I was struck with dumb confusion. “If not the drugs, then why?”
“Promise you won’t get mad?” He clasped his hands together under his chin.
“You swallowed poison, crushed your bones with a hammer, threw yourself down the stairs. What else? What else?”
A deep laughter originated in his chest. He untied the tourniquet and rubbed his bruised arm lovingly. “So many things, sweetie. So many. Oh, if you only knew the beauty of it. How it makes me feel alive. The pain, the soreness, the smell of blood, the sight of stitches holding my skin together.” He ran his hands sensually over his scarred torso. “Oh god, it excites me in a way I can’t put into words. And hospitals. Oh, the hospitals!”
I struggled to comprehend the scope of it. “All these years? All these illnesses? You were doing it to yourself?”
“Yes,” he said proudly. “I may have had a genuine cold here and there, but the rest …”
My legs trembled with weakness, and I sat on the bed. “This is crazy. I don’t believe it.”
“You wanted to believe it, Suze. You ate it up. And you’re a real sucker. Textbook codependent, I would say.”
My eyes focused on the drinking glass of what had been milk in July. I was disgusted when I looked down at my hand and realized I was still holding the poisoned needle. I flung it violently at the wall. “And that? What’s that for?” I dreaded the answer, but I had to know.
“A bacterial infection, of course,” he said. “Haven’t done that one in a while. Last time I injected rat poop; dissolved the feces in water and shot them up the mainline. Nothing happened. Can you believe that? So disappointing. You’d be astounded what the human body can take. It’s not easy to beat the immune system. Trust me, I know.”
I fought the urge to gag. “You were going to inject that putrid milk into your veins?”
“Don’t you see? It was going to be a masterpiece, Suze! Fungus, bacteria, and god knows what else. See if the doctors could figure that one out.”
I imagined all the gruesome things he did to his body. “How could you do this to yourself?” I asked.
“It’s not that hard to understand,” he said. “I love having you take care of me. I want you to take care of me forever.” He swaggered over and stood in front of me, my eyes level with the worn waistband of his underwear. “It gets … me … off.”
I was revolted and shoved him from me. I looked up at his smug face. “What about me?” I shouted. “I slaved. I sacrificed. I cried over you! Ten years! Ten years!”
He clucked his tongue. “Come on, Suze. Be honest with yourself. What would your life be without me? There would be no drama. No romance. No martyrdom.”
“You’re sick!”
“I know, Suze!” He raised his arms, and his face lit up. “I can’t help it! I get this giddy feeling, like butterflies in my stomach. It’s like the first drop of a roller coaster. It’s like falling in love–like the first time I saw you in the doctor’s office. When I think about my next disease, I get all clammy and anxious. I’m addicted to it. You understand, right? I know you can understand if you try, sweetie. My angel.” He reached out to touch me with his hand, his arm mottled with black and blue marks.
I slapped him away. “What is wrong with you?” I said. I thought back to all the fevers and sleepless nights. The ER visits. The broken bones, the surgeries, the rashes, the medications, all the money I ever made in my small life. My youth wasted, my dreams aborted, because of John’s illnesses. His self-inflicted illnesses.
Rage thundered throughout my body. Finally, I had an emotion bigger than myself, an anger that mousy nurse Susan couldn’t control. My rationale fled behind some bombproof door in my mind to weather the inevitable detonation. It watched from its place of safety as I picked the hammer from the floor, stood up, and raised it in both of my hands.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes! My sweetie. Dear angel! You can help me now. I knew you’d get it. I knew you would.” He didn’t try to stop me. He didn’t flinch. He dropped to his knees and opened his arms, his eyes closed and his chin lifted in exaltation. “You do it this time. I just want to be sick, sweetie. That’s all. I just want to be sick.”
I didn’t feel the weight of the hammer as I swung it toward his face. I didn’t feel any resistance from his skull as the ball of the hammer crushed into his cheekbone. What I did feel was a prickle of pleasure in some dark, unknown organ in my body, and I let the anger, so strong that all thought and reason became silent black noise, roar through me, allowing the pleasure to grow and discharge. With every sweet blow he cried in pain and ecstasy, and I knew that this man, this John, was the one I had been in love with all along.
continue...
A word about John Branch’s condition …
Factitious disorder imposed on self, formerly known as Munchausen syndrome, is a psychiatric condition in which a person fakes or induces symptoms or injures him- or herself with the aim of taking on the role of a sick person.
Factitious disorder imposed on self is not to be confused with Factitious disorder imposed on another, in which a person, usually a mother, will make the child appear sick, or deliberately make the child sick to get the attention she craves. This used to be called Munchausen’s by proxy syndrome.
Factitious disorder imposed on self can range from lying about medical history to tampering with urine tests (e.g. adding blood to a sample), to mimicking a disease, to purposely harming one’s own health to create an actual medical emergency.
In severe cases, like John Branch’s, the patient may inject himself with bacteria, poison himself, and break his own bones. Patients like John acquire what’s known as gridiron abdomen, named as such because of the crisscrossing scars from multiple surgical procedures. Those who suffer this addiction to surgeries are willing to lose organs, become permanently disabled, or risk their lives to act out their obsessions.
Factitious disorder is difficult to diagnose. Patients are resourceful and clever in keeping up their ruse. They are resistant to psychiatric evaluation and will change hospitals, doctors, even the town in which they live if they’re not getting the diagnosis and treatment they seek. This disorder is difficult to approach because the patients deny the accusations. It’s difficult to treat because there is no recognized method of treatment.
This mysterious psychiatric condition causes a multitude of complex problems. Aside from the medical costs are complex ethical and legal issues, not to mention the physical, emotional, and financial toll on family members and loved ones.
The most fascinating part about Factitious disorder is that these people are conscious of what they are doing. They are fully aware that they are constructing elaborate illusions of disease at the expense of everyone else. They know they are hurting themselves, so the question begs to be answered: how can they do such a thing?
Each of John’s behaviors and motivations is based on several of many real-life cases I researched online. I visited forums where members discussed this type of self-harm, and I was amazed. Many of those involved in the conversation are charming, intelligent, and sincere. The reasoning and motivation behind each case seems to vary greatly. The scope and complexity of this disorder is incredible.
An estimated 3–5 percent of physician-patient encounters involve Factitious disorder. That’s why I find it baffling that there isn’t much known about this condition. What hope is there for these people if there isn’t any well-tested strategy for treatment?
I hope to bring some awareness to factitious disorders and to give outsiders some insight into the way people, like John Branch, might feel. They know what they are doing, yet they can’t stop themselves. This doesn’t make them bad people. Note: Keep in mind, John Branch is also a bit of a psychopath, so not all of his behaviors are part of his Factitious disorder.
If you’re suffering from a factitious disorder, or know someone who does, please address it with care and understanding. If you have anything to say about Factitious disorder or the way it was por
trayed in SICK, please contact me using the links on the following page. I would love to know more.
Source
SICKER is available on Kindle.
Welcome to the mind of John Branch.
Download your Kindle copy
United States
United Kingdom
Canada
Australia
About the Author
Christa (Wojo) Wojciechowski is the author of The Wrong David, The Sick Psychological Thriller Series, and is working on a series of full-length novels called The Sculptor of New Hope. Her characters explore existential turmoil, mental illness, and the complexity of romantic love. She uses her stories to compare the dark, carnal nature of humanity with its higher qualities of creative expression and intellectualism.
Christa currently resides in Panama with her husband and a house full of pets. She works as a freelance digital marketer and loves to help fellow authors build their brands and platforms. Christa enjoys foreign movies, yoga, wine, and the outdoors. Most of all, she's passionate about books and writers and loves discussing them on social media.
Join the Madness
Subscribe to My Sweet Delirium, a blog that discusses what means to be a human being in today’s culture, and what role art and creativity play in our lives and in the evolution of our species as a whole. On the lighter side are crazy anecdotes, pictures, and weird wonderful adventures from Panama and other travels. Visit christawojo.com.
Connect with the Author
Christa loves hearing from her readers and making new friends. Find her on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Google +, Goodreads and Instagram.
Get the first info on new releases and opportunities to win signed hardcopies by joining my mailing list. Click here.
★★★★★
Thanks for reading
and don’t forget to leave your review on
Amazon and Goodreads
SICK: Psychological Thriller Series Novella 1 Page 7
