The Misinterpreted Patients

(CW: Vulgar Language)

"Alright, Patient 21," I said in a professional tone, tapping my pen against the clipboard as I looked over the young boy's file. "It appears that you've been diagnosed with Elaboration Deficiency." Hakimi looked at me with a sheepish grin, as if he had expected this outcome.

I couldn't help but reflect on how this was becoming a familiar scene at the I Can Do It (ICDI) Clinic. As a group of educators, my colleagues and I had noticed a common thread among our students - a reluctance to admit their weaknesses. Despite our headmaster's repeated encouragement for them to seek help, they remained timid and apprehensive. 

That's when we came up with the idea for the ICDI Clinic. 

Our solution was simple yet unconventional: we created a role-playing environment where teachers acted as doctors, and students became patients. I still vividly remember the moment Yogesh pitched this idea - we laughed at its absurdity, but we were also desperate for something that would work. To our surprise, the playful premise had the unexpected benefit of putting our students at ease, allowing them to lower their guard and seek out the help they needed.

For six months and counting, the ICDI Clinic had been open daily during recess. We teachers rotated through the clinic, which was located in the school library, according to a predetermined timetable. 

As I handed Hakimi a sheet of paper with a few statements I had just jotted down, I explained the “prescription” at hand - to elaborate on each statement by expanding it with definition and illustration.

"Thank you, Doctor," Hakimi said with a nod of understanding.

"You're welcome," I replied with a smile. "Patient 22, please come in."

***

Although it was true that the ICDI program had proven successful, it also meant that us teachers had taken on extra responsibilities. Unlike family doctors who only diagnosed and prescribed medication, we were responsible for monitoring our “patients'” progress, ensuring “medication” compliance, and being accountable for their “health” outcomes. Luckily, Puan Saidatul, our Curriculum Senior Assistant, gathered all required documents on Google Sheets. This made it simple for us to input and monitor student progress, ensuring we knew if they needed more treatment or were fully recovered.

To be honest, I relished this additional work. My colleagues often lauded me for being the calmest "doctor," and based on the overwhelming number of students who flocked to the ICDI Clinic when I was in charge, I believe they were right. 

My preferred spot to input all the data was a quaint café called IJ Coffee. The drinks were both cheap and delicious, and the café provided all the necessary amenities for my work, including a strong Wi-Fi connection, ample electrical outlets for my devices, and it was conveniently located near my home. So, every afternoon after school, I would head over to IJ Coffee and kill two birds with one stone - unwind and finish my ICDI work. 

However, IJ Coffee had its own idiosyncrasies, and it was a big one. Like clockwork, almost every day, a gruff, middle-aged man - whom I aptly dubbed "Cranky" - would be situated in my general vicinity. Most people couldn't stand him because he always seemed to be simmering with anger, cursing out anything and anyone in his line of sight - be it the menu books, the waitresses, or other diners. He didn't come here for the drinks or the food; he simply sat and unleashed his seemingly endless rage. It was evident that he was struggling with some sort of mental health issue, but I didn't inquire further.

The area where Cranky and I sat was always eerily empty, which seemed to suggest that I was the only one capable of tolerating him. I suppose my colleagues were right - I had a knack for remaining calm and composed in even the most challenging situations. However, I also had a secret weapon that I always kept safe in my laptop bag, so I could protect myself from Cranky's profanities and endless tirades.

Intentionally, I retrieved my weapon - a pair of earphones - and inserted them into my ears, turning up my playlist to full volume. With my music drowning out the outside world, Cranky became nothing more than a blinking set of eyes and a bobbing head with a flapping mouth. He was hardly an impediment to my ICDI work.

***

With my work complete, I was eager to head home. I stood up, gathered my things, and flashed a contented grin. Removing my earphones, I could hear Cranky bellowing insults in my direction. "You son of a bitch" he spat at me. But I paid him no mind. Physically, he was harmless - his mouth was the only weapon he possessed.

As I made my way out of the café, one of the waitresses scurried over to clear the table I had vacated. Yet again, Cranky launched into a verbal attack. "Hey, bitch!" 

Despite her familiarity with Cranky's volatile nature, the waitress couldn't help but feel affronted. She cast a desperate glance in my direction, seeking protection, but I merely responded with a calm smile.

Soon enough, I was walking down a narrow alleyway behind the café, headed towards my car. Retrieving my keys from my pocket, I unlocked the door and began to load my belongings into the passenger seat. 

And that's when I saw him - a man whose face I knew all too well, leaning against the wall directly in front of me. I glanced down at his shirt, and my heart began to pound with fear. This man not only had my face, but he was also wearing my shirt. Chills raced my flesh; I bolted to the driver's door. Hastening in, the other me swivelled, his voice sombre. "Hey, Ian."

I was too stunned to respond. My body was consumed with a paralysing fear, and my lips refused to cooperate. I stood there, rooted to the spot, as the other me continued. "I just wanted to give you a warning," he said, his eyes locked onto mine. "Your ‘patients’ will kill someone."

And just like that, the man - the other me - turned and walked away. I had a million questions swirling around my mind, but my terror took precedence. I climbed into my car, hands trembling, and drove home. I knew sleep would be elusive that night.

***

The following day at school, I was clearly sleep-deprived. My colleagues kept remarking about the dark circles under my eyes, and I felt perpetually dizzy. Nevertheless, my resolve to uncover the truth remained unwavering. What was the other me attempting to convey? I still recall how he made air quotes when he mentioned patients, unmistakably indicating that he was referring to our ICDI students.

So, throughout my English lessons that day, I interrogated my students, hiding behind the façade of speech exercises. I asked them intimate questions, such as their family life, personal struggles, what drove them mad, and the most pressing one of all - what made them desire to kill someone. I sensed the bewilderment in their eyes, but I paid it no mind. I just had to uncover the truth about which “patients” the other me was referencing. It drove me insane.

Unsatisfied with my findings, I sought out Cikgu Belinda, our school counsellor, and inquired if any of our students displayed aggressive tendencies to the extent of murder.

"Not that I am aware of," she replied with a bewildered look, regarding me as if I were a madman.

My colleagues continuously questioned me about my peculiar conduct, but I didn't have the energy or desire to explain myself. Besides, if I revealed that I had encountered another version of myself the previous day, they would either ridicule me or demand further clarification - both of which I sought to avoid.

I persisted with my investigation, questioning everyone from my colleagues to the security guards, janitors, and canteen staff, but my efforts were fruitless. In the end, I felt defeated because I couldn't seem to uncover the answer. 

Thus, I merely waited for the final bell to ring so I could return to the street where I had encountered the other me. That was the only way to unearth the truth. I needed to inquire - of myself - which students he was referring to.

***

My drive to the parking lot behind IJ Coffee was a blur of micro-sleep, and I was relieved to have arrived unscathed. However, this time, I did not proceed to the café as usual. Instead, I parked my car and waited for the other me to emerge.

I waited patiently, rehearsing what I would ask him. My mind raced with so many questions, and I grew increasingly restless, but I was not ready to give up easily. So, I waited, even though my dashboard clock indicated that I had been there for the past thirty minutes.

Exhausted and anxious, I dozed off and fell into a nightmarish realm. In this hellish dream, I saw three notorious troublemakers - Mazlan, Calvin, and Johnny - throwing punches and causing chaos with their rivals Leo, Roslan, and Lim. It all escalated until Calvin drew a knife and plunged it into Roslan's gut. I screamed for them to stop, but to no avail. The murder was inevitable. As I tried to intervene, I heard pounding on the school walls, and my fear grew.

"Ian, wake up!"

I opened my eyes abruptly, realising that the pounding was real. I turned towards my window and saw the other me looking agitated and in a rush to convey something to me. 

I opened my door and implored him to tell me which students he had been referring to. "And who are you really? Are you truly me?"

In a hurry, he responded, "I don't have much time to explain. Yes, I am you from an alternate timeline. Several decades later, we’ll be able to travel to a parallel universe, but the time-travelling machine is not yet perfected, so we can only be in the dimension for a limited time."

I listened intently.

"Time is running out, and I can't tell you precisely what will happen, but I can tell you that you will be haunted by a sense of guilt."

"And why can't you tell me?" I pleaded.

"Because it would only make things worse. You'll understand in due time. But please-" 

"So which students?" 

"What students?" 

"You said that our ‘patients’ would kill someone."

"My goodness, Ian. Pay attention. I meant -," he began, but his appearance started to fade and blur, as if he were merely a holographic projection with a dying battery. His voice grew softer, and I struggled to hear him.

"What?" I asked, but he continued to fade until I could see the wall behind him.

"Just go to the café now," he said in a faint voice. Those were the only words I could discern before he vanished entirely.

In a frantic rush, I darted towards IJ Coffee, where my usual drinks awaited me. As I hurriedly ordered, Cranky's vile cursing fell on deaf ears, as it had become customary for me to ignore his vitriol. Seated at my usual spot, I anxiously waited, my nerves frayed by the minute. But despite Cranky's tirade, it was the endless stream of questions that tormented my mind, haunting me with an all-consuming curiosity. Why am I here? What am I expecting to happen? 

Lost in thought, I barely noticed the arrival of the waitress from the day before, who had sought my aid. My lips formed a gentle smile in recognition, but Cranky continued his rant, spewing his venom in our direction. "Just ignore him," I muttered, offering a word of comfort to the server, who nodded in agreement. 

But it was the sudden appearance of new patrons that broke my concentration, a tall man accompanied by a plump girl, who I presumed to be his daughter. Cranky's outburst of "Hey, you bitch!" sent a wave of fear through the little girl, reducing her to tears. With haste, the tall man grasped the girl's hand and removed her from Cranky’s immediate vicinity.

I knew Cranky was unhinged, but the child in his crosshairs did not deserve his wrath. It was then that something inside me snapped, like a rubber band stretched to its limit. I could not stand idly by and let this happen. Maybe it was my sleep deprivation, or perhaps it was the inherent need to protect the innocent, but before I could second guess myself, I opened my mouth and shouted at him, "For goodness sake, that was a child!"

For a moment, he sat there with an expression I could not quite decipher - a blend of shock, fear, and, perhaps, even guilt. I held my breath, waiting for his response. Would he lash out, as he was wont to do? But then something remarkable happened - he began to weep.

Tears streamed down his face, wetting his neck and collar. Despite his usual outbursts of vitriol and profanity, he looked oddly vulnerable. The other patrons of IJ Coffee stared, dumbfounded by what they were witnessing. A teenage girl in the corner held up her phone, as if recording the scene for posterity.

On instinct, I rose from my seat and walked over to Cranky, who sat there, convulsing. I placed my hand on his shoulder, and he surprised me by wrapping his arms around my waist and tremoring like a hurricane. I tried to soothe him, asking what was wrong, but before he could respond, a woman appeared, her face gaunt and haggard.

She explained that Cranky - whose real name was Joseph - was her father and suffered from frontotemporal dementia, a neurological condition that resulted in coprolalia or involuntary swearing. She worked close by and always left Joseph with IJ Coffee manager, who agreed to watch him so long as he behaved. But when she saw a live video on our hometown's Facebook page, she hurried over. She claimed no one had made any complaints before and apologized for the ruckus.

In that moment, I realised that I had judged Cranky too quickly. Underneath his gruff exterior, he was a person, a human being struggling with a difficult condition.

After Joseph's daughter led him out of the café, the commotion seemed to die down. The onlookers returned to their coffee and conversation, but I was left feeling rattled. It was then that I noticed the tall man I had spotted earlier. He was placing something on the wall, but I couldn't make out what it was from where I stood.

He caught my eye and offered a small smile. "What's happened?" he asked.

I was at a loss for words, unsure of where to begin. Instead, I asked, "Mind if I join you at your table?"

He gestured towards the chair across from him, where his daughter sat engrossed in her tablet.

***

I recounted everything to the man, who identified himself as Syukri, and he just shook his head in wonder. In the course of our exchange, he revealed himself as the goalkeeper for a hockey team, and I found myself genuinely impressed.

Syukri was easy to talk to and had a natural affability that made me feel at ease in his presence. We conversed over drinks, and before we knew it, time had slipped away from us. We wished to chat more, but Syukri's tired daughter tugged at him, indicating it was time to go home. 

As he excused himself politely, I remained in the café, still searching for answers to the reason why the other me had summoned me here.

Brooding quietly, I sipped my drink and waited patiently. 

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Syukri leaned in and whispered from behind, causing me to startle in surprise. "Actually," he said, "I was about to beat the shit out of that psychopath," pointing towards the hockey stick he had propped up against the wall of the café.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "What?" I said.

Syukri nodded. "Yeah," he replied. "I'm so relieved you stepped in, otherwise..." he said, and with that, he and his daughter departed, leaving me to ruminate on the revelation that had just been divulged to me. 

As I sat there, racking my brain for any recollection of the encounter with my doppelganger earlier, one phrase stuck in my mind: Pay attention. It was like a puzzle piece, fitting perfectly with Syukri's plan to take out Joseph using a hockey stick. That stick could be a deadly weapon in the right hands, and I had the sinking feeling that Syukri had intended to use it for just that purpose.

But then something clicked. I had intervened, despite my usual tendency to stay out of trouble. It was out of character for me to act so boldly, but I couldn't help myself. I was tired of waiting, tired of being calm. 

And that's when it hit me.

All this time, I had prided myself on my composure. My colleagues had even joked that my even-mindedness would cause trouble someday, but I had never taken it seriously. It was like a switch had been flipped, and suddenly I saw everything so clearly. When the other version of me muttered, “Your patients would kill someone,” I assumed he meant my students. But I was dead wrong. The word he was spitting was patience, not patients.

The thought sent shivers down my spine. If I had stayed patient and done nothing, Joseph would be dead. It was a sobering realisation, but also a liberating one. I didn't have to be passive and lackadaisical all the time. Sometimes, action was necessary.

With a deep breath, I finished my drink and headed home. The weight of my epiphany lifted from my shoulders, and I felt a renewed sense of direction. I would still be patient, but not at the expense of action. It was a delicate balance, but one that I was willing to strike.