I walk from my flat towards the city. A group of three stops me. The woman: “Do you know what kind of institution this is around the corner?” “Sure. That’s the psychiatric hospital”. “Do you know what schizophrenia ist?” “Sure. I had been treated for this disease for 13 years until it was clear that I have a complex PTSD”. “So, the situation can change?” “With real schizophrenics, no.”
One of the two men disappears. The woman’s mobile rings. “No, no, it’s not your story!” She hands me the telephone. The man who had dematerialized , cries out: “This is my story!” I give back the mobile and say: “No chance”.
I learn that the sick man is a celebrity. I say goodbye and continue my way. Just in that moment a car rolls beside us: “An interview? We could have breakfast together?” “No!”
The healthy companion of the woman catches up with me, I follow him into a dark corner. “No”, I say, “Even for a penny I won’t talk to these muckrakers”. The man hands me a paper roll filled with handwriting, I surely could auction this off this one day making a profit. I say thank you and walk away.
Already, I hear the schizophrenic approaching. And I hear how he, with a deep distorted voice, sings a song in which the word ‘mafia’ drops, I hear how he tortures the other man, I hear the latter’s shrill shrieks until they fall silent. I am not sure whether I took the correct turn and continue to walk into the dark.