The Silent Patient

by Alex Michaelides

The painting was a self-portrait. She titled it in the bottom left-hand corner of the canvas, in light blue Greek lettering. One word: Alcestis.

The Greek myths are hard to escape, growing up in Cyprus, as I did ― you are taught Homer from the age of 13 in school ― and the tragedies are constantly being performed and reimagined. I came across the tragedy Alcestis by Euripides when I was 13. In it, Alcestis dies to save her husband, Admetus ― and then is brought back to life by Heracles at the end of the play. But when Alcestis is reunited with her husband, she refuses to speak. It’s a problematic play for all kinds of reasons. It’s not often performed largely, I think, because of this silence. Is she overjoyed to see him? Or is she furious he allowed her to die for him? Something about this refusal to conclude, to explain, haunted me for years, as well as something about Alcestis herself ― she was sacrificed, deemed disposable by the man she loved most in the world. This sense of being made to feel unworthy struck a chord with me. I searched for a way to update it and tell that story for years ― but it was only after I worked in a secure psychiatric unit that I had the idea of setting the story inside a psychiatric hospital with the structure of a detective story. And instead of a detective, I would have a psychotherapist. But it was a real challenge, having a mute heroine. At some point in the book, her silence is described like a mirror, reflecting yourself back at you. Silence is her only weapon; she has no recourse other than silence, because no one will believe her story. I think a lot of people ― particularly women ― can relate to that.