An Attempt Was Made

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I had talked to the schizophrenic only once during my stay. He was fourteen, an age considered to be too early for the onset of psychosis. He spoke of things not of this world, but of a reality in which the only soul that resided was him. He claimed to have memories of his past life, and the ghost of a friend he lost when he was twelve always kept him company. His name was Kamrul, or at least that's what everyone called him by.

Kamrul had told me one of the stories from his past life. There, he was born and raised in Lithuania, a state in Northeast Europe. It made sense that he would know about that place since his father worked there (which, I came to know from one of the nurses because Kamrul was always talking about Lithuania and how he wished he could go back). Kamrul was attractive, educated, sensitive, and possessed knowledge far more than the average 14-year-old. He spoke to me of his experiences of riding in hot air balloons in Vilnius. On gloomy days, he would go on a stroll along the streets of the Baltic capital, never alone, of course. His best friend had always been by his side.

They'd sit inside a hot air balloon and talk for hours on end. Mostly the topics of their conversations consisted of witchcraft. They'd spend hours, occasionally even days drawing strange symbols, and creating even stranger ointments and potions. Nightshades like berries of belladonna were his personal favorite for making ointments. They also practiced lycanthropy, he told me, which allowed them to shapeshift into wolves.

When I asked him how his near-perfect life in a perfect world had come to an end before his resurrection, he simply replied, "Double-suicide."