Was he cognizant of what he was doing when he killed his father? Did he do it consciously and resolutely, and of his own free will? Everything you write down on that piece of paper will be a guideline for this unfortunate child, as thin as a branch, to determine how long he might rot in jail. So he is compos mentis. Aware and responsible.

A matter of distinguishing good from evil, the straight from the crooked.

So then I have a question for you: take a good look at your life and the decisions you have made. How many of us could write such a report with a clear conscience?

*

And then there is the “virginity test.” Every time I hear those words I always think of those faint carbon stains our veteran secretary inevitably left on those tissue-like pages we used in those days, pages that were never unblemished, when I would go into her room to have tea after I had examined the patient. There is a mother waiting for me at the door with an indescribable fear swirling in her big green eyes, who tightly takes hold of my hands.

A family is impatiently waiting for me to write them a report after having come to my health clinic in a panic: During a trip to their hometown, their seven-year-old daughter fell off her bike and into a bush and when they saw the blood they thought she might have ruptured her hymen. In addition to the standard document, her mother insisted on me giving her a separate piece of paper that was signed, stamped and sealed.

“What are you going to do with that? There’s no need to worry about this little accident, it’s nothing. Your daughter simply scratched the top part of her leg. That’s all,” I tell her.

They are going to put the report in the bottom of her hope chest and when she gets married she will take it to her new home. Among the laced white pillows and embroidered tablecloths will be a report of “good health” for the life ahead of her.

Oh, those reports … Oh you people peddling fear. Have you not once in your life spent a moment alone with your conscience? How long will you continue to wield power over the innocent, rose-scented bodies of our sons and daughters?

*

Words have souls. When someone says the words, “Battery Report,” for example, I can’t help but think of the disheveled hair of that boy brought in by two police officers. Though scrawny, pale and hardly able to stand up on his feet from the punching and the caning, he was tough as a nail. You struggle to get the cuffs off him, tell the police that you need to examine him alone, insisting on them leaving the room before you lock the door.

“Look, you can tell me everything. Believe me. Down to the last scratch. I am going to make them pay for this.”