By Reason of Insanity by Shane Stevens

improving, at least in his adaptability and social performance.
    For all that he gained, however, there was an equivalent loss. He had no spontaneity, no feeling for the moment. His emotions were not tied to his body. He could smile while raging inside, he could laugh while in great pain. Sudden shifts in attitude or meaning always perplexed him and he had to be constantly on guard, ever watchful of others. He was a human robot who reacted to the emotions of others but could never act on his own feelings. In truth, he had no feelings and felt nothing. Except hatred. His hatred was monumental and encompassed virtually everything and everybody. But most of all, he hated where he was.
    For the first four years of his stay at the hospital Bishop had given little indication of any awareness. A ten-year-old who acted much like an infant, he screamed and howled and cringed and noticed nothing of his surroundings, or so it seemed. By the end of the fourth year subtle changes had taken place and he began to open up, to become receptive to outside stimuli. Officials quickly congratulated themselves, without giving most of the credit to the simple passage of time. Whatever the cause, another year and he was seemingly as normal as any fifteen-year-old in matters of obeying orders and taking care of himself
    Eventually there were those who came to feel that he was curable, if not already cured of his youthful insanity. Special attention was given to him, wider areas of knowledge were opened for him. He learned swiftly, of people and places beyond the institution, of history and culture and government and law. It was an exciting time and he was a good student. But it was all useless in the end and served only to frustrate him almost past endurance. He had learned to duplicate emotion, to portray feelings he did not feel, as he had seen on TV, as well as in people around him. He had not yet learned how to conceal what was in his disordered mind. One by one those who had held hope for him reluctantly gave up.
    Then the spasms began. Violent, uncontrollable rage shook his body. He was taken out of the children’s wing and put in an adult ward. He was given numerous shock treatments and vast amounts of drugs. All helped, nothing cured. For two years his body raged. Then, as before, some inner resource took hold of him. The rage subsided, the spasms stopped. Once again he smiled when required, laughed when expected. He was once again a “good boy” who caused no trouble. He was twenty years old.
    At an age when young people look to express themselves, to tell others what is on their minds, Bishop began to study how to conceal what was on his. He found it infinitely harder than faking emotion. There were no patterns, no signs, nothing to tell him if he was doing well or not. Lying didn’t work; it was too easily discovered. Nor did he yet really know how to lie. And he could never be sure of what people wanted to hear. A key was needed, a key that would unlock the mystery of what was expected of his mind. He almost despaired before he found it.
    Like most severely disturbed people who see the world in absolutist terms, Bishop accepted extremes as the way of life. White or black, hot or cold, yes or no, stay or go: it was always one or the other. Opposite poles always had ends, or extremities. To discover, suddenly and without warning, that the center of the pole was considered normal and acceptable and safe; to learn, not through life’s mistakes but in a single instantaneous flash, that people suspected extreme positions, were uncomfortable with them and labeled them unbalanced, set off within Bishop an explosion of insight that quickly fed his animal cunning.
    He had found his key. Moderation, balance, the ability to see both sides, the willingness to compromise. All was suddenly clear. For twelve years he had struggled in darkness, a blind man unable to see the rules. No one had told him, they didn’t want him to know. As long as he was