Psychos

What Is It, this ‘15th’?

What does that even mean — “they’ll take you to the Fifteenth”? You keep saying it, but what is it? — I asked my neighborhood friend. We were both about twelve. He made a face:

— What, you don’t know what the Fifteenth is? — he said, surprised and puffed up, trying to sound authoritative, glancing over to a third boy standing nearby.

The third just shrugged.

— So what is it, then?! — I snapped. — What kind of circus is this, you keep saying “the Fifteenth” — but what is it?

— Well… — he scratched his head. — It’s a hospital!

— A hospital? Here in Pervomayskiy?

— No, it’s where they keep the crazies. In Kharkiv, actually.

*Kharkiv is a big city, 80 km away from our small town, most of us have never been there, but we knew that Kharkiv has it all, – bigger, better, more interesting.*

— Have you been there?

— Hah, what, you think I’m crazy?

— Have you seen them? The crazies?

— Yeah. Once. In our village there was this guy — he killed his wife.

— He killed his wife?! Why didn’t they send him to prison?

— Because he’s a psycho.

— They don’t lock up psychos, — the third confirmed. — My dad works in a hospital. He knows.

— Well then, why don’t they send him to the Fifteenth?

— Nah, he’s quietly insane.

— What’s that mean?

— It means he doesn’t lash out at people. If you don’t mess with him, he’s fine. They don’t keep those types in the Fifteenth.

— But he killed his wife! That doesn’t sound very quiet!

— Well, maybe now he’s quiet. Before that, he was probably violent.

— Why do people become psychos anyway? — I asked.

— Well… — the third one thought. — My dad says it’s all psychology. They’ve got psychologists there! Like doctors.

— Oh, come on, tell us at the construction site — said the second.

— Let’s go.

And they went.

The construction site was the base of a nine-story building. The basement and the first floor slab were done, just a little of the second — a kind of concrete island. We made our way across the slabs, balancing, shouting to each other, climbing to the next level using ledges and gaps — the staircase to the second floor hadn’t been installed yet.

Once we reached the top, we settled in: one squatted, another dangled his legs off the edge. The third one was staring at a crane nearby. Its boom was angled to the side — something hung from a cable. A container.

— You think it’s possible to climb into that? — I asked, seeing what my friend was looking at.

— There was this guy from the next building once, — he said, still watching. — He actually did it. Climbed the crane ladder — super high, windy, I tried it once — and then slid down the cable and laid down inside the container. The firemen and police had to come and get him down.

— Now that guy’s a psycho, for real… — said the other. — Sliding down a cable just to see what’s inside, not even thinking how he’d get back!

— Yeah… — everyone fell quiet for a moment.

— So what is it again, that thing you said? — I asked again. — Psy-cho-lo-gy?

— Psy-cho-LO-gy… — one of them mimicked, drawing the word out. — Hehe… PSY-cho!

— Pchee-ho! Hahaha! — we all burst out laughing, tossing around variations.

Once the laughs died down and the last chuckles faded, the boy whose dad was a doctor started talking.

— So imagine, — he said, — you feel weird. Like a psycho. Well, not fully — something’s off in your head, but you’re not completely gone. Yet.

— Uh-huh… — We all imagined it, each in our own way.

— And then… a doctor, a psychiatrist, comes and hypnotizes you.

— Whoa! What’s that like? — I asked.

— That’s when they wave a chain in front of your eyes, back and forth, and you kinda fall asleep — but not really. You can still hear everything, and you can talk and answer questions.

— No way! You can really do that? I wanna try!

— So… the doctor says: “Right now, you’re four years old. What do you remember?”

And even though you’re kinda asleep, you answer:

“Summer. I’m walking down the road. I step on a dog’s tail. It yelps. I don’t understand why. I look around — a car. It nearly hits me. I fall. I cry.”

— And? — I leaned in.

— That! That’s what broke you!

In your head.

And it got stuck there. Forever.

You don’t even remember it — but then, bam, one day you’re acting like a psycho and don’t even know why.

— Ahh… — my buddy said. — I think I’ve seen something like that.

— My grandpa’s like that. He’s weird. If you ask him about the war — he turns into a psycho. No one talks to him after, until he calms down.

He probably saw a dog too — during the war!

— Yeah… or something else. It’s not just dogs. It can be anything.

— It’s like when you can’t do anything — and something just happens inside your head.

On the way back, climbing down the slabs, I suddenly said:

— We’ve got another psycho in our slope. An old lady. She walks with this huge black dog — like a calf, seriously! — I pointed to my nose, stretching my arm to show. — She walks it so no one comes near her. On purpose.

We fell silent. Each of us imagining that granny and her beast clacking along the sidewalk.

— There’s another one too, — the other added. — He knows my grandpa. One time my grandpa said to him: “Vasya, where you going? Let’s talk.” And he stopped, looked at him and said: “We’ll talk in the afterlife.”

— Whoa… — someone exhaled.

We kept walking. Not in a hurry.

That’s how we learned from each other.

Through talk, through doubt, through “have you seen it?” — we passed knowledge on.

These were layers. Oral. Backyard. Forever etched in us.

Where are those friends now? There are others — familiar faces — but they’ve got layers, their own layers. And so do you.

You open the internet. Everything’s there. You either believe it all or none of it. But by the end of the day — what did you actually learn? Anything worth remembering?

Something someone saw. Something you could feel.

Then — you know. Because then, it’s yours.

Links:

• 15th Psychiatric Clinic of Kharkiv, Ukraine
• From news: Russia attacks Ukrainian psychiatric hospital, energy facilities; Kyiv launches drones at Russia