La Petite Mort (A Short Story)

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I have to admit, upon arriving in France, I was kind of worried. For one, my French was limited to conversational, "where is the bathroom?"-type stuff and medical terminology. The fact that schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and various forms of psychosis ran in the French side of my family didn't help matters: I was working towards a bachelor's degree in psychology at the time, with the ultimate goal of becoming a psychiatrist, and volunteering in various mental hospitals across the country had shown me the hideous things the human mind can do to itself. My textbooks and real-life experiences had also taught me that, while genetics help snap your mind, insanity is catching. When you've got the time, look up statistics on medical personnel in mental wards that eventually get admitted to mental hospitals themselves. It's kind of terrifying.

The pitying looks I got from the Frenchman sitting next to me on the plane when I told him what my business was in France didn't help either.  

"You seem like a nice kid, for an American," he told me in slightly accented  English, patting my shoulder. "Try not to go batshit up there. The nephew of le bon docteur did, in fact, just last year. Tried to eat the dog. Hell, I think they're all fous there."  

Great.

Anyway, I had decided to go, despite my fears of going Section 8, for three reasons:  

1.) French women. (If I could get any to talk to me.)

2.) The internship that my mom's cousin, Doctor Mange, had promised me at his esteemed private practice. This internship, thanks to a program my college runs, would give me the ability to get my bachelor's a semester early and save half a grand in tuition and living expenses.

3.) I was sick and tired of being under my Boston Protestant family's thumb. They constantly check up on me and hate that I'm majoring in Psychology instead of, I don't know, Sports Appreciation or something equally pedestrian. My dad's side (the Irish Protestants) and my mom's side (the French Catholics) didn't get along so well. If I was lucky, going on this trip would mean the Bostonians would refuse to talk to me for a while. That, and I figured nothing separates people better than the Atlantic Ocean.  

All things considered, when I arrived at the ivy-covered Mange estate, I was anxious... but my mom's cousin, Dr. Mange, was rather charming, with his trim, graying mustache and his horn-rimmed glasses. We made small talk for a bit, but I finally managed to choke out the question that was really on my mind.   "How's, uh, how's Claude doing, Doctor?" I asked, unsure how to phrase the question.  

His face fell. Without the gravity-defying effect of a smile, he seemed ancient, decrepit, and a chill ran through my bones. "Not responding to treatment, I'm afraid. We have hope yet, but... well, it looks as though he'll be an in-patient for the forseeable future." Dr. Mange sighed, then seemed to shake off the memory of his nephew like a dog dispersing water from its coat. "Now, tell me, if you will, how things are in America! My wife is fascinated with your celebrities' romances, more so than our own, I sometimes think, ha-ha!" 

His hair was rather disheveled and his tie loose, but his jovial smile and boisterous laugh put me at ease-though I wasn't too found of the house or grounds. It just seemed... oppressive, like too many generations of crazy people had been walled up inside. 

Dr. Mange introduced me to some of his staff, assured me I'd meet his wife, Clarice, later, showed me around the huge estate, and finally left me in my room. "Dinner will be - well, whenever Brunhilde can catch it," he chuckled, turning to leave. Brunhilde, a forbidding, frizzy-haired woman with arms like a tree trunk, was the cook, a German immigrant. I'd met her earlier, on my house tour. She had mentioned that I had "a nice set of meat" on my bones... charming.  

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