Episode 3: Yesterdaze
Kyrios discovers what's really going on
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“As you know, the word Asylum is also considered passé. But more importantly,” Dr Kyrios says, “This is a retirement community.”
“A what?”
“You’re not in a psychiatric hospital,” Dr Kyrios explains. “You’re in an Independent Living unit in Neverland Estates. Your family just visited...”
A chorus of youthful laughter fills the silence—overwhelming the ducts, the buzzing fluorescents, the pounding heart in the floor underfoot. A teacher down the hall hollers for quiet.
Dr Kyrios shows his clipboard and points to the namebadge on his sweater and then to the marquee sign outside by the parkinglot driveway. All proudly announcing in stout energetic font, Neverland Estates: Retirement Community.
If this is a prank or some kind of devious psych tactic for encouraging vulnerability and deep self-searching, it’s an elaborate one.
In the hall beyond the open classroom/dorm door, a hunched octogenarian inches past pushing a walker. Various talk-shows belt out from various TVs behind various open doors, echoing over the linoleum. Not story analysis or science experiments or math problems…how did it sound like that before?
“But,” you say finally, “that can’t be, Doc—I’m not even old.”
Kyrios smiles kindly. “No one feels old inside. The soul has no age.”
“Whoa…okay, wait a minute. This is a lot to take in.”
Retirement community. Realization returning in waves. But what about…wait, so when was the asylum? No, that was just a bad dream you can’t quite shake. This is Neverland Estates. Your grandkids visited this morning, bringing breakfast burritos and iced coffee. Left that bag of chocolates behind by mistake, too delicious to stop at one…
Suddenly Dr Kyrios looms suspiciously over you, though he hasn’t actually moved—his shadow spilling across your lap, expanding and darkening with menace.
“Hey Doc—why are you here?”
Kyrios looks injured. “This is our complementary weekly counseling session. One of our most cherished services here at Neverland.”
“But I was just—I swear this was an asylum for teachers.”
“You mentioned that,” Dr Kyrios says. “I thought you were teasing.”
Giggles warble in, from the hall, from the vents, filling the room. Nameless shame and confusion. The sunk-heart feeling of a forgotten lesson plan. That undertone dread watching a student get on the bus each afternoon, heading home to a hell you can’t touch.
For a second, the pastel wall is a whiteboard again, boldly declaring WELCOME! to a room lined with empty desks ready to start the school year. Books neat on the shelves, posters tacked up with educational tidbits designed to catch the wandering eye, a table-top calendar of little tear-away student-of-the-day certificates still fat and fresh with promise.
And even when it all twists back to normal, back to the Neverland Estates retirement apartment it always was—it sure looks like if you pressed your finger into the walls, they’d give like closed-cell foam. All the better to bang your stubborn head against, my dear.
Following your darting eye, Dr Kyrios looks around the room, puzzled. Then he spots the candy package in the wastebasket nested in burrito-stained napkins, and fishes it out. He reads the label and frowns.
“Did you eat some of these?” he asks with concern. “These are psilocybin chocolates. Magic mushrooms.”
Suddenly the good doctor’s frown stretches down his chin, drooping over his chest like a disappointed basset hound, big worried eyes pooling under thick bushy brows.
“Well they’re too delicious; I ate the whole bag, after my family left.”
“The whole…” Kyrios glances down at the serving size, swiftly calculating. Shaking his head in disbelief and recalculating, same conclusion. “When, five-six hours ago?”
“How long? I couldn’t really say. Feels like a whole lifetime since then.”
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