Green and wave goodbye. They do the same.

Enough of that. It’s nice to have more allies but telling off the Professor is no longer my primary concern. I head to the second floor to see what is going on, or at least I try to, but I find myself interrupted, once again.

Out of the basement staircase, right in front of the staircase to the second floor, I find Green once more, walking out of the basement. How did they get back here this quickly? Maybe they took the dumbwaiter in the servant quarters down to the basement and then came back up, but why? That’s not important, what is important is that they are right in my way and one of us is going to have to move aside so the other can get to the second floor.

“Ah, hello there” says Green, “can you step aside? I have somewhere that I need to be.”

Green gives me a wide smile, a smile as wide and kind as the rolling waves. Their smile is deep and all-encompassing like the ocean. As nice and well-meaning as they seem and claim to be, they are being rather rude right now by trying to cut ahead of me on the stairs.

“So do I. Is there a reason that you’re so rushed?” I question.

Green stares right at me, their hand moving to their side where an oddly shaped object in tucked into their pants. They pause for a long moment before saying “I’m trying to see what that gunshot was, so I’m going to check out the Professor’s office.”

“So am I” I say, “how about we go together.” I don’t want to do any of this with anyone, let alone Green, but I figured I should offer to be polite.

“No, thank you” Green says, “I prefer to work alone.” So do I, but you’re not supposed to say that to on offer like this. You should at least be polite enough to have a proper excuse.

Green moves around me and starts to walk up the staircase. For how nice they seem, this Green is awfully rude. They don’t even have the good manners to wear clothes without rips in them. Wait, rips?

“Hey, that cut on your sleeve” I shout back at the rapidly leaving Green, “are you okay? It looks like it’s bleeding pretty badly.”

Green looks back at me and then looks at their sleeve, which has been cut in several places and bleeding into the fabric of their suit sleeve.

“Oh, how scatterbrained of me” they say, chuckling a bit to their self, “thank you for noticing this for me. It would have been disastrous if you hadn’t.”

Green steps down off the staircase and moves to the entrance of the living room to take their coat off the coatrack there. They also start rustling in their bag for something, presumably bandages for their cuts. They turn back to me, smile and wave back, saying to go on ahead of them. Ugh, this Green is so infuriatingly positive. Even when they are injured, they still smile and nod like they’re having the time of their life. Their unshakable placidity is as deep as a green ocean.

I’ve spent too long being held up by one person. I go up the staircase, taking two steps at a time, and jog up to the Professor’s office. In the hallway outside, I find Yellow, sitting on the floor and waiting for something. I have no time to be held up with them as well, so I ignore them and knock on the Professor’s door. There is no answer. I know he’s here and that something is going on behind those doors, but I can’t just intrude, so I’ll have to wait. I refuse to wait in the hallway with the little ray of sunshine though; their shade is much too depressed right now to be proper company, so I move into a nearby room, to wait and watch until something happens in the office.

The room I enter appears to be the Professor’s bedroom. I sit on a large, well-kept canopy bed that takes up much of the space in the room. The whole place seems so tidy, as if it has been nearly unused. I wouldn’t be surprised if that crazy Professor spend all his time sleeping in his office instead of here. What a shame, it is a nice and comfy bed. I wait on the bad, looking through a gap I opened in the door that faces directly towards the office. I keep watch for anyone who tries to enter the office. I will find the truth; I swear on it.

 02:16:17

 “I thought you were going to find the truth, not lie like this.”

“You made it clear to me that there was no way that I could move forward without deceiving people. It’s not like any of them could understand what I know anyway.”

“I agree with you.”

“Really? I thought you would give another of your speeches about how people can always understand one another. Something about the simplicity of the machine that is the human brain.”

“Humans can understand each other, at least in the broad strokes. Emotion and thought are not as complicated of things as some people make them out to be, but no brains will ever be the same, especially ones as abnormal as yours and mine.”

“So you think it’s right to lie to people if they won’t be able to understand you?”

“No.”

“…are you going to elaborate on that point?”

“I have nothing else to say. I don’t think what you did is right, but I understand why you did it. I have done similar things myself. Neither of us is free of this moral failing.”

“Is this what you meant when you said that you could have seen yourself doing the same thing that I did?”

“Yes. I don’t think that the two of us are very different after all.”

“!?”

“I hated the Professor, for how he treated me and for how he treated the other patients, but mostly for myself. I had considered reporting him to the university higher-ups to try to get him fired, but I knew I couldn’t because those people are just as guilty of mistreating their patients as he is. I can’t say that I thought about killing him, but I understand the desire.”

“But you still won’t forgive me?”

“Do you forgive yourself?”

“No.”

“And neither do I.”

“For what?”

“Not keeping my teacher safe.”

“Even though you hated him?”

“Yes. Even he wasn’t without his reasons for what he did, I’m sure of it. I should have tried to understand him.”

“If you knew why he was the way he was, would you have forgiven him?”

“I doubt it, but I still should have tried.”

“You’re a better person than I am.”

“Then you’ll have a lot of work ahead of you, to become as good a person as I am.”

“That’s not the kind of thing that a good person would say. You’re supposed to be too humble to accept that judgement.”

“I’m a good person, but I’m not an idiot. I take compliments when I can get them.”

“Heh.”

“…”

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“Nothing. Let’s just keep moving on, we don’t have much time left here.”

“Yes. So the young man has accused the older man, but I don’t think his account of things is entirely correct.”

“Why do you say that?”

“What he witnessed seems to contradict itself.”

“Can you explain that to the guests?”

“No, they wouldn’t understand.”

“So are you going to lie to them again?”

“…yes. I don’t like it, but I will. I need to have faith in myself, in my own senses and my own instincts.”

“Even if they are those of a murderer.”

“…yes.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Now, you’ve seen a contradiction in what the young man saw, but you’ll have to ignore that for now, instead you’ll have to look for a different contradiction with his account. There is something about what he witnessed that makes it impossible when considered in the context of the accepted account of events. You may know from what you’ve witnessed that this account of events is wrong, but you’ll have to conceal the truth to ‘disprove’ his claims and find the absolute truth. Well then, tell me, you heartless criminal, what will you lie about to discredit the young man’s testimony?”

 >Pick one:

A.    The scene of the murder

B.     The time of the murder

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 15

A. The Ace

Third Act – Cognition

 “What do you mean ‘the Ace’?” questions the young man, “is that the name of this old lady here?”

Huh? Did I say that out loud? Damn. Now everyone here will think I’m insane. Well, more than before.

“You know about the Ace?” asks an elderly woman’s voice from deeper into the basement.

Everyone present starts at that voice, myself included. The elderly woman in the far-off gloom stops her incessant sobbing and crawls towards us hesitantly.

“Don’t come any closer!” screams the older man, attempting to put on a brave tone of voice, “we have reason to suspect that you have killed someone!”

“Me? Killed someone?” the elderly woman exclaims in surprise, “then you mean those screams from before, they were because someone died? Don’t tell me it was…”

“The Professor was murdered” I say, calmer than I thought I could manage.

The elderly woman gasps, “maybe if I left that gun with him this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You have the Professor’s gun?” exclaims the young man.

“N-no, I don’t” she says, recoiling from the accusation, “I took it from him to protect myself, but then someone stole it from me.”

Is that true? Is any of what she’s saying true? There’s so much happening I can’t put anything straight. I don’t feel like myself anymore.

I need to gather my thoughts. I know that the Ace was the one who killed my teacher and I know how I can determine who that is. I just need to do what I’ve always done. I need to search my thoughts and surely I’ll find the truth somewhere. I need to trust in myself.

 A Dance in the Embrace of Darkness

 I can’t trust anyone here.

The person that I thought cared about me the most since my husband died has betrayed me. He only looks out for himself. I was only a toy to him. Granted, he wasn’t much more than that to me either, but the man is supposed to protect the woman in times like this right? That should be a given. I should be protected, not having to cower in a basement with my trembling fingers wrapped around a gun’s trigger like this.

If I had any voice left in me, I would scream out right now. Scream for help, but help from who? I’m in the middle of nowhere with nothing but future murderers and past betrayers around me. I could run, but to do so I’d have to leave this basement, and then someone could find me. I can’t let that happen. I’ll stay safe, right here, where no one can see me and surely this whole situation will simply fade away, like a bad dream.

What was that noise? Someone is coming down the stairs. What should I do? I could go back into the dumbwaiter, but what then? I’ll just be back in the Professors room. I’ll have to face that asshole again, and maybe even face that psycho too. I need to just stay put. It’s dark in here, surely no one will be able to notice me. So long as I stay perfectly still…

A lantern is lit by the staircase. Ah, of course, they could just do that. I recoil from the sudden light and point my gun shakily in the direction of the light, willing myself to pull the trigger, but am unable to.

“There you are, little Priestess” speaks the malicious voice of the psycho from before, “don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you. It’s just that there’s something you have that I need.”

“I have nothing to give to a murderer like you!” I scream as bravely as I can muster, which isn’t much.

“I’m not a murderer. I don’t like to kill” the murderer says with mock innocence, “well, I can’t exactly say whether I like it or not, given that I’ve never tried it before. The prospect of ending that hack does seem quite nice right now. But I assure you, I’m not the psychopathic killer you may think I am, just a concerned patient taking up a complaint with their therapist.”

The psycho inches closer to me. I try as hard as I can to squeeze the trigger on the gun, but my fingers refuse to obey me. Why do I have to be such a nice person in this moment in particular?

I hear the slow footsteps of the murderer come closer and closer to me. I look away and brace myself for the worst.

But the worst doesn’t come. I feel the touch of a soft hand on my own outstretched hand. In a moment like this, feeling the touch of another is almost comforting, but knowing whose touch it is ruins the effect.

“You should know what that Professor is like as well, if not better, than anyone” whispers the murderer, “he left you behind like the self-interested Hierophant he is. He uses you for self-gratification and diagnoses you with ailments you don’t have just to exploit you for money and fame. He has made it his career to ruin people’s lives and as such, he has forfeited the right to his own.”

What kind of logic is that? You don’t kill people, it’s as plain as that! Just because you don’t like someone doesn’t mean that you can just decide whether they live or not! Who does this psycho think they are?

“I see that you have a very strong sense of what is right and wrong” calmly speaks the psycho, “a High Priestess like you believes themselves to be wise enough to understand the true nature of things, but they never contemplate anything beyond the surface of matters, always seeking an answer that is ‘good’ over an answer that is true.”

What is this Hierophant and High Priestess nonsense? This person must be crazier than I thought.

“Not killing someone is common sense” I finally muster up the courage to say, “if common sense isn’t right, then what is?”

“Common sense is the supposed ‘wisdom of the masses’” the murderer speaks, “it is built upon the agreement of the general populace and as such is considered to be absolute. But just because more people agree with it, that is no reason to believe that it is more correct. You yourself have surely seen more unfathomably wrong and idiotic people in your life than you have seen people that you can truly agree with, so it follows that the wisdom of the masses is likely to be wrong more often than not.”

The murderer squeezes my hand, and the gun clutched in it more tightly than before, “therefore people should decide for themselves what is right. I have faith in humanity, that when unclouded by the need to conform to the expectations of others, that people will choose what is right of their own accord. Do you not believe in the fundamental goodness of humanity?”

I would say that I do, but how do I say that to someone who has professed to wanting to commit murder? My mind races, and my grip on the gun loosens.

The psycho pries the Professor’s gun from my hand. My mind focuses in this moment of duress. I bite deep into the forearm of the assailant. I don’t know why I’m putting myself in more danger than I need to be, but it seems like the right thing to do. The murderer recoils from the bite, not making a sound despite the pain. Unfortunately, my last-ditch effort is in vain, they still have the gun in their hands and all I’m left with is the disgusting taste of cloth and human blood in my mouth.

“Ugh. So I suppose you don’t understand what I said” says the injured psycho, “not like it matters. You’ll understand in time, that the only one that can help you is yourself.”

They inspect the gun for a second and manipulate the mechanism a bit. It looks like they’re reloading the gun, but where could they have found more ammo?

The soon-to-be murderer turns away, the light of their lantern fading with them. I am soon left once again in the darkness, no longer with anything to protect myself, but now with nothing to protect myself from. The man that I thought I loved will soon die. There is nothing I can do about it. I can’t help him, and he couldn’t help me. More specifically, he didn’t try to help me. The only thing that has brought me happiness in my elderly widowed life, my relationship with that goodly Professor, has been wrested from me. How am I to live if not with him, if not in the embrace of another. I am only alone, here in the darkness, with only my thoughts to keep me company. I cry because what else am I to do?

 02:05:11

 “You’re crying. That’s new.”

“Of course I’d cry. After an experience like that.”

“Really? I thought you were a man. You should at least act like one.”

“!?”

“What?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just, hearing you call me that…”

“Of course I’d call you that. I hate you with every fiber of my being, but I recognize that you are a human being with your own thoughts and desires. If I didn’t, I would be a disgrace to my profession.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, finally you recognize that you are a proper human being worthy of being treated well despite your crimes. Fantastic.”

“I want to know why I did this. I want to face myself.”

“Wonderful. You are not some sort of mentally defective animal incapable of rational thought. You’re a person like anyone else, and that means that you made the choice to kill of your own volition having believed, in the moment, that it was the right thing.”

“So you can forgive me for what I’ve done?”

“No. The fact that you are like anyone else makes your crime all the more heinous and unforgivable. You chose to kill, and that can never be changed or forgotten. You will have to live and suffer with that for the rest of your life, but you will have a life after this, I will make it so.”

“This whole session was just so that I could be punished, wasn’t it?”

“No. If anything this is my punishment. I could have written you off as just an insane murderer, but I chose to try to understand you, but as I am, I am realizing what made you do it. Understanding why you killed my teacher, I start to think that if I was in your situation, I might have done the same, and that disgusts me. This is my punishment as much as it is yours. We will both search the past to find the truth of that night, no matter how painful it is for us both.”

“…you’re right. I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

“Stop being so meek and kind now of all times. You just need to answer my questions. Now tell me, the fifth guest that met you in the basement, did they kill the professor?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, at that time, was there any proof that you could have presented that would have demonstrated her guilt?”

“I don’t…”

“Of course you know. You saw that situation. The fifth guest was alone, with direct access to the Professor’s office and the murder weapon in their hands. You know that she’s not the murderer, but how can you prove that? If you think it through, you’ll recognize what you need to do to find the true culprit, as much as you may not like it. Now tell me, do you have any proof that the fifth guest was not the murderer?”

  >Pick one:

A.    There is proof

B.     There is no proof

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 14

C. The Person with Number based Pneumasthesia

01:58:35

 “That’s not right. That’s not who you are.”

“I’m sorry I just don’t kn-“

“You have to know! You can’t run like this from yourself. You need to be the person that you were when you killed him, so I can face his murderer. So I can finally know why he had to die”

“I can’t…”

“Of course you can. You said it yourself, remember? Your past and your present are one and the same.”

“I know. I know I killed him! That sin will stay with me forever. But I can’t accept why I did what I did. If I do, then that would mean that I will always be that person; that I will always be a murderer.”

“No. If you accept your past self, then that means that you will be able to understand that version of yourself. Once you understand them, you can reject them. They will always be part of you, but you will finally be able to know what makes the current you different from them.”

“…”

 Second Act – Perception: Part 5

 “…” I can say nothing. I simply stare into nothingness.

“Hey ‘Pet’, move along! You’re holding up the line!” says the young man beside me, “at this rate the killer will escape!”

He pushes me aside and runs down the staircase, the smell of burning oil streaming off the old-fashioned lantern he’s holding in his hand. I feel the movement of the other three guests as they push past me and rush down to the basement to face the fifth guest.

A second shriek rings out. It is the shriek of a victim. Of a person who has begun to accept that they may die at any time. Their voice is hoarse from use, and they choke back tears in between cries.

This is not the voice of a murderer.

I know what a murderer sounds like.

 Third Card – Present: Swords

 I am a murderer. At least, I soon will be.

If that Hierophant does not accept my demands, I will surely kill him. Perhaps, I will even if he does, but I can be certain that he won’t. I know exactly what he’s thinking in that decrepit old skull of his.

I feel excellent right now. Like I am more myself than I’ve ever been before. My mind is unclouded. I have but one singular, selfless goal. To save everyone present here: the poor Hanged Man, the idiotic Magician, the stubborn Hermit, the ridiculous Fool, even that reprehensible Priestess.

My arm aches where the Priestess bit me. How disgraceful of them. So completely unfitting of their suit. They would stoop so low simply because they have been faced with danger. That Priestess must have spent their entire life relying on others, never once acting on their own. I will show them, I will show everyone here, that there is no need to ask for help from another, that you are the only person in the world who can know yourself, and that no one else can ever understand you for who you are.

My hand moves to the gun stuffed in my pants and held up by my belt. A wonderful invention, belts are. So useful, so slimming, so manly. Everyone should wear a belt. I feel so positive right now. Even my clothing makes me feel happy. Whenever I think of that detestable Professor, my mind does not go to how much I despise him, I instead only think about how wonderful it will feel to be rid of him. This is a High, the highest High I’ve ever had. I feel as if I finally know what I have been born for. Nothing could bring me greater joy than what I am doing right now.

I take a big breath, reveling in how alive I feel in this moment, and begin to unlock the Professor’s door. This locking mechanism, it’s so ineffectual I could laugh. In fact I am laughing. All I need to do in order to kill this old man is to take the gun he himself keeps, open the lock he himself gave the combination for, and then stroll right into his office where he’s been staying put waiting for me to kill him this whole time. If doing this wasn’t right, then why would he make it so easy for me?

I open the door and my mouth, prepared to give the Professor my ultimatum again, but before I can …

… everything becomes a blur.

I do not know what happened. It was so fast, and I didn’t feel like I was in control. All I know is that when it was over, I stood above the Hierophant’s body, his Arcana having faded from him, with a bloodied gun in my hand.

All feeling has left my body. All emotion has left my mind.

My High has ended as abruptly as it began. My certainty is gone. Where it left, I find clarity. I can clearly see what I have become.

I am a killer.

I am a savior.

I am a murderer.

I am …

 02:00:02

 “I am …”

 Second Act – Perception: Part 6

 “The killer is …”

 >Pick one:

A.    The Ace

B.     The Ace

C.    The Ace

D.    The Ace

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 13

A.    The basement

Second Act – Perception: Part 4

 “The fifth guest that we haven’t accounted for is in the basement” I claim, not fully sure of my answer.

“Yeah, that makes sense. I haven’t been in the basement because I thought it’d be all gross and grimy” says the young man. Does he really think that I wouldn’t clean the basement? I’ll have him know that I have that place spick and span.

“How do you know this?” says the older man, “have you seen this person in the basement.”

I shouldn’t lie here. If we go to the basement and there’s actually no one there, I’d be beheaded on the spot. Well, probably not, but something bad would certainly happen.

“No. I haven’t seen this person” I muster up my courage to speak, “but I know that they were in the Professor’s office when the gun went off and then went into the dumbwaiter directly to the basement.”

“You still haven’t told us why you know this” says the middle-aged woman, clearly beginning to suspect me of my lack of proper explanations for most of my claims.

“I was in the servant’s quarters directly downstairs during all these events” I say, not lying here, but definitely twisting the truth, “I heard the voice of someone not present here above me before the gunshot and then I heard the sound of a particularly heavy load being transferred down the dumbwaiter all the way to the basement.”

“Hmm? I was there with you, but I didn’t hear that” says the young man with clear confusion. Just shut up already and stop ruining this.

“I guess you can hear better than I can because you’re blind” exclaims the young man. Oh, thank you so much, my partner-in-crime.

“Well then, I suppose we should go to the basement to see this mysterious seventh person” says the middle-aged woman, with what seems like excitement in her voice.

“Very well then” I say, still frightened about what will happen if we don’t find anyone there.

“You go first, ‘Pet’” commands the older man.

“Why me?” I question.

“This is your idea, so if the person we find down there is a rabid murderer, then you will get what you deserve for leading us to them” he says completely matter-of-factly.

“Shouldn’t there be someone leading the way for the blind man, you know, so I don’t trip and fall and break my skull open or something” I plead.

“You’ve seemed plenty capable so far to us” says the middle-aged woman, “and besides, you’ve been the housekeeper for this place for a while, don’t tell me you had someone to hold your hand every time you went up and down stairs yourself before.”

Well of course I didn’t. Ugh, I don’t usually like being pitied, but it would’ve been pretty nice right now.

“I’ll hold your hand” says the young man, “don’t worry, I’ll protect from the spooky darkness in that basement!” I don’t even know what darkness is so thanks for nothing, idiot.

He grabs ahold of my hand far too tightly and begins to walk quickly out of the office, dragging me along with him. The young girl follows us close behind.

The young man pulls me to the entrance to the basement right next to the stairs that connect the first and second floor in a few moments. I notice that the older members of our little band of suspects are missing. We wait around for a bit by the entrance. The young man taps his foot, whether out of impatience or nervousness, I cannot tell.

After a few interminable moments, the older man and middle-aged woman both come down the staircase, speaking about something I can’t quite make out.

“Are we ready now?” I ask, more to myself than anyone else.

Everyone agrees, well everyone except the hypothetical mysterious person in the basement does, and then we head down.

We step slowly, down into the gloom. I can feel my nose picking up the scent of mildew and dust more clearly than before. I usually only come down here in order to clean, so now I feel the pavlovian desire to take out a mop and broom. But no, I’m here to find a killer. I’m not quite a detective right now, but I’m certainly no longer a housekeeper.

In the shadows, I notice something: heavy breathing, creaking floorboards, the rustling of clothes. I doubt anyone present can see them yet, but I can feel the presence of this fifth guest.

I instinctually take a deep breath, preparing myself for the worst. I make the last step off the staircase, placing my foot on the floor of the basement at last. There is a moment of silence. The presence that I felt in this basement does not make a single movement. There is nothing but the beating of my heart, and then …

Shrieeeeeeeeeek!!!

 A Dance in the Arms of a Lover

 Shrieee-

“Shhh! Be quiet, woman! Do you want all the other guests to hear?” chides the Professor.

“I’m sorry, Professor, your tongue just felt so good” I manage to say through heavy breaths.

“Oh, well, well, well. I knew I still had it in me” boasts the Professor, “you’re not bad yourself, given your age.”

“What, do you normally go for woman younger than you?” I question flirtatiously, “I suppose you’d get plenty of attention, being a big-shot intellectual and all that.”

The Professor looks away from me before saying “yes, of course I do. Well, that’s enough playing around. I have work that must be done. Now get your clothes back on, woman.”

I acquiesce to his demands. Such a shame, I should have come here earlier, then I might have been able to spend more time with him. I get to see so woefully little of … what was his name again? Oh, I must have forgotten. How silly of me, I’ve even forgotten my lover’s name now.

“You will stay right here until the night is done” commands the Professor, “I have business to attend to until late tonight. When that is over…” he leans in close to my face, “we will finish what we started here.”

“Of course” I whisper, “you’ll give me a good, long examination, won’t you, Professor?”

“Yes, I will, but I am going to have sex with you first” he says, as charmingly tactless as ever. “You are certain about your condition, right?”

Ah, yes, my condition. I came to see the good Professor here a few months ago to receive consultation about my memory loss. Most therapists had told me that it was an incurable illness that I could only take pills for and learn to deal with, but I couldn’t accept that. The renegade, eccentric, handsome psychologist who lives deep in the words would surely be able to help me, is what I thought, but when I came to see him, he began to almost diagnose me instantly with this made-up seeming illness. What was it called again? “Neurosapia”? Something like that. I should have probably told him that I didn’t have anything of the sort, but I couldn’t bear to no longer be able to see him, so I kept the charade going and now I’m here in a house with a bunch of actual crazies. I should probably just leave here as soon as I can. No sex is worth having to deal with this nonsense.

“I’m certain. Whenever I think about people, I can’t remember their names or faces, only how they make me feel when I’m around them” I say. Of course that’s just because I have a failing short-term memory, but an eccentric like the Professor would never admit to that.

“I’ll have to question you more thoroughly later” he says, probably intending that to be an innuendo, “but I have a strong suspicion that you have a case of Kinesthenic Pneumasthesia. One where your empathic sense of personal identification has been mixed with your own sense of touch and movement.”

Sure, seems as good an explanation as any. If my condition can’t be cured, I might as well believe that it’s not an illness but actually some kind of psychic power, why not.

The Professor begins to button up his shirt, fumbling with them due to his permanently shaking fingers. I help him out, closing each clasp one by one as sensually as I can manage, which must be quite a bit, since the Professor looks away from me in that adorably shy way that he does when we’re alone. He acts like he doesn’t enjoy it, but he always has that slight smile on the corners of his lips.

Suddenly, the Professor’s smile completely vanishes. A wave a panic washes over his features as he stares straight at the entrance to the office. Did he forget to lock the door when we were doing this? Oh, no right, that practically might as well not be there, it’s so easy to bypass.

I can barely process what is happening when the door slams open. An imposing figure strides into the room. Their very presence makes my heart twist up into a knot as the blood seems to drain from my veins. This man, this woman, this … I can’t remember much about them, except that they scared the living daylights out of me by just walking up.

“This is what you’ve been doing up here” says the imposing figure, “instead of helping your patients, instead of doing anything that a real psychologist should do, you’re in your office having a tryst with some cheap floozy!” If I weren’t quaking with fear right now, I’d be offended.

“No, no, no … it’s not what it looks-“ begins the Professor.

“I don’t care what it is. The point is that you clearly don’t respect your position. You have no right to be a scientist” shouts the frightening intruder, “wait, is this person a patient of yours?”

“Huh, you mean her?” says the Professor hesitantly. This is where you tell the scary person that I’m not just a patient, but your lover. “Yes, she’s a patient. There’s nothing going on between us” he finally says. I am leaving this godforsaken shack in the woods as soon as I can.

The shouting intruder becomes even more enraged at this statement. They whisper, with a cold anger, “you’ve been sleeping with your patients, using them as objects for your own satisfaction. Is that all you think about? Your career, your ego, your stupid fucking desires, you don’t think about anyone but yourself.”

The Professor’s defiant resolve shatters, beginning to quiver against my body even more than I am. The angered patient moves closer to his face, looming over the two of us, larger than life. They grasp the Professor’s chin and pulls his head up to face theirs and then speak with a firm, unshakeable resolve, “I will kill you. No matter what, I will make sure that you never exploit the suffering of someone in need ever again.”

The Professor’s quivering ceases. He simply stares right at the face of his professed future murderer with unfocused eyes, as if his soul has left his body. The soon-to-be-killer takes their hand off the Professor’s chin, allowing his head to flop down, limp and lifeless. They turn towards the door to office and say “I will be back to claim your life soon, unless you are willing to repent and expose your true nature to everyone present here, and the whole world. If I cannot take your life, I will at least take your career.”

They open the door and walk away. The very air of the room seems to become lighter as soon as they leave, though the heavy weight of death still lingers. I struggle to gasp a new breath, now realizing that I hadn’t taken a single one since that individual entered the room and cling tightly to the Professor’s side

I look to the Professor. He has begun to breathe again, though his entire body is rocked by a panic greater than I’ve ever seen on him, greater than I’ve ever seen on anyone. He pushes me off of him and runs out of the room. I try to call after him, but my voice catches in my throat. I don’t want to be left alone, not in here, not when there is a killer on the loose. If that maniac can’t find the Professor, I might be their next victim.

I huddle up in the furthest corner of the Professor’s office, trying as hard as I can to disappear. Why did this have to happen to me? I just wanted to get some help. Then I just wanted to have some fun. Maybe I found the wrong person to get either from, but I don’t deserve to be chased after by a psychopathic killer!

Finally, the door to the office opens. I brace myself, expecting a knife to pierce my flesh any moment. Eventually I open my eyes. It’s the Professor. He’s back, and with a gun. He’s breathing even more heavily than before, his hands shaking wildly as he grasps the gun. Eventually he notices me. I can see him jerk the gun towards me as his finger begins to reflexively squeeze the trigger. I feel my life begin the flash before my eyes, but before I can properly prepare myself for death, he recognizes who I am and points the gun away from me.

A worried look comes upon the Professor’s panicked face. Now that he’s remembered that I am here, he must be pondering how best to protect me. I’ll be safe, I’m sure of it since he’s with me.

“Get in the dumbwaiter!” he nearly screams.

“What? If we split up, how are you going to protect me?” I cry.

“You’ll just get in the way if you’re here. Go to the basement and run away! I need to take out that monster myself!” he says, all the bravery that those words should hold choked by his fright.

“No, no, I can’t! If they find me they’ll-“ I plead.

The door opens again. It opens slowly, quietly. My mind stops thinking, every synapse of my brain focused on the singular sound of the office door creaking open.

A figure emerges from the gap in the door. They take a single step into the room. I never saw their face, or much of anything about them, because as soon as they entered the room..

Bang

The Professor fires his gun. I have no idea what it hit, and I don’t care. Now that someone has actually attacked with the intent to kill another person, this situation has become more dangerous than I can stand.

I rush for the dumbwaiter. The Professor stares at the door, shellshocked. The figure that had entered the room just moments before is already gone. All I hear now is the sound of hasty footsteps leaving down the hallway.

I turn to the Professor one last time, looking for some sort of reassurance that something will be alright. Instead, he just stares forward, seemingly unaware of the existence of anyone. I grab the gun from his limp hands. If he’s not going to protect me then I’ll have to do it myself, somehow. I push my fat behind into the dumbwaiter compartment, glad for the first time in my life that I’m so short and push the down button on the dumbwaiter controls twice. The door to the dumbwaiter closes, leaving me in darkness as I descend. Leaving my fears behind, hopefully.

 01:55:11

 “Your fears will never leave you. Whether you face them, or run from them, they will always be a part of you.”

“…… I know that.”

“So you have to accept them. You have to accept that your past and your present are equally important to who you are.”

“I am the same person that I was in my past, that never changed.”

“But you do not live in the past. Your present and your past are linked, but you must recognize that you do have a present.”

“I don’t have the right to a present.”

“Everyone does, even you.”

“What if I don’t want one?”

“Then you deserve it all the more. Do that you can remember, remember and suffer.”

“Are you a therapist, or some sort of vengeful spirit?”

“I am a therapist. That means that I will be whatever you need in the moment. If you need someone to judge you for what you’ve done, then I will be that person.”

“Do you enjoy this? Punishing me?”

“Yes. And I hate that about myself. But just because I find catharsis from this doesn’t mean it isn’t for your sake as well.”

“What will this accomplish, in the end?”

“I will understand you. No, we will understand you, because I don’t think you understand yourself either.”

“And what then?”

“Then we live our lives, finally knowing why this had to happen.”

“…Alright. What should I do next?”

“Tell me who killed the Professor.”

“!?”

“Say it. With your own mouth. Tell me who you are. Tell me who the murderer right in front of me is.”

“I-I-I don’t know!!! My mind’s a mess and I can’t think straight and I can’t remember! It’s all just so-“

“I don’t care if you get it right now. You will see every last ugly bit of the truth soon. Tell me. Tell me who you think did this. Then I’ll show you the inside of your putrid skull, every last murderous inch of that mind of yours. You will look into it, and you will see yourself for who you are. Now tell me! Who are you? Who killed my teacher?”

 >Pick one:

A.    The Person with Color based Pneumasthesia

B.     The Person with Sound based Pneumasthesia

C.    The Person with Number based Pneumasthesia

D.    The Person with Tarot Card based Pneumasthesia

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 12

  D.     7

Second Act – Perception: Part 3

 “There were seven people in this lodge at the time of the Professor’s murder” I exclaim, “that means that there is another person besides those present here that could have killed the Professor.”

The middle-aged woman stifles a gasp while the young man beside me releases his grip on my shoulders to count by hand the people present in this room. The young girl makes no obvious response, as always.

The older man seems the most surprised. He says to me “what reason do you have to believe that there are more people here than the five of us and the dead Professor?”

Honestly, none. At least none that would hold up to proper scrutiny. It’s more than a hunch, but it’s far less than proper evidence. I’ll have to lie. Well, not quite a lie. I’ll have to twist the truth to provide a plausible reason for why I know what I do.

“I was present in this place since before any of the guests arrived, so I paid attention to the Professor’s movements and the entrance of different guests all this evening” I lie. I wish I were alert enough to have paid attention to all the noises and footfalls in this house; thankfully, someone else here was for me. “I heard a fifth guest enter the building that hasn’t yet left” I continue.

Everyone seems to hesitate, clearly doubting my strange claim. I know that I’m lying, but you just have to believe me this once.

“We have no reason to doubt him” finally speaks the middle-aged woman, “he hasn’t led us wrong before and he’s the only one among us that we can be certain didn’t kill the Professor.”

“I agree” says the older man.

The young girl nods.

I turn to the young man. I’m surprised he wasn’t the first one to jump to agree with me. Does he trust me less than I thought? I’m almost impressed.

“Wait, but if there is another person here” says the young man with uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, “then where are they now? You said they haven’t left, right?”

He turns to me. That part was a lie. I have no way to know if this person left or not. I just said that to sound more certain than I was. I nod my head yes regardless.

“Hmm. I’ve been checking all the rooms in this place since I came here, looking for some dirt on the Professor” he says with no shame whatsoever, “I haven’t seen anyone but you four anywhere here. So where could this fifth guest be?”

Everyone turns to me. Oh my, my, my, here we go again. Even when my own innocence is no longer on the line, I’m still put on the spot. Actually, now that I think about it, if I don’t provide a plausible explanation here, they might go back on their conclusion that I didn’t do it and accuse me again. I can’t think about that. I just need to solve the mystery of the hidden fifth person. Nothing else matters now. Stay calm, stay focused, and get it done.

 Third Movement: Surprise Symphony

 Stay calm. Stay calm. I have to stay calm no matter what.

Creeeeeaaaak

What was that? Is it back?

Creak

It was just the floorboards. I’m fine now. This is not another attack. These sounds are perfectly normal.

Creeeeeeeeaaaaaaak

Each stair on this rickety old staircase groans as I climb up them. I didn’t think that I was so fat that they’d make sounds like this, but I suppose even the floorboards are judging me now.

Creak

Oh, shut up you! Heh, imagining the staircase calling me names is pretty funny. Maybe that shows that I’ve become even crazier than before since coming here, but I don’t care about that now. I’m going to be saved: saved from myself.

Creak Creak Creak Creak Creak

And that’s all of them. The floorboards, as rude as they can be, do make a pretty nice sound when you get used to them. They provide a fine accompanying track for the instruments of this building.

The Guitar plays with its characteristic wildness, changing key and volume with no regard to what anyone is playing. I appreciate that about them. Their energy is what helped me get over that last attack.

The Piano plays alone. Their melody is strong yet lacks some of the commanding notes that it had earlier today. Now it’s more subdued, a quieter kind of strength. I like this tone. It reminds me of my parents.

The Drums, now the only percussion that I hear, plays loud and proud. They seem to have come to possess a new confidence that they lacked when this night began. Their noise envelops the building as if to tell its occupants that they have everyone’s back.

The Bass plays with the Guitar for once. They fumble over each other, unsure of the timing, but before long their antagonism turns to harmony. A tentative harmony, but an exciting and unique one. I hate to not be able to hear much more of it.

I approach the Professor’s office. Inside I hear the trilling notes of the Flute that I have been searching for. They sound rushed, off key, rapidly moving from note to note in an unraveling melody. Softly, the Violin plays beside the Flute, it’s long, slow high notes beginning to speed up and match the excitable rhythm of the Flute.

The door to the Professor’s office is unlocked. I knock on the door to ask to come in. I receive no response. He must be busy. I should leave and wait for him to call me in.

Dum Dum Dum

I can’t wait any longer. The anticipation is threatening to bring on another attack. I need help. I need help that only he can give, and I need it right now.

I open the door.

D-Dum D-Dum D-Dum

My anticipation reaches its climax. For an eternal instant there is nothing but silence and the sound of my internal drum. Then …

Bang

What was that? I’ve never heard that instrument before. It’s like a drum but more, how do you say it, more explosive?

Oh, I remember this instrument. I’ve heard it from some classical concerts before. It’s a cannon. How could there be a cannon in this place?

The acrid smell of gunpowder reaches my nostrils. Before me the Professor shouts, gasping desperately for breath as an elderly woman grips onto his side, pleading with him. I cannot hear any of their words, nor can I hear their Sounds. That cannon has brought only Silence.

This is not the Silence I wanted.

I run, tears streaming down my face. There is no salvation in this place. I have to leave. I’m not wanted. The sounds here will never bring me peace.

As I run, I hear a noise: wheels turning, people speaking quickly, something falling with great speed. It all blurs together, muffled by my cries.

I run directly into a tall person. I fall backwards onto my behind. I can hardly process how painful or how embarrassing that was.

This person, the Piano, reaches down for my hand. I hesitate. I hesitate for a very long time. The hand remains outstretched. I take it.

The sound of a soft, low Piano fills my body. The unwanted Silence recedes. Then I hear a new sound.

“Come here. Let’s get away from the scary people and calm down a bit, alright?” speaks the Piano.

01:27:32

 “Have you calmed down a bit? Are you ready to continue?”

“No. This isn’t helping anything. Remembering these things isn’t going to help me.”

“I disagree, and I’m your therapist, so I know best.”

“I thought that you cared about my feelings and consent?”

“Damn. You’re right. I wouldn’t do anything that you didn’t agree to. I hoped that you would trust my judgement by now.”

“You’re here to help me overcome my trauma, correct?”

“That is one of my goals, yes.”

“Then how does reminding me of it help anything? You’re just reopening old wounds.”

“Sometimes a surgeon needs to cut open a festering wound to remove the source of the infection.”

“Cut it out with the metaphors and give me a straight answer.”

“I thought that was a straight answer, but I suppose you can’t understand me unless I say everything in simple terms.”

“Stop that or I’m telling the nurses that you’ve been harassing me.”

“Hahaha, oh, you’re serious? Uhm, right. Ahem, while there are some therapists that believe that putting aside memories of trauma is the best way to move on from them, I was taught that we must face our own past pain in order to conquer it. That’s the only way that we can achieve catharsis.”

“You’re forcing someone to experience pain now in the vague hope that it will prevent them from feeling more pain in the future. I can’t agree with that methodology.”

“Would you rather stew in your own regrets and trauma for all your life?”

“My past is part of me, pain and all.”

“Do you not believe that you deserve to have a future?”

“If that is what my mind tells me, then I’m inclined to believe it.”

“You speak as if you believe your mind to be separate from yourself.”

“I can control myself, but my mind rarely listens to me. It must be a separate thing that’s taken residence in my skull.”

“In that case, where is your true self located in your body? The heart? The stomach? The soul?”

“Are you trying to cut me open and find out?”

“No, because I know that your true self and your brain are one and the same, despite what you say. I know best. I am your therapist after all.”

“…”

“There is no need to be afraid. We’ve been coming closer and closer to that moment. I know that you don’t want to witness it again. But I assure you, you can survive it. Please, trust me on this.”

“……”

“………”

“…………”

“……………”

“……………… fine.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not doing this for you.”

“I’m not doing this for myself either. Well then, next question: where is the hitherto unseen fifth guest?”

“Do you want me to just guess?”

“I think you can make a fairly educated guess. But yes, this one is mostly a guess. There are only so many places where they can be. If you trust in what you know and what you’ve heard, you should be able to narrow it down. There’s no need to be overly clever here, it’s not a trick question. Just tell me, where could this seventh person be?”

 >Pick one:

A.    The basement

B.     The first floor

C.    The second floor

D.    The Professor’s office

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 11

D. The Professor

Second Act – Perception: Part 2

 “It was the Professor himself who brought the gun into this room” I say, much to my own surprise.

“Well, yeah, of course” says the “great detective” beside me.

“What? You knew that this whole time?” exclaims the older man.

“I mean, I saw it in the living room downstairs. That was right before I heard the gunshot with this guy” he says, grabbing ahold of my shoulders tighter than before.

“But why would he bring his own murder weapon to the scene of the crime” contemplates the middle-aged woman.

The older man shudders, the same thought crossing his mind as did mine.

“I highly doubt that he would kill himself. He wouldn’t have written a dying message to incriminate someone if it was a suicide and more importantly …” I hesitate for a moment, “he’s not the type to just give up and die, no matter what.”

Every guest in the room turns their attention to me. I can’t say with certainty that I know the Professor well enough to make those claims, but I need to, for my own sake more than anything. This was someone’s fault. I need to believe that, so I can blame them.

“Well then, let’s put aside the suicide angle for now” the middle-aged woman says with an air of finality, “but if that was not his reason for bringing a gun into his office, then why did he do it?”

Why did he do it? I think I have a pretty good idea of what it was.

But I can’t say it.

I value patient confidentiality, even after the patient has died.

I have to direct the conversation elsewhere. I need to find a new piece of evidence, a new angle of analysis.

What have I not examined yet?

  May 31st, 8:00 pm

 What had I not accounted for?

The transport schedules were all precisely on time. There were no traffic issues or road problems, neither was there an abnormal lack of them. I had calculated everything perfectly.

Yet here I am, half an hour early to my meeting with the Professor.

What a damnable annoyance! I can’t just go right into the Professor’s lovely wooden mansion and sit right down. He’s a busy man and if I come so early, it’ll seem like I’m desperate to see him again. Just imagining the horrifically smug smirk that the good Professor will give me if I come in now, I can hardly bear the thought.

 I suppose I’ll have to wait. That’s fine. I’ve had plenty of experience waiting.

This wait, however, is especially interminable. My mind keeps returning to the thought of where I went wrong with my transportation plan. Quiet down you incorrigible meat sack in my skull! 

My head feels just awful right now. There are too many thoughts filling my mind. I normally have a lot of thoughts, it’s a point of pride for me, even if it can be a liability at times. Right now, however, these thoughts are too much even for myself to withstand. It feels as if a second brain has been forced into my skull and now they are both fighting to think over one another

I should try my hardest to relax for once. Sit down in the shade of a tall tree and wait at the Northernmost outer wall of the mansion for the agreed upon time to come.

What’s that sound? Footsteps? Of course there would be footsteps coming from the mansion. There must be much to do in order to prepare for the coming meeting.

These footsteps are short and sharp, followed by the metallic banging of pots and pans. Strange. Unless he’s changed since I last saw him, I don’t think the Professor was this small, and he definitely wasn’t one for cooking. Oh, but of course, this must be an assistant of his. It figures that he wouldn’t leave civilization like this without someone to take care of him. He really doesn’t change, does he.

These footsteps, I’m sure these are the Professor’s. They have that languid, confident gait that I recognize as my dear Zero’s. However, they sound muffled. I put my ear to the earth. His footsteps are coming from underground, in a basement below his mansion. Is he preparing something for the meeting?

My thoughts are interrupted by a new sound. Coming from easternmost side of the building, the squeaking of an unused doorframe, more specifically the beginning of a squeaking doorframe whose sound is quickly cut off as the person opening the door stops to hide it. A third set of footsteps enter the mansion. They trundle down a staircase and enter right into the basement. They stay there, near the Professor for some time before they cut off. I hear a rumbling as a set of pullies are activated, then the confident stride of the Professor as he strides up the staircase from the basement to the ground floor to the second floor. On the second floor, I hear both the Professor’s footsteps and the third pair, recognizable by its clumsy, heavy footfalls, stay by one another for quite some time.

Then there begins a loud banging sound. It continues for a few minutes. It sounds like two people are fighting. The flimsy wooden walls shake visibly from the impacts.

A door opens on the southernmost side of the mansion, a different and better-oiled door than the first. A soft set of footsteps enter and are greeted by the servant. The banging noise from the second-floor ceases.

Several minutes pass with no significant movement, then another set of footsteps enter, again through the well-oiled door on the south wall. The Professor’s footsteps come down the staircase to the first floor, leaving the other resident of the second floor to pace around in circles where he left them.

The mansion is filled with movement as the newest pair of footsteps begins stomping around the entire building. How rude of them to do so before the meeting has even begun.

What time is it? 8:32 pm! I’m late!

I gather up my belongings and walk as quickly as I can to the southern main entrance of the building. I refuse to be the last person to come to this meeting. I mustn’t be rude, nor should I be overly courteous. I just need to be precisely ordinary. Nothing more and nothing less.

 01:17:35

 “Good, good, good. That was a nice and ordinary trip, wasn’t it? Nothing more than we need and nothing less either.”

“How is this going to change anything?”

“The truth will set you free, as they say.”

“You mean to tell me that what I’ve been seeing is the truth?”

“Well, I don’t know what you’re seeing per say.”

“Ah, so you’re allowed to make blind jokes but I’m not?”

“This is the one thing that I can do that sighted people can’t. Don’t take it away from me.”

“Ugh. Whatever. Just answer my question.”

“I can assure you that what I’ve shown you is truer than anything that you remember.”

“So you mean to say that this isn’t the truth of these events.”

“That’s an awfully cynical way to interpret that statement.”

“But is it wrong?”

“Heh, no. But what does it matter? All human observation is based on falsehood.”

“More philosophical ramblings? Save it for your doctoral thesis.”

“Aww, but you seemed to be enjoying our little debate before.”

“I wasn’t in the right mind then.”

“And you are now? I don’t see how an ill temper is more correct than a good temper.”

“Joy is an illogical emotion. It is better, evolutionarily speaking, for animals to be in an ill temper at all times.”

“Hmm, a bold claim from someone who is neither a biologist nor a psychologist. Why do you say that?”

“Joy is when an animal revels in their own success. During this revelry, an animal is prone to lose sight of the material world and ignore potential dangers. When in an ill mood, an animal is more likely to focus on immediate dangers, which keeps them alert and safe.”

“Perhaps, but we are not animals. As humans in a civilized society, we are rarely in immediate danger.”

“Rarely, you say. That means not never. Preserving one’s own life is the utmost concern for a living being, so it follows that even if there is a slim possibility for danger, that creature should always do everything in their power to prevent it.”

“You assumed that the primary goal of a living being is the preservation of their life, but I would argue that a living being’s utmost concern is the pursuit of happiness, and as such choosing to eschew joy for an ill temperament because of pragmatic purposes is actually counterproductive most of the time.”

“What even is joy? What constitutes a positive emotion? That’s a non-specific concept. It will change for every person and in every situation. You cannot base your worldview on the pursuit of an illusion.”

“Ah, so you admit that observation is based on falsehood!”

“!? What! Were you trying to trap me in that conclusion from the start?”

“No. I’m not that smart. I was just enjoying chatting with you and ended up getting to that by accident. Perhaps the pursuit of joy and pragmatism are not mutually exclusive after all.”

“…”

“Well you can mull that thought over in the loser’s corner all you’d like; we have more questions to get through.”

“…”

“Hmm, are you alright? I refuse to let you sulk as long as you did when we began this session.”

“I’m not sulking … I’m just trying to gather my thoughts.”

“Do you want to continue our debate? I’ll let you take as much time as you need to think about your argument before we continue.”

“I don’t need your pity, and I don’t want to talk about useless things anymore.”

“I don’t like that you called my intellectual pursuits ‘useless’, but I’m willing to put that aside. We’ve done quite a few questions by now. Time sure does fly when you’re having fun.”

“It feels like it’s been an eternity since we started.”

“For you, perhaps. But there’s still another eternity left to go. We’re just barely over halfway done now. Well actually I think I miscounted, we’re a fair bit more than halfway done with the list of questions I had prepared. How scatterbrained of me.”

“So what’s the next question?”

“Yes, yes, yes. I’m on it. I will satisfy my favorite pupil’s desire to learn as long as I am able.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Ahem, yes. My apologies. So, for this question, how many people were in the Professor’s home at the time of the murder?”

“I don’t know much about what happened at precisely the time of the murder. At least from what you’ve shown me.”

“Yes, you do. If you remember what you’ve witnessed, you know enough about the whereabouts of the house’s guests at the time of the murder to at least answer this question. And you’ve recently come upon some corroborating evidence that if you use together with what you know about how the guests entered the house, you can certainly answer this question.”

“Alright, but this doesn’t seem like it has anything to do with any of the previous questions.”

“You’re right, but determining the truth often requires a lot of detours and when you’re trying to do so by navigating the messy pathways of the human mind, it’ll naturally take all the more. But never mind that, tell me, how many people were in the house when the murder occurred?”

 >Pick one:

A.    4

B.     5

C.    6

D.    7

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 10

A. He was blind

Second Act – Perception

 “I’m … blind. That’s why I couldn’t read the combination and open the lock” I admit.

The young man and girl both open their eyes wide in shock, or at least I assume that they do.

“So that’s why you couldn’t see how many fingers I was holding up earlier! I have to say, for a cripple, you’re surprisingly capable! I respect that” says the young man, completely unaware of how much he sounds like a complete asshole right now.

The older man’s contemplative air turns to one of deep frustration. “We have no reason to believe that what you say is the truth. You could easily be lying to save your skin” he says.

“Stop trying to catch the poor kid in a lie. You’ve been awfully desperate to pin the blame on him” says the middle-aged woman calmly. She puts her hand on his shoulder, not even flinching while he recoils from the touch, and continues “we’ve both known that there was next to no chance that ‘Pet’ here was the murderer and this just makes it all the more certain.”

What? They had evidence that I wasn’t the murderer? And they still put me through this questioning?

“If ‘Pet’ wasn’t blind, then he wouldn’t have been defending himself by talking about things like alibis. There’s a clear elephant in the room that he didn’t address at all this whole time, and you can only explain that if he was blind” she says, finishing her deduction.

What “elephant in the room”? I’m being left out of something important, and I don’t like it. This is why I hate telling people about my condition.

“Oh, of course, you can’t see it so that’s why you’d been ignoring it. I thought it was because you were trying to postpone being found obviously guilty” says the young man, apparently having assumed me to be a coward this whole time, “it’s right there, on the floor in front of the dead body where we found you kneeling down. It’s the word ‘PET’, written on the floor in the Professor’s blood.”

I ignored incriminating evidence that blatant this whole time? I probably even stepped on it when I was standing up earlier.

“That’s why I thought you were the culprit. It’s common murder mystery fare, right? The victim writes the killer’s name in their blood as their final act” says the older man, with more than a single note of remorse in his tone, “but of course, like most murder mysteries, the answer is hardly that simple.”

“The Professor’s finger has no blood on it” states the middle-aged woman matter-of-factly, not hesitating as she stands above the dead body and touches his lifeless hand, “that means that he couldn’t have written this. So it figures that, more likely than not, the person who did write it was the culprit, and the only reason that they would write this name is to draw suspicion away from them. That means that it’s unreasonable to think that our ‘Pet’ is the murderer.”

Impressive deductions from someone with the makings of a true great detective. I’m a little envious that I wasn’t the one making them, but doing so would be physically impossible for me, so I suppose I can forgive it.

“So great, we’ve determined that one person out of five couldn’t have done it, but what now?” the young man questions “we have no more leads about how to figure out who among us actually killed the old man.”

“The gun” I say.

“Hmm? What do you mean?” says the young man.

“We know that the Professor’s gun was fired in this office; you and I heard that” I think aloud “but the Professor’s gun is always placed on top of the fireplace downstairs. That means that someone moved the gun up to this office. If we can determine who and why, then we might get closer to finding the truth of this murder.”

“Woah! Now that’s my assistant for you!” says the young man, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and smirking audibly.

I don’t know where he got the idea that I was his assistant. I’m no one’s assistant anymore, let alone to a “great detective” like him.

Hmm, but if he trusts me then he could be useful. I’ve learned from before that unless someone here is called out specifically, they won’t corroborate my claims for fear of being implicated. That’s the whole reason why everyone here still believes that the gunshot was when the Professor died. But if I know that this overly-friendly idiot will listen to what I say, then I can use him for witness testimony that may get us closer to the truth.

I just need to get him to speak.

 Third Piece – A Shadow Darting Through the Black

 “C’mon, speak already!” I shout as rudely as I can muster, which is quite a lot.

“No” whispers Yellow.

“Oh, what’s this? Has the little ray of sunshine here ‘gathered’ their thoughts enough to speak?” I goad.

“Yes. Now leave me alone” Yellow whispers loud enough to almost be considered speaking.

“No. I need something from you, so I won’t leave until you answer my questions.”

“Ask someone else.”

“I would, but the other two guests have been off hogging the goodly Professor’s time since we got here, and that ‘Pet’ is off in his own little doghouse, so I have to settle for talking with you.”

“I have nothing interesting to say.”

“So do most people, but I know for a fact that you have something to say that I want to know.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“So you’ll answer my questions? Thanks!”

“That’s not what I meant- “

“So, do you have this ‘pneumasthesia’ bullshit that the Professor was talking about?”

“How am I supposed to know? I’m not a doctor.”

“But you came here, right? That means there’s something about you that you wanted the Professor to help you with.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m perfectly normal. I wish I had ESP or whatever. I’m just here to give the old man a piece of … what he deserves for calling me some sort of crazy person.”

“So you want me to yell at the Professor with you?”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“I’ll pass.”

“What? Do you honestly think this quack can help you? He’s out here ranting about ‘sixth senses’ and the ‘unconscious language’ like this is some pulp Sci-Fi novel. A guy like that deserves a punch in the face for wasting our time. Scratch that, four punches in the face, one from each of us, even if yours will probably be like a little bee sting.”

Yellow retreats within their self, turning pale enough to be mistaken for White, and whispers, softer than ever this time, “I need help. No matter what. No matter from who. I’ll do anything to be free of this.”

What a pitiful little shade. Letting yourself be brainwashed by this phony shows that you’ve got some serious self-worth issues. Maybe Yellow does need some professional help, or a slap on the face, but I’m not here to give either.

“Fine. Suit yourself. I hope you find the help you’re looking for” I say. With those words a little bit of Yellow’s color returns, just a little bit though.

I turn to go to the Professor’s study and knock on his door until I get yelled at again. Maybe I’ll just unlock that stupid padlock this time, or better yet I could kick down the flimsy thing like a burglar and force him to answer my questions.

I’m shaken out of that daydream by the object of my ire. Black descends from above, his darkened figure flitting down the staircase with a frantic gait.

Yellow sits up to look at the specter of a professor that just entered the living room. Surely they’re thinking about asking for a consultation right now, but with the hurried way the Professor is moving right now, someone as reticent as them could hardly bring their self to interrupt him. Even someone as not reticent as me can’t.

The Professor darts across the wooden floor and makes a beeline for the fireplace. He doesn’t turn to look at either of his patients when he passes by, nor does he even seem to notice, too caught up in his own thoughts. His heavy breaths are audible even from across the room. Does going down a single flight of stairs really wind him that much?

The ghost wrenches his gun from its seat atop the fireplace, takes a moment to inspect it, and runs back up the staircase, stowing the gun behind his back in a belt loop. I don’t know much about gun safety, but I’m quite certain that’s not proper handling procedure, though I doubt proper procedure is the Professor’s greatest concern right now, with the way he’s acting.

I turn back to Yellow whose color has drained even further than before. It figures that seeing the person you hope will be your savior panicking like that will make you lose some faith in your chances of rehabilitation.

I flash the little drop of sun the kindest smile I can manage and turn towards the first-floor hallway. I need to see that ‘Pet’.

 01:12:03

 “So how- “

“You can’t see, ‘Pet’?”

“Huh? Uh, yes, I am blind.”

“A blind psychiatrist. You must get a lot of business from ugly women with low self-esteem.”

“Was that a joke? I’m glad you’re in good humor now for some reason, but you know that I’m still just a student. You’re the first client that I’ve had, and I had to beg the doctors here just to let me see you.”

“I know. It’s just that I can see a bright future ahead of you.”

“Hilarious. I’ve never heard that one before.”

“Do you mean that you don’t see the humor in it?”

“Wow, that was terrible.”

“Wait, wait, I’ve got another one. How did I know that you were blind? Because you didn’t take me to the I-see-you!”

“…”

“Oh come on. You have to admit that last one was funny.”

“I’m the professional here so I make the rules, and I rule that this is a pun-free-zone.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Putting that nonsense aside, what brought about this change in behavior?”

“I found a target to bully.”

“I mean, what caused your mood to improve so dramatically like this? This is the first time you’ve smiled since this session began.”

“I don’t know. I just feel better now. Do I need to have a reason?”

“The human brain is not such an alien machine that it can’t be understood. Of course there’s a reason.”

“Well that’s a logical fallacy isn’t it, to say that the human brain can understand the human brain is ridiculous. In order to comprehend the inner workings of a machine, you need a machine that is more sophisticated so it can simulate all the inner workings of that other machine in itself.”

“But what if you were to have multiple human brains all working together to understand a single human brain? Their combined internal workings should surely be enough to understand one mind.”

“That claim implies that two or more human brains could ever communicate effectively enough to function as a united machine.”

“Humans are social animals. Every part of our evolution was made to help us communicate and work with each other more effectively. If we can cooperate to understand how to build machines that fly in the air unaided, then surely we can understand a single pink organ in your head.”

“Even birds can fly, and they do it alone. Not to mention they don’t murder each other.”

“And with that, your good humor has vanished. It seems like talking to me is the trigger for putting you in a bad mood.”

“I don’t think getting annoyed when you speak is a trait unique to me.”

“Ah, I suppose your humor is still there, just a little more sardonic than before. Well, so long as you’re still stable enough mentally, that means we can move forward. So, tell me, who brought the gun to the Professor’s office?”

“You really have no faith in my ability to solve mysteries if you’re asking me that.”

“I told you that we’d be talking this one step at a time, no matter how hard it got, or how easy. Besides, you didn’t know who took that gun until just a few moments ago, and neither did you know that I was blind. Don’t act like nothing has been new to you in this whole ‘memory theater’ as you put it.”

“I suppose. This definitely isn’t how I remember these events playing out.”

“Well that just goes to show how addled your mind is and how much you need this therapy session.”

“Unless you’re lying to me.”

“Don’t you trust your own senses?”

“…”

“Then just sit back, relax, and answer my questions. I realize that you think this is a waste of time, but we can’t move forward until you do this. So, answer me, who brought the Professor’s gun into his office?”

 >Pick one:

A.    The young man

B.     The young girl

C.    The assistant

D.    The Professor

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 9

B.     The study door was locked

First Act – Affect: Part 4

 “I … I couldn’t have killed the Professor in this room … because the door was locked!” I exclaim, knowing it to be the truth but unsure if it will convince anyone.

There is silence for a moment. Perhaps they’re dumbfounded that they didn’t notice something so obvious?

Of course not.

The middle-aged woman begins to chuckle, suppressing the sound of her impolite outburst by clutching her mouth with her hand.

The young man grabs me by the collar and shouts right in my face, “what the hell kind of excuse is that? The combination to that lock is written right on the door! Anyone with eyes could’ve easily gotten in, even if it was locked! Are you trying to get us both sent to prison?!”

I don’t resist my new “partner-in-crime”, choosing to just lay limp and look away until he leaves me alone like the temperamental bully he is. If this idiot is unwilling to step up and prove his own innocence, then he can go to jail for all I care.

The older man doesn’t seem to find my claim funny or aggravating however, instead he just stays silent, contemplating what I said. After a long minute of deep thought he finally speaks, “if what you claim is true, that because of the lock on the Professor’s office you could not enter the room to kill him, then that implies that there is something about you in particular that prevents you from opening that door, even though to us it seems like an incredibly simple task.”

I sigh. I really didn’t want to have to say it.

The middle-aged woman seems to stop finding this situation funny and her attention turns to me, still held by “the great detective”. The young girl turns her attention to me as well. In a situation with as much pressure as this, I suppose I should be looking down and finding it difficult to hold eye contact, but luckily that of all things is not a concern of mine.

It looks like they’re expecting me to speak. Very well then, I hate to do this more than anything else in the world, but I guess I don’t have a choice right now.

Second Card – Challenge: Cups

 “I hate to take up your time like this, Professor, but I’m so curious that I don’t have a choice” I say with unmatched politeness.

“No, no, no, don’t worry about that. Curiosity is an admirable and rather fetching trait. I’d be remiss not to indulge you on this” says the Hierophant, not realizing how much those words annoy me.

Calm yourself, Ace. Now is not the time for petty grievances, there is a serious situation in front of me and I must assess its potential danger.

“Tell me how you intend to diagnose these people with this ‘pneumasthesia’ condition that you just told us about” says the Hermit, cutting me off before I can make my own question.

“Oh, simple, ordinary psychiatric evaluations. We’ll begin them tomorrow morning. Each of you patients will have an hour long, one-on-one evaluation with me and my servant” says the Professor.

“You and your assistant will be evaluating us? How is that one-on-one?” I question, already with a general idea of what the answer will be.

“Ah, right, hahaha. You have a keen ear and a sharp wit. I wouldn’t have thought it of you, but I suppose looks can be deceiving” the Hierophant says, infuriating me for the second time in less than a minute.

“Actually now that I look at the two of you right in front of me” says the Professor looking at myself and the Hermit, “you both look fairly similar. Your height, your hairstyle, even that bizarrely perfect posture of yours, it’s like you’re siblings. It figures that you’d be just as neurotic and intelligent as each other.”

I don’t appreciate being called neurotic, nor do I like being judged by my appearance, but those are both to be expected for one such as him. It does feel nice to have my intelligence complimented however, even if it is by one such as him.

“Ah, but I apologize for completely forgetting the presence of my little ‘Pet’” the Professor gets out between self-amused chuckles, “my superiors at the university would get on my tail for saying something so offensive, but they’re not here now, so what does it matter. My servant, apologies, that’s not quite right, my assistant is a student of mine from the university. He’s brighter than most and motivated enough to be my live-in caretaker during the summer. He’s not qualified to actually perform any psychological evaluations, especially not on a subject as unresearched and important as this, so he’ll just be present during the applications to type up a transcript of the evaluation so I can read it later.”

“It seems that you have a wonderful assistant. You must be quite proud” I say, seeking to ingratiate myself to him with a compliment even though I have nothing good to say about a Fool like his ‘Pet’.

“No, no, no, he’s hardly wonderful. Well, he has his good points. His cooking, for one, is excellent, but he’s terrible as a stenographer. He misspells the words he types constantly. It’s such a pain to read his writing with all the errors” the Hierophant complains, deep in unpleasant reminiscence, my compliment having failed in its intended purpose, “oh and one more thing, he’s so damnably annoying, bothering me whenever I’m working to ask all these questions about his studies. Doesn’t he know that I’m off duty as a teacher during the summer! I had to put a lock on my office just to get him to leave me alone.”

“That’s terrible. Would you mind telling us what your intentions are for the patients gathered here today for after you diagnose them?” I say as quickly as I can, interrupting the Professor’s rant and cutting off the Hermit before he can ask another of his inane questions.

“I told you all that just a few minutes ago, right? Listening is the most important skill for any intellectual, and even if you’re not one, you should at least give it a shot” the Hierophant says. It’s not like his compliment before meant anything to me, but him taking it back like this is deeply frustrating.

“But what exactly do you mean when you say ‘cure’” I say as diplomatically as anyone in my situation can be.

“Cure means cure. Are you aware of the meaning of the word?”

“Yes, I am. I meant how exactly will you cure these people.”

“By any means necessary.”

“So you mean to say that you do not yet know how this ‘pneumasthesia’ can be cured?”

“No, that is the primary purpose of this retreat.”

“Shouldn’t you determine the existence of this hypothetical condition before you move to diagnosing and treating it?”

“I have already ascertained pneumasthesia’s existence. All I have left to do is to determine exactly how it manifests in each of you and then begin the process of correcting its influence in your minds.”

He is even more of a detestable old man than I thought. With these words and my own senses, I can be certain of it. He’s absolutely convinced that any condition aberrant of the norm must be erased and that doing so is not only a matter of course, but a favor for the “sufferers” of the conditions that he diagnoses. I know his type, so judgmental, convinced that they understand an individual after only knowing a few surface-level details about them. I’ve been dealing with that type, those Hierophants, all my life.

I’m furious. More furious than I’ve been in as long as I can remember. Usually my anger brings on a Rut, but now, for some reason, I can feel a High coming upon me. I am invigorated. A smile creeps from the corners of my face that I can only barely keep from being noticeable.

I can hardly pay attention to the rest of the conversation that the Hermit and the Hierophant have together. They both bid me a polite goodbye, which I reciprocate in as calm a tone as I can muster, then they each leave the salon. The Hierophant heads to the second floor whereas the Hermit goes somewhere I do not bother to check.

I can scarcely contain my excitement. There is a great task ahead of me. I feel my Arcana changing. I am the Ace of Cups. My love, my good will is as a chalice overflowing. I will save everyone here.

 01:01:36

 “I will save you. Regardless of what kind of person you are. I assure you of that. Not simply because that is my job, but because that is who I am.”

“… what’s the next question?”

“Hmm? You want to go right into it? No break? Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Yes.”

“This is the most difficult question yet. Are you sure you don’t want to take some time to sort your thoughts out first?”

“My thoughts are just fine. You can write that down in your little notepad. Let the other intellectuals know that there’s nothing wrong with me.”

“I would love to, but there’s no checkbox on this form for ‘thoughts are just fine’.”

“Very funny. Why don’t you just write it in the margins of this evaluation form you’re using?”

“I can’t. I have a specially made checklist so that I don’t have to write anything out by hand. None of the other people at this facility can read my handwriting.”

“Really? You’re such a child. All those years of university and you never learned how to write properly?”

“Perhaps you could teach me? You could hold my hand and guide me through the motions.”

“There’s no way I’d touch you. Maybe I could get a workbook for toddlers that can teach you your letters.”

“Heh, I wish that could help me. I’ve gotten more than my fair share of those as birthday presents from very passive aggressive teachers, but they’re no use for me. That’s why I need a tutor to- “

“Move on with the next question already.”

“Yes, will do. So, we know that the assistant could not enter the Professor’s office because of the combination lock on the door.”

“You forced me to make that answer since the other options were so nonsensical. I still don’t get how that flimsy, redundant lock could stop anyone.”

“But it was there. The Professor put it up in order to lock someone out of his office. So it must be able to perform its function under some circumstances.”

“He could have just been an idiot. Scratch that, he was an idiot.”

“Idiot or not, we can at least have faith in his paranoia. He would not have put up a lock that could not perform its intended function.”

“And you’re saying that its function was to lock ‘Pet’ out?”

“Yes, and that bring us to our next question, why would ‘Pet’ have not been able to open that combination lock?”

“There’s any number of different reasons why someone couldn’t do that. How am I supposed to know?”

“You’ll know, because these are multiple choice questions, so you can just use process-of-elimination!”

“You’ll be a terribly lenient college professor when you’re older. All your students will get full marks on your tests.”

“Understanding is more important than challenge, my pupil!”

“Never call me that.”

“Noted. Well go on, choose what reason you think the assistant could not open the locked door.”

 >Pick one:

A.    He was blind

B.     He was deaf

C.    He could not smell

D.    He could not taste

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 8

D.     The young man

First Act – Affect: Part 3

 “Ah, now I remember!” I say, in mock reminiscence, “I was with someone else when the Professor’s gun went off.”

The young man grits his teeth audibly, resigning himself to what I’m about to say.

“I was with the irritable jackass over there” I say, pointing towards the sulking great detective, “In the servant’s quarters downstairs where we both heard the gunshot.”

“Is this true?” accuses the older man, his righteous fury turning towards the young man, “because if it is, then we can’t rule out the possibility that you two were conspiring to kill the Professor.”

The young man says nothing. Apparently, he’s not very good when put on the spot, or maybe he’s unwilling to lie even to save his own skin. I’m more inclined to believe it’s the former.

“Well, let’s see, can anyone corroborate this story?” asks the middle-aged woman. She turns to the young girl who’s been silent ever since her outburst upon first seeing the body.

“No … I didn’t see anything” meagerly states the young girl.

“Then, I suppose that alibi doesn’t amount to much” says the middle-aged woman with a tone of disappointment in her voice, the veracity of her tone completely undecipherable to me.

“We’ll need hard proof that one of you couldn’t have killed the Professor” states the older man unflinchingly, “especially that you couldn’t, ‘Pet’.”

Hard proof? I’m no detective and I doubt anyone here is, even if they think they are. We should really just wait until the police come, but now that everyone’s been worked up like this, who knows what they’ll do if we don’t find an answer soon. I just need to search a little harder. I need answers.

 May 31, 9:21 pm

 I need answers.

The Professor has been avoiding my questions the whole time I’ve been here, and I deserve to know.

What exactly is his assistant’s name?

I know I’ve seen him before and it’s on the tip of my tongue. I remember that it was six syllables split evenly 2-2-2 over his first, middle, and last names. That’s an awfully nice syllabic structure, so of course I’d remember it. I also remember that the number of letters in his names were five, four, and five, respectively. I remember that because it’s so incredibly disappointing that he has a consistent number of syllables across his names but not a consistent number of letters. If they were all five letters, then it would be so fitting for who he is. His parents didn’t even have the decency to give his name a consistent consonant-vowel-consonant-vowel etc. pattern for his whole name, only up to the end of his middle name. It’s especially difficult to remember because it’s one of those names that’s made entirely out of common first names, so I keep questioning whether or not I’m thinking of other people when I think about his name. If I just remember part of it, I’m sure-

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I just had something that I needed to do in the parlor” the Professor says to me, coming up the stairs to the second floor, out of breath and frantically stashing something behind his back.

“It’s no big deal” I lie, "I’m in no rush.”

“Yes, of course” he says, his breathing beginning to stabilize somewhat, “We’ll have plenty of time in this retreat to discuss these matters.”

“About the ‘retreat’, I was going to ask you about th-“ I sputter out before being interrupted.

“Can you be quiet for a second. I need to focus” Zero says impatiently. He pushes his reading glasses onto his nose and holds his face scarcely three centimeters away from the door to his study, scrutinizing a note pinned to the wooden door. The note has a three-digit combination on it, which the Professor reads, silently mouths to himself, and inputs into a padlock that connects the doorknob to a large nail unceremoniously sticking out of the adjacent wall.

It’s an awfully inelegant type of lock. I could hardly imagine the Professor that I remembered from when we were younger being able to stand something as sloppy as this. The nail that the lock is connected to could easily be removed by anyone with time and a tool. Not to mention that a padlock with only three digits is quite susceptible to being picked. However, much more important than those safety concerns is the fact that the combination for the lock is written out plainly on the door of the study for anyone to see. I first wondered if they were encoded in some way, but after watching the Professor unlock the lock himself, I am certain that they are not. I understand that his memory is fading with age so he needs to remind himself things like this, but what’s even the point of a lock if anyone who’d break into the place you’re trying to lock up could just read the combination?

“Don’t just stand there staring into space, come in so we can chat” says the Professor. How rude of you to treat me like an idiot when you yourself have set up the world’s most idiotic security system.

The Professor sits behind his large wood desk and fusses around, seemingly putting something away. I take the seat directly in front of the Professor’s desk because it’s the only seat available. When we’re seated like this, it makes it seem like I’m his patient and not his equal, though I’m sure that’s the intention.

“Why are you doing this experiment?” I say flatly.

“What experiment?” he says, that infuriating smile on his face.

“The ‘retreat’.”

“I already told you why; I want to help you people.”

“That’s not it.”

“Why can’t it be?”

“I know you. You’re not that kind.”

“That’s hurtful, old friend.”

“I’m not very kind either. I know that you’re just using these people as tools to advance your career.”

“We haven’t seen each other in years; you have no reason to believe that I haven’t had a change of heart.”

“Have you?”

He smiles his awful smile again. It always looks like he’s making fun of me when he does that, but now I’m 95% certain that he is.

“When I publish the results of this retreat, I could list you as a coauthor” he proposes.

Huh?

“I think it’s a good idea. Having the name of a sufferer of the condition in question attached to the paper will definitely lend some credibility to the findings. And I’m sure that a big finding like this will do a lot to revitalize your career. You might even finally get tenure” Zero offers, his characteristic valuelessness more present than ever.

I say nothing and walk out of the office. I refuse to consort with self-serving, false academics like that. The sciences are a pure, beautiful art form. They’re the only place that I can be myself. I will not have someone like that taint them any further with his greed.

I can feel a change coming from within me. My mind feels sharper than it has in a while, sharper than even before that fuzzy feeling overtook me at 8:00 pm today. I am focused. I am serene. For what seems like the first time since the war, I have a concrete goal in front of me. I will stop the Professor, no matter what.

 00:53:23

 “I said that I would understand you, no matter what. That includes putting you through painful memories like that.”

“…”

“Experiencing those painful thoughts, that betrayal, must be unpleasant for you. I give you my condolences, but I will not apologize.”

“……”

“Are you alright? Maybe that one got to you more than I expected- “

“It’s not that. I just didn’t realize that those thoughts belonged to him.”

“Who? That angry young man?”

“Yeah. I suppose I had an inkling that those thoughts might have belonged to him, but it’s strange to see so deeply into someone’s own inner mind like that, and to have it be someone that you’ve known makes it even more bizarre.”

“It’s not like you know him all that well. He’s basically a stranger to you.”

“And he’s not to you?”

“Of course not. He’s my best friend.”

“……………”

“Why do I feel like you’ve just lost all respect for me?”

“Because I have.”

“Aha! I do understand you!”

“Lucky guess. You don’t need to be a mind reader to tell that he’s an empty-headed douchebag. You can just look at him and see that.”

“What is it about his appearance that tells you that?”

“You know, his dandy, gaudy, little playboy clothes are the first thing anyone would notice when they see him and … wait a second, don’t tell me that the ‘pick-up artist’ you were getting advice from was that idiot.”

“OK then. I won’t tell you that.”

“You’ve certainly learned how to be an annoyance from him.”

“I’ve always been an annoyance at heart; I’ve just gotten better at expressing myself lately.”

“Can we move on before I have an aneurysm?”

“Of course, your health is very import- “

“Just get on with it without any jokes this time.”

“Fine. So if we can’t prove that the assistant was innocent by an alibi, then we’ll have to do so with some hard evidence.”

“Or we can let the guests string him up from a tree and execute him. What does it matter? It’s just in our heads.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“What? Do you expect someone like me to be nice?”

“Yes. Niceness is the natural state of all humans.”

“Hmph. Well whatever, you want me to play the detective in this memory theater of yours, then fine. As long as it gets this farce to end sooner.”

“That’s the spirit. But I take offense with you calling this a theater production of ‘mine’. You’re just as much the director as I am.”

“Get on with the show, stagehand.”

“Hahaha, good one!”

“…”

“Ahem, right, no jokes for this one; at least not from me. Alright, think carefully. This one might not make complete sense to you right now, but just go with your gut feeling. What prevented the assistant from killing the Professor in his study?”

 >Pick one:

A.    The Professor isn’t dead

B.     The study door was locked

C.    The Professor wasn’t in the study when the gunshot rang out

D.    The assistant was unconscious when the gun was shot

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 7

B. Pet was not the murderer

First Act – Affect: Part 2

 “I have an alibi” I sputter out.

“You told us that already” says the young man, his annoyance growing.

Did I? Yes, right, I did, but now I’m certain that I was not mistaken.

“At the moment that the Professor was murdered I was in the parlor. There are two of you who can vouch for me” I say with newfound confidence.

The guests shuffle around, whispering between each other, trying to determine if my words are the truth.

“At the time of the murder, multiple people have vouched that you were not in the living room” says the middle-aged woman, seemingly having taken it upon herself to be the voice of the group.

That’s ridiculous. They must be mistaken. I’m certain that was the time of the murder, as certain as I am that my cooking is delicious, as certain as I am that my name is not Pet.

“Let’s reframe the question” says the older man, words dripping with a diplomatic kind of malice, “where were you when the gun was fired?”

Which gun? Oh, the Professor’s gun that he keeps by the fireplace. He never touches it except to clean it in the afternoons. If he fired it that means something must have really gone wrong. Unless they mean that someone else fired that gun and that was what killed the Professor? But I didn’t hear anything of the sort when the Professor died. It was just Silence.

Or did I? I can feel some vague recollection. Not quite a recollection, a pull towards a memory that someone has placed before me.

Is this how the Professor died? I’m not sure, but right now what I need more than the truth is an alibi and someone who can corroborate it for me.

“Were you lying to us, you little shit?” accuses the young man, “if you weren’t in the living room when the old man got murdered, then where the hell were you? C’mon, say it for the class!”

His tone is full of anger, as usual, but these words have a sprinkle of fear mixed in, as if he’s apprehensive to have me actually answer these questions.

No matter who wants or doesn’t want me to say what I have to say, I don’t care. All I care about is surviving this mess. That’s basic evolutionary psychology. Well, it’s nothing even that pretentious, it’s common sense. Well then, If you want my answer, I’ll give it to you happily!

 Second Piece: A Gun Spewing Brown Smoke

 “Answer me already!” I say as politely as I can muster, which isn’t much right now.

“I’m telling you that I don’t know anything more than you do!” says Brown, his characteristic hesitance underscoring these absurdly suspect words.

“There’s no way in hell that the Professor’s assistant wouldn’t know anything about his research!” I shout, slamming my fist on the countertop and knocking off a few pots and pans in the process

“What are you doing?” the “Pet” says frantically as he hurries over the counter by me, “you’ll spill something, and if you do there’s no way I’m serving you dinner tonight!”

That’s a pretty lacking threat, but I didn’t have time to get lunch today, so it might as well be a death sentence for me. To be honest, while questioning the servant was my foremost motivation in coming to the servant’s quarters, I was also hoping to sneak a little snack while he was cooking.

“Hey, you said these were the servant’s quarters before when you were greeting us in the living room” I say, trying to ease him into answering the important questions by getting him to answer a benign one first, “so why does this place look and function just like a kitchen, only with a hammock in the corner?”

“Oh, because the Professor’s summer home here was built to be a single-occupancy home” he answers, “The Professor bought it off the previous owner to have a retreat where he could be alone, but now that he’s too old and much too busy to take care of himself alone, he has a live-in assistant, me.”

“I just call it the servant’s quarters to avoid admitting that I live in a kitchen” the poor little turdstain says with a smile and a small chuckle to himself, “this place wasn’t built to house more than one person, not even a live-in servant. The only change that the Professor made from the original design of this place was to add in that dumbwaiter there so I can send him his meals straight to his study without disturbing him.” He points to a dumbwaiter on the wall behind me.

“Wait, if this place doesn’t even have room for you, then where are we supposed to stay while this ‘retreat’ is going on?” I say.

“I’ve set up cots in the basement” Brown says, a flush of shame falling over his normally subdued pallor.

“You mean for us to all cram together in a dark, dank basement for however long it’ll take for this crank to finish his stupid diagnosis of this made-up psychic power he thinks we have?” I shout out of concern for my own poor back, which aches like that of a man thrice my age.

“The basement is quite roomy … and I’ll be able to give you your meals through this dumbwaiter in the basement as well” Brown says, attempting some facsimile of good humor on his face while the color nearly totally drains from his being.

“Oh great, I’m so glad that you won’t have to see any of your dirty lab rats when you feed us our slop” I say, politeness officially the furthest thing from my mind.

“No, no, no … of course that’s not what I- “he manages to sputter out before being interrupted.

A gunshot rings out through the rickety house. The sound shakes every board and nail of the place. I’d imagine that even the termites in the foundation were startled by a sound like that.

“Professor! Professor! Are you alright?!” the loyal servant shouts, clumsily stepping over pans that I must have scattered before as he runs over to the dumbwaiter and calls up to the study above us where that gunshot sound originated.

“Shut up!” screams Brown’s master, his hoarse old voice creaking with pain, “leave me to my business and close the doors of that dumbwaiter, you stupid animal!”

I knew that this man was a complete asshole, but I didn’t know he was such an idiot as well. I mean, how do you miss the opportunity to call your disobedient servant a “dumb-waiter” in this circumstance?

The Professor’s “Pet” recoils from this reprimand and does as he was told, closing the dumbwaiter doors, and returning to his cooking, concern coloring every inch of his being.

“What do you think that was about?” I ask him.

“The gunshot or the yelling?” he responds.

“I assumed the yelling is because he doesn’t like you, I was more asking about the gunshot.”

“Well, your assumption isn’t wrong. About the gunshot, I have a decent idea about what could have triggered that.”

“Are you going to tell me what that is?”

“No. I respect patient confidentiality” he says, shutting down the conversation.

Hmm, well whatever is going on here, I won’t figure out anything else about it by speaking with Mister “confidentiality” here. I’ve got to check out what the aftermath of whatever the hell happened with that gunshot is. Now this is exciting, it’s like I’m some sort of great detective right now.

With a spring in my step, I refuse to bid Brown farewell and leave to get to the bottom of this.

 00:46:47

 “Now we’re starting to get to the bottom of this.”

“…”

“What’s wrong? Is this because of the comment I made about your face?”

“What? No.”

“Well if it makes you feel any better, I’ve thought it over and decided that you are definitely not my type.”

“…”

“…”

“Are you an idiot?”

“Huh?”

“How in the world is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Well, when I complimented your appearance, you didn’t like it so I figured the opposite might work in your case.”

“Ah, so you are an idiot.”

“Woah, woah, woah, that’s awfully harsh, don’t you think! I didn’t mean anything by it in the first place, it’s not like I could tell myself. And I’d heard that complimenting someone’s appearance was a nice way to put someone at ease.”

“From whom? Some pick-up artist?”

“Call him whatever you’d like, and you are probably correct in that judgement, but I trust him, and he knows better about these matters than I do, so I just figured …”

“And that’s where you messed up, you figured that I would be like everyone else, but you’ve proved that you clearly don’t know anything about how I think.”

“…”

“What, no witty comeback? No pithy comeback?”

“Be quiet.”

“?”

“I’m trying. I real am, but your thoughts are even more foreign to me than I expected.”

“Then stop this farce of a therapy session and hand out your diagnosis already. Then we can all move on from this in peace.”

“No. We will reach an understanding. No matter what. Now answer my questions.”

“Fine. Go on.”

“You know that the Professors assistant didn’t kill him.”

“Of course.”

“And you are aware that he has an alibi for the time of the crime.”

“Yes.”

“Then who can vouch for his alibi?”

“Huh? I don’t know that.”

“I’m sure you do, just remember what you’ve seen, what you’ve heard. I’m sure by now you have at least a decent guess about who was with him at that moment.”

“…”

“Alright. Think carefully about this one and when you’re ready, tell me your answer and we’ll be one big step closer to the truth.”

 >Pick one:

A.    The young girl

B.     The middle-aged woman

C.    The older man

D.    The young man

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 6

A.    Answer correctly

First Act – Affect

 “Oh, you’re finally awake” speaks a familiar voice, “but I’m not sure you’re alright if you couldn’t say the right number of fingers I held up.”

Am I awake?

Of course I’m awake. I just felt a little lightheaded and had to close my eyes for a bit. It was only the smell of all that blood.

Right, the blood.

“Woah, woah! Why are you retching like that? Are you sick or something?” exclaims the young man, more disgusted than concerned.

“No, no, no, I’m … just fine” I muster, with a meager thumbs-up.

“Well, if you’re feeling up to it, then shall we begin this ‘trial’ of ours?” says the middle-aged woman with a sigh of equal parts relief and exasperation.

A trial? Ah, for the Professor’s killer, it’s starting to come back to me.

“So, little ‘Pet’, defend yourself” speaks the older man, his tone unflinchingly accusatory.

Of course. Of course I would be the prime suspect. I found the body first. I didn’t warn anyone about it when I did. I’m covered in the Professor’s blood. Most importantly, I’m the only one that they know was familiar with the Professor and so is the only one that could have a motive.

“So? We’re waiting” the young man reminds me, his impatience painful to witness.

“Wait, wait, wait … I have an alibi” I lie.

“Then tell us. Prove to us that you couldn’t kill him” provokes the older man.

Do I have an alibi? I feel like I do. I don’t know why, but something is telling me that I must.

I just need to search my mind. To search for the moment of the murder …

 Second Movement: Funerary Dirge

 Someone just died.

A shiver runs through my body. I can feel my every muscle begin to seize up as my heartbeat threatens another attack.

I have to keep calm. I have to keep calm.

I focus my hearing and shut out my ears. I hear the Drums, the Violin, the Bass, the Guitar, and faintly the Piano.

I search and search and search for the Flute, but where they once played, there is only Silence.

This isn’t the Silence that I wanted.

The Professor is dead. I feel my knees buckling beneath me as I stumble down the staircase to the first floor waiting room.

I try to pick myself up but am interrupted.

The Bass helps me to my feet. A concerned tone underlies their actions. Surely this one will be the most devastated to know that the Professor has passed.

The Bass returns to their business. They play with the Guitar a rowdy and uncoordinated tune.

I retreat into a familiar corner and wait. That’s all I can do right now. Simply thinking about anything is threatening to bring back another attack. Just when I had been so soothed by that Instrument, now the Noise is returning, greater than it ever has before.

Please, someone, tell me. Why? Why did this happen? Why now? Why to me?

 00:46:47

 “The patient is just fine. This attack is completely normal for their condition. No, it wasn’t triggered by anything that I’ve been doing. They’re acting completely stably. They were able to answer diagnostic questions perfectly fine. Please, let me return to my work. Thank you.”

“…”

“Ah so you’re up. I would’ve thought you’d be out longer after that.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I need you to remember. I need you to go back to that night.”

“I remember that night. My mind is just as sharp as ever.”

“No, you don’t remember. You don’t remember anything. You just remember what you want to remember. You need the full story.”

“Then go ahead, if you’re so certain you know everything, then tell me.”

“I can’t. You’re the only one that can do this for yourself. I hope you can forgive me, but we’re going to need to go through every bit of that day, step by painful step.”

“……”

“Alright. Then let’s get right into it! Who is the murderer?”

“What?! Just like that! You want me to say it right now?”

“Hahahahahahahaha … Ahahahaha! Oh your face right now! That’s hilarious! Hahahaha!”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Of course you’re not, you’re such a big sourpuss! By the end of this I’ll have a smile on that pretty face of yours!”

“………”

“Oh … uhh … that death glare of yours … I suppose that was really not funny. What part of that remark was it that was such a problem? Do you not like being told that you’re pretty?”

“Just shut up and get on with your ‘process’, therapist.”

“Yeah … uhm … of course. I’m sorry. Ahem, so about that assistant, the Professor’s ‘Pet’.”

“Yes. What about them?”

“Were they the murderer?”

“That’s your question? The answer is obvious. How is this going to help anything?”

“If it’s so obvious, then go on, say it. Say it will full confidence in yourself and your own observations.”

“Tsk, fine. If you of all people insist on this, then how is someone like me to refuse.”

“Thank you. Go on ahead.”

 >Pick one:

A.    Pet was the murderer

B.     Pet was not the murderer

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 5

B.    Ace of Wands

First Card – Past: Wands

Today is not a good day.

I’m sure of it. As sure as I am that the sky is blue. As sure as I am that my name is-

What was my name again?

Oh no. It’s happening again. I’m in one of my Ruts. I knew that today would be a bad day, but not that it would be this bad. If my mind is this addled, then this has to be my worst Rut in a very long time. But to look on the bright side, the worse the Rut, the greater the High that will come once it passes.

But this night is hardly the time to be in a High. This night is a time for action, for action with a clear and focused mind. I must remember what I’m here for.

I’m here to learn. To learn about myself. To understand my condition. I will come out of this “retreat” of The Professor’s greater than I have ever been before.

Though it is hard to believe that an Ace such as myself could possibly be any greater than I already am.

I am not just an Ace; I am the Ace; a singular existence whose very mood shapes the makeup of the world.

If only I felt like that right now. Now I am simply ruled by the Wands; driven forward into action no matter the consequences. How manly of me.

It’s not just me though, this whole room, this salon, is ruled by the Wands. The Magician, the Hanged Man, the Fool, the Hermit, and that goodly Hierophant can all feel it, though I doubt they know it. The excitement and apprehension is palpable. Even someone who was not the Ace would surely be able to sense it. A gathering so Major in its attendance is sure to have suitably major forces at play.

“My sincerest greetings, Gentlemen. I come to you on this most momentous of occasions to give you all a truly exciting proposition” says the Hierophant, pulling the attention of each onlooking Arcana towards him and only him. Impressive, if not more than a little infuriating.

“As a psychologist, I have long pondered the human condition. What is it that brings us joy? What is it that makes us suffer?” continues the Professor.

“I have known great suffering in my life” his eyes turn towards the fireplace where a well-crafted old rifle hangs. An excellent gun, very manly.

“Yet I have also found great joy, far greater than those that I know that have not experienced that same great suffering” pontificates the Hierophant, “I have a theory that joy is not the absence of suffering, but the result of it.”

An odd thought. A presumptuous thought, but if a famous professor is not allowed to be presumptuous, then who is.

“My greatest joy in life came from when I finally conquered my suffering. When I laid to rest that blight upon my soul that prevented me from being my true, complete self” he continues with a look of immense satisfaction on his face, “that is why I have taken up the profession of the psychologist, to bring that same joy, that same catharsis, to those that suffered as I suffered.”

“I have reason to believe that you all have suffered” the Hierophant presumes. How blunt. I had not thought a well-regarded psychologist to be so tactless.

“Not just that, I theorize that those I have gathered here today have suffered in a way that modern psychology has not yet even begun to understand” the Hierophant continues, whipping himself into a mania of scholarly excitement.

“I aim to end that in this retreat of mine. That suffering. That lack of understanding. By week’s end, I shall bring the greatest catharsis a human can ever now to each and every one of you, and from you all the world shall know of your stories, so that no one again can suffer how you suffered” the Hierophant continues, having worked his frail body into breathlessness from the thrill of his speech.

What noble intentions. I’m sure that poor, lonely Hanged Man and the awkward Hermit beside me will surely benefit greatly from this. That pitiful little Fool seems doubtful of the Hierophant’s proposal, though not quite as surprised as the Magician, who seems ready to burst in their anger. I have no interest in finding “catharsis” from this “suffering” that he has so erroneously presumed me to have.

The Hierophant surveys the salon for approval, though only one pair of angered eyes, and my own of course, meet his. Undeterred, if not rejuvenated, he continues “now you may wonder for yourselves what this new malady of the mind I have discovered within you is. And rightfully so, I doubt that any one of you have even realized for yourselves what has been plaguing you. It is always difficult to understand yourself, that is why there are people like me.”

“I call this new illness of the psyche: Pneumasthesia” the Hierophant announces, seemingly waiting for applause from his captive audience, which does not come.

“Pneumasthesia is the synthesis of souls, of the very creative essences of creatures” the Hierophant continues, as unflappable, or perhaps ignorant, as ever, “ordinary men have only five main senses. That is what is commonly known in science. Yet it is false. All men have a sixth sense.” Preposterous.

The Hierophant chuckles to himself, “you may think it to be preposterous, but it’s nothing so outlandish as ESP or some other such occult nonsense that my more imaginative colleagues may espouse. The human sixth sense is very real, and very observable.”

“Humans, as social animals, possess the capacity for empathy. It is a necessary trait to evolve in order to function in a group of individuals” the Professor lectures, in an even more academic tone than the one he was already using, “It’s basic evolutionary psychology to know that social animals must be able to understand the thoughts and feelings of their peers in order to survive. To do so, a language is created within the collective unconscious that all ordinarily functioning humans understand. Not a consciously created language of words and symbols, but an unconscious one of facial expressions and bodily ticks, even down to pheromones and microscopic movements of the eye muscles. It is by subconsciously sensing these tells that we understand each other.”

I suppose I understand where he is coming from, but that can hardly be considered a sixth sense.

“If this sense, the sense of empathy, is based off sight and smell and whatnot, why do I say that it is a sixth sense. Simple, because our brains, the brains of ordinary human beings, do not process this unconscious language the same as we do the other five senses. In some people, the five conventional senses can function just fine, but this sixth sense can be disrupted” he says, turning to the Hermit, who attempts to meet his gaze and fails.

“Because of the unconscious nature of the sixth sense, all ordinary people can feel the thoughts and emotions of others to some extent but can never probe the minds of others. That’s not how empathy works” the Hierophant begins to grin “at least that’s not how it normally works.”

“What if the sixth sense was intertwined with one or more of the other five senses?” he begins to speak louder and quicker, somehow even more excited than before, “If a wire were crossed in one’s brain that made one perceive the thoughts, the emotions, the very souls of others as simple, ordinary sensory data?”

“Then empathy would no longer be an unconscious function of the brain! It would simply become another axis by which the human brain experiences the world!” the Hierophant reaches the climax of his speech “that is Pneumasthesia: ‘souls-together’! It is the condition where which the soul of another becomes as easy to witness as one’s own hand in front of one’s own face. This condition …” he trails off.

“It horrifies me” he finishes, in a hushed tone. The room is rapt at attention, confused at this sudden turn, but I am not surprised. I understand him. It figures such a stuck-in-his-ways Hierophant as him would be resistant to this idea.

“My heart goes out to those who suffer from this condition. Empathy, though it is often spoken of with reverence, especially among my peers, is hardly a gift. It is in many ways, a curse” his tone comes down to a whisper with a dramatic flair that could only come from practice, “to be a social animal is to be as a soldier, under constant attack. The concern, the fear, the hatred, of each and every member of the ever-expanding human pack bombards a man. With this sort of stimulation, it is nigh impossible for an individual to find their own stoic satisfaction.”

“Now, imagine if an individual was not simply subconsciously made witness to the thoughts of others, but persistently and consciously forced to nearly inhabit the minds of others” the Professor pauses for effect as a fresh smile creeps up his lips, “though I doubt it is difficult for any one of you to imagine. I have seen your medical records and I can say with near certainty that this malady is exactly what is causing you all to suffer so. And I can assure you, I will cure every last one of you, by my honor as the soon-to-be greatest psychologist who has ever lived!”

The Hanged Man looks down, collapsing into a pitiable ball like some sort of hurt puppy. Were I in a better mood, I’d almost feel inclined to pet the poor thing.

The Magician’s fury appears to have subsided for a moment, replaced by smoldering contemplation. Something must have struck a chord with that one that not even an Arcana of such indefatigable action could ignore.

The Hermit looks towards the Hierophant with confusion and what seems like a hurt, personal hurt, as if they feel that they were betrayed.

The Fool walks away slowly, their mind a flurry of emotions. Anger, confusion, resentment, but the confusion reigns out among them all. I would expect nothing more from such an entertaining little Fool.

The Ace, I, feel nothing so melodramatic as these other Arcana. I am glad, ecstatic even. I can feel my Rut abating. To know that the goodly Professor shares my views has me overjoyed. To know that he too recognizes the hell that is other people brings to me a deep sense of camaraderie with this man, one I rarely feel with other Arcana.

Though I cannot say I completely agree with the Hierophant’s words. I am not an invalid to be cured. I am the Ace. I know the Arcana of men and women because I am the Ace. I know the evil, the pain, the ugliness of each and every individual I meet, and that does not bring me suffering, it is my greatest joy.

The Hierophant, basking in his perceived success, unaware of the negative effect that his speech had on each listener, but clearly aware that it had a great effect, turns to the Fool, and speaks “come back here my little Pet. Greet our patients properly.”

The Professor’s “Pet” stops reluctantly and turns back towards the other Arcana. The Foolish “Pet” hesitantly looks between the dismayed faces of each Arcana and speaks “I am the Professor’s assistant, P-E-T, as he called me. I will be serving you all during this retreat, including making your meals which I am currently in the middle of preparing. If you need me for anything, I will be in the servant’s quarters on the first floor down that hallway” he points behind him to where he was trying to retreat before and then speaks up one last time before retreating again “Please just call me Peter, because that is my name.”

“It’s a very clever little name if I do say so myself. And I do. His name’s PETer, and PET is his initials as well. And the name’s quite fitting for who he is as well. Hehehe” the professor jokes, seemingly having forgotten the tense atmosphere he had left the room in from his claims, “I think you’ve met him before as well, old friend. Though that was just once in a fairly busy conference so I’m not sure if you remember.” The Professor seemed to have a note of good-natured challenge in his tone in that last remark, though I’m not sure why.

The Hermit steps forward, towards the Hierophant and says “we need to talk, it can’t wait till later, it has to be now. Please.”

The Professor seems resistant, his eyes dart towards the staircase behind him. I can’t let him escape.

“I would like to speak with you as well, if that’s alright, Professor” I say with a perfect, trained politeness.

The Professor sighs, he can’t refuse if we gang up on him. That would be too rude for a Hierophant.

The Hierophant sighs, “very well, I would like to talk with you as well.”

 00:27:35

 “Are you alright now? It seemed like that one was awfully difficult for– “

“We need to talk.”

“?!”

“What is that surprise for? Did you think I was mute or something?”

“Ah … well … no … it’s just…”

“Are you crying?”

“Am I? Oh, you’re right. Of course you’re right but … hahaha. I didn’t think that someone like me was capable of this, especially not for someone like you.”

“Was that one of your jabs?”

“No, no, of course not. Now that you’re speaking, I don’t need to insult you. Unless you really deserve it.”

“You’re just as much of a little annoyance as before.”

“Hahahahaha … Oh, I can’t stop laughing. I knew it! I knew that those questions would work! With stimulation like that, you could hardly ignore me.”

“Yes. Congratulations, you bullied me into compliance. Excellent work, therapist.”

“Do you think anyone will blame me for bullying you a little, patient?”

“No, and that’s the problem. I had thought you’d be above something like this.”

“Then you’d be very wrong. You must be slipping after that little ‘vacation’ of yours.”

“And your education has clearly not benefitted your soul as much as your ego.”

“What of my soul?”

“Hmm?”

“Tell me, what do you see within my soul?”

“…”

“Let me change the question, what do you hear within my soul?”

“That’s not going to change my answer- “

“What do you smell within my soul? What do you feel? What do you taste?”

“Why would I taste your soul? Are you some kind of sick fetishist?”

“Hahahahahaha I suppose you could say that, but I don’t see what’s wrong with being excited about these things.”

“You’re far, far too excited right now. I would tell you to calm down, but I doubt I’m in a place to suggest anything like that to my therapist.”

“You are absolutely within your rights to suggest something like that to me.”

“What?”

“I’m not here to examine you. I’m here to understand you. And in order for myself to understand you, you must also understand me.”

“………”

“Oh, that statement struck a chord! I’ll have to write that down!”

“……………”

“Even with how little you’ve spoken so far, your body language and reactions have given me such a wealth of interesting observations! I’ve almost run out of space on my notepad with all this information!”

“…………………”

“With info like this I’m sure to come to a wonderfully conclusive thesis by the end of this session! We have so much time left, and I cannot wait to go even further! We’ve just barely begun the first step of this process! We’ll connect to an even closer degree! Aren’t you excited, my good patient!”

“………………………”

“My patient?”

“……………………………”

“Oh no, no, no, NO! Stay with me! Not now! Can you hear me?!”

Introduction – Behavior: Part 2

“Can you hear me?”

00:29:46

“Please, answer me!”

Introduction – Behavior: Part 3

“C’mon, Answer me!”

00:29:49

“Can you see me?”

Introduction – Behavior: Part 4

“Can you see anything?”

00:29:51

“How many fingers am I holding up?"

Introduction – Behavior: Part 5

“Wait, uhh, how many fingers am I holding up?”

 >Pick one:

A.    Answer correctly

B.     Answer incorrectly

[pneumasthesia]

Chapter 4

C.    Three

May 31, 8:33 pm

 Three minutes, thirteen seconds and three hundred and fifty milliseconds (give or take my ordinary margin of error of two hundred milliseconds).

That is approximately how late I am for this meeting.

That is just the right amount of lateness.

I usually try to be punctual, but for a meeting this important, I made an effort to come at a more socially acceptable time.

I had checked the public transportation schedule weeks in advance of this day and had run approximations over and over in my head to make sure that I would be exactly on time for this meeting. But I made a fatal miscalculation. I used the average adult walking speed to make the calculations, not my own, and that error compounded with the uncharacteristic timeliness of the public transport to bring me to my destination almost a whole half hour early. Due to that error I had to wait such an interminable length just outside this mansion of the good Professor’s.

How could I make such a simple error? It must have been all the desk work I’ve been up to lately. I’ve been so caught up in estimating the speeds of the people passing by my office that I’ve forgotten my own speed. I’m trying to recall what I had once known, but my memory has become, muddled.

I must rectify this error.

There are fifty wooden boards laid vertically on this side of The Professor’s wooden mansion. By eye, I can tell they are standard two-by-fours. So the length of this outer wall is 200 inches, give or take a gap of one eighth of an inch in between the boards and it can be estimated as 206 inches. I have passed by this wall in two seconds and two hundred and fifty milliseconds approximately, making my walking speed roughly 90 inches per second, or five miles per hour.

No wonder I had that error. The ordinary adult walking speed I was using in my approximation was four miles per hour. Though is that the actual average adult walking speed? The sound of these footfalls appears to be going at a speed closer to two point eight or two point nine miles per hour. Why is that? Curious, curious –

“Hello there, uhm … honored guest” sputters out a hurried voice “I apologize for my lateness. I was somewhat indisposed at the moment you were knocking.”

Oh, that’s why those footfalls were so slow. This individual is much, much shorter than I am. Their height must be at most in the 5th percentile of adult heights. Though the height data that I’m using for that is based off of this country’s census. This individual is likely to be in a higher percentile if I were to consider them relative to average height data for the whole world.

“Uhm, excuse me? Is there something wrong? You can come in now” speaks the small individual.

Oh, I must have knocked on the door. I didn’t notice because I was caught up in my calculations. What’s this? Ah, the knocker from the door is still grasped in my hand, and no longer attached to the door. I’m sure the Professor will forgive me. Where was I? Ah, the short one! I must apologize to them.

“I must apologize” I say, “I did not see you there on account of your height.”

“Oh, haha” says the individual in the doorway. I had not realized I had made a joke, but I am glad it was funny.

Now that I’ve given a proper apology and greeting, what comes next? Ah, eye contact. I must look this individual square in the eyes.

Five.

There is a Five at 32 degrees clockwise from the azimuth.

How disappointing.

Five is an awfully bland number. It’s a prime, but not the first prime. It’s neither a perfect square nor a perfect cube. It has no particular cultural value in most any culture I am aware of. It’s the first boring number among the natural numbers. The only thing mildly of interest about five is that it’s the number of digits human and related animals have on the ends of their limbs. I suppose that makes five an awfully human number. And an awfully canine number and an awfully feline number. Well that is if you are only counting the forepaws of those animals. The point is that five is not a special number in any way, and neither is this individual, the smallest, most insignificant five that I’ve ever seen in my long career.

“Would you like to come in already” says Five.

Yes, I think.

“Yes” I say.

Now I enter The Professor's mansion, as casually as I can muster. Specifically the lounge room is what I enter. It’s approximately sixteen feet by forty feet. There’s not much of especial interest here. Seven chairs, one coffee table, one Two, Four windows, one One, one gun. Oh, below that gun is a brick fireplace with twelve – twenty-five – thirty-seven – fifty –

“Hello there, old friend” says the Professor “It’s good you could make it. I had almost thought you wouldn’t come, since you were so late, by your standards, that is.”

Ah, he’s here. From 41 degrees, my favorite Zero. A Zero of infinite possibilities. A Zero so unlike any other Number that it can hardly even be considered of the same species.

“Ah, hello” I say. That was one of my smoothest greetings in a while. It’s always easier when you’ve known the person for a while. Hmm, I have to keep the conversation going, what was Zero interested in again?

“That’s a nice gun you have there” I remark, still counting the bricks on the fireplace.

“Oh, I would have thought that you’d seen it already” says the old Zero. Perhaps you thought wrong for once.

“Remember, from the war” he says. Oh right, of course, he did not think wrong. I’ll have another chance to catch him in a blunder soon. Surely.

“Yes, yes, yes. I’m sure it’s useful …” I begin.

“Out here in the woods?” he cuts me off, “yes, you can never be too cautious what with the bears and other miscreants that might be out there.”

Oh, yes, of course that’s what he’s using it for. I was thinking that he’d use it to keep unruly patients in line. But a renowned psychologist would never do that or admit to doing that.

“So … uhh … speaking of your work” I continue.

“Hmm, my work?” Zero says, “we were speaking about my work?”

“Yes, uhm” I say, knowing that I’m wrong, but not knowing why, “what exactly are you planning to do here, with these people.” I look to the One and Two who have been watching the two of us with such curiosity.

“With you people, you mean” he corrects, “I called you over to participate in this ‘retreat’ of mine as a patient, not a colleague.”

I am aware of that. You don’t need to talk down to me. I would have hoped you of all people would not. As much as you insist to the contrary, I am a colleague of yours. Perhaps not in the same exact field, but I think I deserve a little more than the “patient” treatment.

“Your invitation indicated that this was a ‘retreat’, as you put it, to advance the field of psychology” I say, trying to remember the precise words used in that letter, “and there was something you said about ‘changing the lives of those ailing for the better’, if I recall correctly.”

“You do, as always” he remarks, chuckling to himself. If only he knew how often I forget student’s names, and family member’s names, and my own name, and –

“But ‘changing lives’ was just a diplomatic way of stating my intentions” continues the valueless quantity, “that particular turn of phrase was my appearances-minded little Pet’s idea.” He turns to the Five who is bustling back and forth, apparently in a great hurry once again.

He turns back to me and continues “I would state my intentions more simply, I intend to cure you. Every last one of the guests here, of this new ailment that I have significant reason to believe is plaguing your minds.”

What?

“What?” I say.

“You must not realize it, old friend” my favorite Zero whispers to me, “I knew you were a poor judge of character. It figures that that lack of insight of yours would extend to your own self-awareness as well. But do not worry, I am here for you. I have conquered my own demons and I can do the same for you, for everyone here.”

What demons? I have nothing of the sort. I recognize that I have my quirks. They may inconvenience me at times, but I have no intention of “curing” them, if that is even possible. These Numbers in the corners of this lounge, though I doubt they are completely without their quirks (few are), I doubt they are suffering as much as the goodly Professor might think. I need to talk with The Professor about what he is doing here.

“We need to talk about what you are doing here” I say, “the two of us, alone.”

My old friend looks me straight in the eye. He knows I don’t like that. His mouth twists into an expression I’m 80% sure is a smile and says “Yes, of course. I’ll invite you to my office before the night is over and we’ll discuss my intentions. I look forward to picking your mind again.”

Picking my mind? Oh, that’s an expression, right? I thought for a moment he was going to take an ice pick to my skull and give me a lobotomy. That seems like a joke that he would make.

Zero pulls away from me, moving to the far corner of the lounge, by the staircase to the second floor and basement, and addresses the room, which has now gained a sixth occupant: a Three.

Zero raises his voice in a way he reserves for lectures and society meetings and speaks to the room “Greetings, ladies and gentlemen. Ah, I hope you can forgive my theatrical tone of voice, I can hardly hold myself back on this most momentous of occasions. In one way, this night shall be the end of your ways of life up to this point, but in another way, it shall be the beginning of a wonderful new life that has never before been open to you. Now, if you would allow me, I shall explain.”

 00:23:01

 “Should I explain?”

“…”

“The meaning of the questions, would you like me to?”

“……”

“No? You shook your head, that means no, right? You’re finally responding to me!”

“…………”

“Why so sullen all of a sudden? I get that you already understand what I’m doing, but why can’t I explain it out loud? I think it’s pretty clever and you’re the only person I can share my methodology with.”

“…”

“Hmm, what’s that head gesture supposed to mean? You know, it would be so much easier if you’d just speak to me.”

“…”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me! I’m more than familiar enough with the feeling to know when I’m being talked down to, even when the person doing it isn’t even talking.”

“…”

“Oh, the recording device, that’s what you were gesturing at. What’s wrong with it? I was just going to use it to listen back to this session later when I’m making a write-up on your condition.”

“………”

“Fine, fine. And I was also going to share the recording with my colleagues. It’s standard procedure to share the recordings with my fellow researchers. But it’s also basic decency to not lie to a patient during a session like this, so there, you caught me.”

“…”

“I understand. You don’t want anyone else to know. Not even me, of all people. But that’s no way to live. Secrets like that, bottling them up like that, letting them grow inside you, they’ll break free eventually, like some sort of demon.”

“………”

“Not a demon? Oh, a genie! Of course, the thing that you bottle up is called a genie? Or a djinni. You know, with the ‘D-J’ and not the ‘G’. I don’t know if that difference was clear from my pronunciation.”

“…”

“Yes, I understand. That’s not the problem, is it. You’re not a demon. Of course you’re not. No part of you ever was, and no part of you ever will be.”

“……………”

“Hmm, well let’s move on with the next question. This one will be the end, well, the end of the beginning. There’s still plenty left, but I’ve been saving this one for the last among this first set, because I’m sure you’ll like this one. Here, take a look at these!”

“!!!”

“Hahaha, yeah that’s what I expected. Of course you wouldn’t like these. I had them specially made and everything. An awfully artistic friend of mine wanted to try their hand at making some.

“………………”

“I know it’s difficult. It’s difficult for me as well. Just looking at them. Just being reminded of that day. But this has to be done, I’m sure you understand.”

“…”

“You know how this goes by now. But please, I have to remind you, now more than ever, make your choice with a calm mind. Don’t try to think too hard about this. It’s just part of the process.”

 >Pick one:

A.    Ace of Swords

B.     Ace of Wands

C.    Ace of Cups

D.    Ace of Pentacles