Curing Breacher

You suddnely wake up in a nicely furnished room surrounded by a couple women and a smartly dressed man you do not know. They begin to interrogate you, gently at first, with increasing urgency. Their reactions to every bit of information you give to them about yourself shocks the women immensely while the man calmly asks you more questions.

What is your name?

Where do you work?

Where did you go to school?

How old are you?

These questions seem excruciatingly mundane, but you can't figure out why these two women are so shook up by your answers. Finally you interrupt their examination:

"Look, who are you and how did I get here? Why are you asking me all these questions?"

The man coolly looks you over and begins to question a little more curiously.

Have you ever experienced time lapses in your memory? Hours, days, weeks, even months that have somehow gone by without you noticing?

"Yeah, but that's nothing unusual. The days and weeks blur together in my memory, like any other person. You can't expect me to have a memory of every little thing."

The three strangers look at each other with a sense of concern. Yes, that is normal in a sense, but they seem to be trying to allude to something. Suddenly the realization hits you that you are in some kind of office. Perhaps it is a therapeutic office. Oh god, maybe you have some kind of disorder. You start to panic.

"What is this all about? You still haven't answered any of my questions. How I got here, who you all are..."

The women start crying, they hold each other in support. The man calmly offers some comforting words as well, while you stare dumbfounded.

"Really, what is going on?"

The women manage to stifle their sobs and calm themselves enough to turn back to you. The man ignores your questions and continues on.

What do you remember from your childhood?

You decide to humor them, telling some inconsequential memories and summing it up with a big, "just your average childhood".

You are about to repeat your questions but notice in this moment that one of the women is a bit older than the other. She looks you in the eye very seriously, a look of wild determination in her eyes.

Do you remember any gifts your mother gave you when you were young? She asks you like it's the only question that really matters to her. She's so earnest that you list out a couple things, some sentimental some trivial. Her eyes well up with tears, somehow touched, and she whispers something to herself, something like "he never remembered". The younger woman pats her back.

It seems like they are comparing you to someone. The annoyance and frustration of their sudden questioning and the mystery of how and where you are here bursts back into the forefront of your mind. Again the word "disorder" flashes in your mind like a lit up neon sign. You are about to really give them a piece of your mind when the man urgently interrupts you.

Can you tell us anything significant from your childhood. A negative influence, your worst memory if you will.  

It's not so much a question as it is a demand. Although it's definitely unsettling to tell something like this to strangers, you can't imagine how else to get around to having your questions answered. You tell them about a fairly negative childhood memory. Maybe it's not your worst, but it was pretty bad, so you retract a little. "Really," you assure them, "It's perfectly normal to go through something like that. I've met people who have been through much worse."

It's too late. The older woman begins to sob unabashedly and uncontrollably, falling over in a near faint. She is nearly screaming now as she wails out her cries of agony. The doctor turns to them and starts to assure them, this is a break through. It's very possible that with this knowledge you can have your son and husband back for good. This is a huge step of progress in his diagnosis and treatment, it could even lead to totally curing the patient.

Now this is the last straw. Her reaction is totally uncalled for... and wait.

Patient? OH FUCK. This is really something. Disorder. A Neon light flashing in your head. Disorder. Disorder.

The young woman starts to sob too, throwing herself onto the older woman in a melodramatic embrace. She wails over the older woman's cries that she knew something was strange about him, but she didn't know it was this serious. She just can't handle it.

...Disorder. There it is in your mind, blinking, and now the man looks to you very solemnly. You don't know what he is about to do, but a sudden terror grips you. What if you aren't the one with a disorder, it occurs to you. What if you aren't the one they are talking about. Is it this man? The total and complete uncertainty fills you with the most soul-shaking fear you have never known.

Mr. Breacher...Tom... 

He says these names in a chillingly severe tone. What are those names? Who is he talking to? What is he doing?

When I count to three and snap my fingers you will wake up. One.

But I am awake! What is he talking about! I am here! It's me! Who the hell is he talking to!?

He looks me dead in the eye. Two.

It hits me. Me. He is telling some other me to wake up. Maybe not some other me, maybe I am some other them. Tom Breacher. Some man who came to this therapist for treatment, maybe even a cure, for his disorder... 

I am the disorder.

Three.