Head House

We walked to the Head House together, hands linked.

John always referred to the Head House as a place filled with ‘little men with big ideas’. He’d say this with sneering contempt.

Yet here we are.

Walking towards the place with answers unformed in our minds. The brick house held questions for us.

John staggered along beside me, hand limply held in mine. His face was slack and staring. A gossamer string of drool attached his lower lip to his shirt.

The scars were still healing and the surgery had taken place over three weeks ago. I pulled him gently along and his body did the rest, keeping balance; preventing himself from falling over by putting one foot in front of the other in a shuffling walk.

I remember his long red hair when we met and the game of Frisbee that we played in the park.

The Head House was close then. We were at the bottom of the stairs and for a moment, I panicked a little, wondering how to get John up the stairs until he responded to a little tug from me by stepping up on the first step.

Same as walking, then.

The heavy oak doors loomed up before us, getting closer.

I saw the shapes of the short men looking down at us from the windows of the house they’re never allowed to leave. We depended upon them.

I dragged John further and it was a different past I remembered then. I remembered a past where John was mean to me. I remembered his eyes going blank when the rage took over.

We reached the top step and John’s bare feet pressed onto the pavement. His mouth closed for a second when he saw the oak doors as if a little intelligence was fluttering for a second, candle-like, in the recesses of his jack-o-lantern mind.

Then his eyes unfocussed and he started drooling again.

It was a short walk to the front doors.


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Making Up For Lost Time

The correctional facility did not work for me.

I left the building with the need to make up for lost time.

I waited exactly one day and sixteen hours before I grabbed someone and dragged him into an alley to resume work on cleaning the world like I was destined to do.

I guess the cops didn’t tell me about the remote probation device they’d installed in me.

I had my hand drawn back to start working on this terrified man the way the voices had directed when all of a sudden my body felt like it was on fire. My muscles spasmed and I collapsed to the ground in the dirty alley amongst the needles, newspaper and grease.

I stayed there for half an hour. People went through my pockets and found nothing. They stole my shoes.

I woke up angry.

I punched the dumpster beside me, denting it with my hands. My body erupted in searing pain again as I did this. My muscles spasmed and I collapsed to the ground for a second time.

The probation device was wired to my body’s pulse and respiratory system. It was wired to my brain waves.

I needed to remain calm and positive or I would be shocked into convulsions again.

No problem.

I practiced on cats and stray dogs for three months.

Now I can kill an animal with no change in my heartbeat or breathing. I can do it with nothing but positive thoughts in my head. The creator would be proud.

All the time I’ve been practicing on the animals, the voices have been demanding I resume my job. They don’t understand about the probation device. It’s maddening. It’s been torture knowing that I can’t resume my work until I perfect my innermost emotions.

It’s time now. I’m ready to do a human.

I leave the front door of the cave of boxes I’ve made in my squat like a trap door spider coming into daylight.

For the second time in my life, I feel like I’ve been released from prison.

I have to make up for lost time.


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