“So, what’s he doing?”

I pulled off my jacket and hung it carefully on the floor as I stared at the pale figure on the other side of the two way mirror.

Wrapped up in standard hospital wear and our superstrength straightjacket he sat on the edge of the bed staring at the once blank walls. The cream-white paint now covered with fragments of scribbles and, mainly indecipherable, text.

“Hard to tell, most of the time he just sits, stares and does nothing. Then every so often he’ll grab a bite on one of the blue crayons and start scribbling all over the walls and floor.”

Ah, I began to recognize the signs. A rare and untreatable disease.

“Does he ever mention something like Two- oh- oh?”

“Why, yes, every so often he’ll utter those like some kind of religious chant. Do you know what we’re dealing with here doctor?”

“A peculiar kind of brain death, I’m afraid,” I answered slowly. “An event that occurs to people on their 200th ficlet. I’m afraid your patient will be mentally dead for life.”