Fugue Parts 3 4
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Fugue: Parts 1-2 free porn video
Disclaimer: I'm not a medical doctor. While this story does involve a
certain level of medical jargon, I have only been able to stretch what
limited research is available so far, so I have tried to minimize the
usage of it. With that in mind, enjoy the story.
Fugue
Written by Liam Slade
"FUGUE ("fYOOg") noun: dissociative disorder in which a person forgets
who he or she is and leaves home to create a new life ... during the
fugue there is no memory of the former life ... after recovering there
is no memory for events during the dissociative state."
Part 1: Feminine Mystique
The Jane Doe was rather docile from the moment she awoke. That didn't
last long. She'd been brought in only days earlier with symptoms of
anxiety attack and had been in a coma ever since. She had no
identification papers and the man who brought her in was a stranger.
Ergo, she was labelled a Jane Doe, and it was hoped everything would be
straightened out when she came to.
It wasn't.
Out of some sort of chivalry, Aaron sat by her all the while she was
unconscious. He felt a responsibility to this mysterious young woman
whom he'd rescued, and wanted to see her revived. He privately
fantasized that upon awakening, she would fall madly in love with him,
partly out of gratitude for his rescuing her, and partly because of his
'personality'.
To his eyes, she was gorgeous. She had long, raven hair, with some
bangs that might look a little prudish on another woman, but instead
accentuated her soft features, round cherry lips and soft cheekbones.
She also had grass-green eyes; deep like he imagined her soul to be.
Her skin was porcelain, and she was a woman of bountiful curves and
voluptuous breasts; but he pretended not to be interested in any of
that. He kept trying to tell himself that she probably was not as
perfect as he imagined, but resolved to be kind to her regardless of
who she was.
The nurses kept telling him he didn't have to come back. After all was
said and done, she may not have had any relatives around, or any
identity, but she was no longer his problem. He continually justified
his presence there, however, by insisting he felt obligated, that it
was the gentlemanly thing to do, and that was how he was raised. The
nurses thought it was sweet. If he didn't have such a crush on Jane
Doe, he might have gone after one of them. The Catch-22 being that it
might reveal his intentions to be not all that chivalrous.
You can imagine his delight, then, when one day her vital signs picked
up. The doctors warned him not to get too excited, as this might not
mean anything in particular, but Aaron could sense that she was on her
way to recovery.
Slowly, her fingers began to twitch. Her eyes fluttered more rapidly
under their lids. Her nose twitched, beginning to breathe in more
deeply, more deliberately. The medical staff was summoned and they
removed her breathing and feeding apparatus. They all hoped they had
done the right thing.
She began to choke as air filled her lungs from her nose once again.
She sniffed as Aaron and a host of medics watched hopefully. Suddenly,
her eyes fluttered open and batted at the influx of light. The mystery
woman took a deep breath, as if a de facto sigh of relief, and the
doctors and nurses all rejoiced; although, reservedly. There was still
work to be done, though this certainly was a victory.
"H...spt...l?" the mystery woman choked, seemingly unable to pronounce
vowels. It took a second for Dr. Mirkin to guess the meaning.
"Oh, yes, yes, sorry dear, yes, you're in a hospital. You've been in a
coma for three days now."
"Four days, Doctor," a nurse corrected, gesturing to the wall clock. It
was after 1 AM, so, technically speaking, it had been about 4 days
since Aaron had brought her in.
"Eh? Oh, yes, four days. We were starting to get very worried." The
superfluous doctors began to file out; there was work to be done, after
all. Dr. Mirkin introduced Aaron, "this young man brought you in."
Nervously, and awkwardly, he waved at her. Jane Doe was unresponsive,
mostly due to a lack of mobility.
"Wuh....ter." she grumbled softly, "please?"
"Oh of course, Nurse Barton, please, a glass of water for her," he
said, hailing the nurse, "don't worry, your now you have recovered
consciousness, you just need to rest a few days to get your strength
back. And you'll be ship shape in no time. When you feel up to speaking
again, we have some questions we'd like to ask you."
Jane Doe nodded. The Doctor added, as he left, "relax and sleep well."
Aaron just stood there, unable to speak for a moment. "Listen, I guess
I should be going," he said, hands buried in pockets, turning to the
door. She, however, waved her hands frantically, beckoning him over. He
took a seat by the bed.
She leaned in and, very quietly, in a raspy voice, hissed into his ear,
"thaaanks."
"Hey any time," he gulped a bit, "and any time you want to, uh, talk,
to someone, I'd be up for, you know, whatever. I left my number on your
dresser."
This was met with a cold look of confusion and disgust, as if our
mysterious young lady completely failed to understand Aaron's gesture.
Or, as if she did, but didn't like it one whit. This option was
confusing, since what young lady wouldn't like to get to know the
dashing young man who'd saved her life? This hostility was distressing,
but not unheard of in recent coma patients.
It wasn't until the next day, when she was more rested and healed, that
she began to establish an antisocial pattern of behaviour.
Nurse Barton greeted her the next morning by setting a tray of hospital
food in front of her, and hailing her with a singsong "Goooood
morning!"
"What the fuck," replied Jane Doe. Not even intonating a question, just
as an expression; an interjection. That was the entire thought.
"Pardon?" the nurse was shocked. She certainly hadn't imagined this
girl, roughly her own age of 27, to be so profane, especially when it
was not called for. Not at all.
"What the fucked happened to me?" she added, scornfully.
The nurse began, "You were in a coma for--"
"No, no, no, listen. Listen to my voice," she tapped her throat,
angrily, "Hello? Hello? Testing, 1, 2... listen! This is not my voice."
"Excuse me?" the nurse asked sounding confused.
"It's too high; Jesus, listen. Listen to me!" she cried out in a
distressed soprano.
"Maybe something happened to your throat in the coma... maybe it'll all
clear up before you're out of here," the nurse reasoned.
"Get me a mirror," she demanded.
The nurse tried to calm her down, "Listen, maybe you should--"
Jane Doe flopped out of her bed and collapsed to the floor. She began
to squirm her way toward the washroom. The nurse helped her to her feet
and slung her arm over her shoulder.
"Thanks," grunted Jane Doe.
"Don't mention it," groaned the Nurse, straining under Jane Doe's
weight. They made their way over to the washroom and flicked on the
light.
Jane Doe just stared at the mirror, as if she were looking at a Picasso
or a Magic Eye, unable to focus. She looked at the two female figures
in the mirror.
She waved her hand in front of the mirror and looked in horror at the
woman reflected back. She cried out in horror, "Who the fuck? Is this
some kind of joke?" She brushed her black hair out of her face. Feeling
it was unusually long, she pulled at it, finding out the hard way it
was real.
"Fuck! Fuck, fuck, no! Take me back, take me back to bed," she screamed
in the nurse's ear, panicked beyond belief, "do it now!"
"I am. I am," the nurse said, turning back toward the bed. As soon as
they were within proximity, Jane Doe collapsed onto the bed and, using
what little arm strength she had, rolled onto it.
"What's wrong?" the nurse asked.
"What's wrong?" the Jane Doe hissed back, "what's wrong is that that
wasn't me, that's what's wrong! Fuck, what kind of hospital are you
people running here?"
"What are you talking about?" asked the incredulous nurse, as
sceptically as possible.
Jane Doe answered, pacing her words slowly, taking long breaths in
between, "I... am... not... a... woman."
She glared at the nurse for a long time, saying nothing else until the
nurse finally, cautiously, made her way to the door.
From outside the room, she could hear muted sobbing within. At once,
Nurse Barton was heartbroken and confounded.
///
Part 2: The First Session
Click. The tape recorder began to whirr.
The first voice was that of an older male, in his 50's. "Dr. Harold
Bekker, MD, April 28th, 2005. Please, state your name."
The second was a soft, intimidated female voice, "Dean West."
"Date of birth?"
"I can't remember. Sometime in the mid-60's, I think."
"Place?"
"I can't remember. Not far from here."
"Occupation?"
"I don't know. I just remember putting on a tie every morning. Getting
up, shaving, a little cologne for the girl who sat at the desk in the
lobby... the receptionist. There were papers, and a computer. Meetings
sometimes, too." The more she said, the more the female voice gained
confidence. However, it was not a graceful feminine confidence but a
rather masculine tone, like a cocky teenage boy whose voice had not yet
changed.
The male voice continued, "How would you describe yourself,
physically?"
"You mean... how I look now, or how I am supposed to look?"
"Both, please."
"I can't really look at myself in the mirror these days, so I can't
tell you much about what I look like right now. My hair is way too
long, and darker than it used to be. It used to be shorter, lighter
brown. I don't know what colour my eyes are now, but they used to be
green."
"They're still green."
"Oh." The female voice whispered a little closer into the microphone,
"I also used to be a man."
"Could you please describe for the record how you came to this
conclusion?"
"I woke up one morning and my penis was gone. It's that simple."
A brief, palpable silence on the tape.
The female voice continued. "See? I've still got a bit of a sense of
humour. I don't know what happened. I was out drinking with the guys
one night. Probably a Friday, I never have any time to myself other
than at the weekend. I remember drinking, and then passing out on the
ground. It was cold, and dark. Felt like cement, or asphalt."
"Referring to the fact that you were found lying in the street."
"Yeah, I guess. Anyway, everything went pitch black and then, I guess I
was in a coma. When I woke up I was in here." The female voice cleared
her throat, adding "here being the hospital... and this body."
"You don't remember your past, your life, or your identity?"
"I remember... things. There are images, and I remember a bit about who
I am... or was, but this, this is not right."
"Dean... it is my professional opinion that you are in a state of
psychogenic fugue; albeit a peculiar case of one."
"Come again?"
"A fugue is a case in which the subject literally blocks out his or her
entire identity, a very real version of what is typically depicted as
amnesia on the soap operas. It often occurs due to extreme stress. The
subject will often be unable to recognize things that were previously
very important to him, or her: favourite foods, music... even
relationships. In a typical case, the subject will not even be able to
recognize his or her own face in the mirror."
"I'll say."
"However, this is a case unlike anything I've ever seen. You appear to
have established a vague, fictional background for yourself. This is
very unique as far as I've read."
"You think I'm lying?"
"I'm on your side. I'm afraid, however, that there appears to be a
great deal of physical evidence that contradicts your claim. I'm only
affecting this tone with you, mind you, because you still seem to be a
reasonable, clear-thinking person, despite this strange affectation of
yours."
The female voice did not respond.
"It seems as though you've assembled a variety of male...isms, inside
your brain, and formed an identity out of that."
The female was offended, "What are you saying, Doctor? That I'm just
guessing at what it's like to be male? I mean, how can I convince you
otherwise?"
The doctor's voice waited a moment before responding, very softly, "you
can't."
"So the fact that I know absolutely nothing about being female means
nothing to you."
"I'm afraid it doesn't. You're merely mentally blocking out the part of
you that remembers all of those gender-centric tendencies."
"I pissed sitting down for the first time yesterday. I mean, I tried it
before, but anytime I'd get there, I'd just reach down for it... and
make a mess."
"That doesn't prove anything."
"So you're telling me I'm crazy?"
"Not crazy, just that you have a condition. One that, according to past
situations normally resolves itself on its own."
"On its own?"
"In most cases, the fugue ends after a period of time... a few months,
maybe a few years."
"How does that happen?"
"In some cases, the subject simply snaps out of it and remembers his or
her own life. In some, he or she has to be gradually brought to
remembrance by those around him or her."
"Can we stop with this 'him or her, he or she' stuff? Just say 'he.'
Please. Humour me."
"Er, very well. Well, like I said, he may over time come to remember
things about his life... piece together his true identity by being in
close proximity with his old life... or may, after a period of time,
just suddenly stop and remember who he really is after years of not
knowing. Often, it happens that the subject won't remember anything
from the fugue phase."
"You mean there's a chance I won't remember anything that's happening
right now?"
"Oh yes, in fact a very likely one."
"Thank God!"
The female voice laughed a rather giddy chuckle. Not a very feminine
one, more like an awkward teenage boy.
She continued, "I'm kidding."
"Yes, well, in any case I would like very much to continue these
sessions. It's not often such a unique case is stumbled upon, and I
would like very much to go more in depth while you..." the doctor
paused to catch the right word, "acclimate yourself with your
predicament."
"Uh, right. They won't let me leave the hospital, so I'm all yours for
now."
"Even afterward," he insisted, "I'd like to hear from you."
"Hey, anything you want."
Click.
The tape recorded was turned off.
End part 2. To be continued.
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