Lost and Found
Chapter II: Mens Rea
Mens Rea. Guilty Mind.
A pungent citrus incense fills the room.
"Achilles. It is an interesting name... I suppose you know its story?"
"Yes," he says. I know it, he wants to add. Almost as if I've owned it. He stays silent.
"Hm, I see."
Someone stands at the windowsill, watching the hectic city happening outside. Achilles purposely tries to keep his gaze trained away from that spot.
The man in front of him, his new therapist, studies him with a cunning look. It almost feels friendly— his pose in his coppery leather armchair, his bearded smile. It's the eyes that betray him, though. They are stony and calculated, but brimming with a burning curiosity. To him, Achilles is a mystery in need to be unraveled.
"Tell me about Achilles."
"He was... a greek hero," Achilles says, tasting hesitation.
"A tragic hero, yes." The therapist nods, his eyes are latched on Achilles' figure. Nothing can escape him now, he notices everything. "Please, continue."
"Seriously?"
"Mhm. You said you are familiar with his story."
Achilles feels insulted. He is no liar. "Of course I am!"
"Then, please, continue."
A feeling of contempt washes over Achilles. He doesn't like the man, he doesn't trust him. A part of him wants to get up and leave, but something keeps him grounded, rooted in his seat. It is not easy to contain his feelings, his anger, but it is not impossible either.
"Okay. Not because you asked, but because I want to."
The man nods again.
"Okay. Achilles was a greek hero, he fought in the Trojan war. His story is told in the Iliad."
"What else?"
"He was a demigod, son of mortal king Peleus and the nereid Thetis. He was the best of the greeks, invincible on the battle field."
"Why did he die, then?"
"Hm?"
"You said he was invincible on the battle field. Why did he die, then?"
The sadness that comes with the question is not for nothing. It is fresh and old at the same time, familiar and constant, and it scours Achilles from the inside.
"I... I don't know."
"Oh, but I think you do."
"He is shot with a poisoned arrow. That's why he dies."
"Alright. Then tell me about Patroclus."
"About..." Patroclus. The name weighs heavily on his tongue, and even more heavily on his heart. Achilles doesn't know why. It weighs and it burns and it kills him on the inside.
His eyes skitter to the window, and notices that the person from before is no longer there.
"Patroclus," the man repeats, capturing Achilles' attention. As he observes Achilles, his eyes sparkle. The first piece of the puzzle is in its place.
"Don't you think that the death of Patroclus is also the death of Achilles?"
"I..." There are no words.
"The moment Patroclus dies, wearing Achilles's armor, is also the moment when Achilles's invincibility is vanquished. Achilles is no longer the "god" he was before, nor is he human, for Patroclus was Achilles's humanity, his true Achilles's Heel. At this point Achilles wonders if it was his fault, if the glory of war was worth the life of his dear friend. From then follows a brief time in which Achilles seeks retribution and death, which he finds sooner rather than later."
Pain tightens Achilles' chest, shortening his breath. White spots fill the corners of his sight and he is thrust into a vision—unbearable heat, a beach, a tent, a body in a shroud, grief... so much grief. Then, he is back on the leather armchair in the therapist's office. The grief is still there and Achilles feels the familiar sting of tears in his eyes.
"Deep breathes," says the therapist. "In... and out... in... and out..."
It takes a while before Achilles takes control of his breath again and his eyes regain focus. The grief is replaced shortly by embarrassment, then by a slow burning anger. Anger aimed at himself and at the therapist.
"Mister Morrison, I came here to get rid of those episodes of whatever, not to plunge headfirst into them," Achilles barks bitterly.
"Yes, I suppose you are right. I might as well take my guess, which by the way is not a guess, but rather a well-founded conclusion drawn out after our meeting today. From what I've seen, I believe you suffer from a form of PTSD—"
"PTSD? Why would I suffer from PTSD?"
The therapist leans forward in his seat and pensively rubs a hand over his jawline. "Your name."
Achilles makes a face. "My... name? What?"
"Yes, I believe you suffer from a form of pseudo PTSD or borrowed PTSD. The underlying stress which causes the PTSD comes not from a traumatic event in your past, but rather you borrow the traumatic event through your name from your namesake, Achilles the greek hero."
Yes, Achilles takes the information doubtfully. His eyes dart over to his side where a young man stands. He is almost transparent, unless you look at him with the corners of your eyes, and wears a white... dress? His eyes are latched on Achilles, in a way that almost feels like begging, and his face is familiar.
Achilles feels like he knows him, like he has known him his entire life, but he can't figure out how. The answer, it is on the tip of his tongue. Despite how much he tries to remember though, Achilles keeps hitting an invisible wall which gives him a splitting headache every time.
Yes, Achilles takes the information doubtfully. He is pretty sure that he is either being haunted by the ghost of a young man, or he has something more than just PTSD.
A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews and favorites and follows, and apologies for taking so long to update.