Jef sat in his hospital room, drinking tea. Or was it a prison? He wasn’t sure. The door was locked. He knew it would open in precisely seven minutes. He looked at his wrist, where his watch should be. They’d taken it away, so he had drawn one on his wrist with a felt tip pen. It had no hands. Jef knew exactly what time it was. He finished his tea, washed his cup, and stood by the door. He wore the same clothes he always wore, this place had provided him with two sets of clothes, exactly the same, at his request. Jeff was a thin man, possibly malnourished. He ate the same things, at the same times, everyday. He suspected the staff of adding multivitamins to his food. But he could say nothing. That wasn’t in the script.
The door opened. “Good morning Dr Bates.”
“Good morning Jef”,
The doctor had medical students with him.
“Jef here is a classic case of obsessive compulsive disorder, has to do the same thing at the same time every day, gets very upset with changes, don’t you Jef?”
Jef couldn’t answer. This wasn’t in his script. This didn’t happen yesterday.
As a teenager Jef had loved history, so much so that he joined in with reenactment societies, dressing as a Roman, recreating the English Civil War, learning how Neolithic man shaped flint into tools. On his twenty fifth birthday, his parents were killed in a car crash. Jef was devastated, and he coped the only way he knew, he kept their memories alive, in his own reenactment society. A society of one. Forever re-enacting yesterday, the last day of his parents lives.