I Think I Killed My Parents

Crazy Town

Hallways. I never knew how much I could hate hallways. The ones I had at home were warm and welcoming, they said "Come in, have a seat. Lemonade?" Nothing like the beaming white halls of Ashmoore. The toe of my white rubber shoes skid along the white floor, I'm held at the bend of my elbows by burly men in matching security guard uniforms. The kind a rent-a-cop would wear; fading black, a flimsy badge with no honor, and a gadget belt lacking a gun.

"This would be a lot easier if you'd just walk, man." One of the guards grunts while dragging me down the hall, heaving the entirety of my weight. Little do they know, I could walk if I wanted. I could run a marathon, but I need to keep my act together. I'm positive I've convinced them I'm merely having a basic psychotic episode. I keep my mouth numb-like, slank and open, mustering the will to drool to really sell it. Instead, my restless mind decides it would be a better idea to bark like a tiny dog. I yelp, then yelp some more. Then I throw my head back, slinging my unwashed and greasy hair with it swaying loosely behind my head. I open my eyes as wide as they can possibly open, and fall into a disturbing fit of loud laughter.

I was never a talented actor. My attempt to audition for my high schools annual play was a failure, seemed I just couldn't keep from giggling through the serious scenes that required stern facials, or sappy emotion. That day I scratched out acting from my mental list of career possibilities. I replaced it with chef, which too was scratched away after filling my mothers kitchen with smoke. Turns out you can in fact ruin a grilled cheese. I must say that today my acting chops aren't half bad.

"Jesus, he's worse than, Dolly." The guards voice is breathy as they slam the steel door. Leaving me locked inside with only a small crack in the door sized just enough to slide a food tray through. I wait until they've left my view, watching through the slit in the door before relaxing my face, and breaking out of character. At the end of what I would think to be the longest hall in the world, the guards cut off into a room. Finally.

I stand and rotate my jaw back into a comfortable position, creep to the bed, and fall face first into the padding like a knocked out boxer. My face hits hard into the stinking mattress, and I keep it there. The stench of the room makes me gag but I'm too tired to vomit. For three incredibly persistent nights my new neighbor, Hands has screamed. I don't mean he's yelled here and there out of anxiety. I mean he has screamed. I've got to give it to the guy, he doesn't give up. But my sleep is quite precious to me. It's the only way I can escape this place.

Before I was convicted of murder, my happy place was a tight nook between two slimy rocks. There was a trail leading from behind my house and into the woods. I would pace along the heavily used path, slapping away stray branches, and wacking through thick under brush until the trail ended at Bushwin Creek. Some days when the temperature reached well into the high nineties, the towns youth would flock to the swimming hole where the creeks current ends, and falls thirty feet into a natural pool. By mistake on a humid day, I found the opening of a cave. A cave only wide enough for a single person. I went into the blackness, guided just by the light of my phone until light shown at the end. It was cool, and damp. The rushing sound of the waterfall echoed through the tunnel like cave.

I sat at the opening behind the falls, the caves hole was shielded by vines and the falling water. When the water would break I could see girls in tiny bikinis, and baked tan skin splashing and cackling when water would hit their face. It was a beautiful sight, since that day I would go every time the weather was fit for swimming. The cool air in the cave kept me comfortable in the heat, and I got to spy on the pretty girls in my town. It's only now when I think back that I realize how creepy it must've looked; some hormone driven kid sitting behind a waterfall, peeping at couples making out below him. Completely unseen or heard, no one ever knew I was there, and I never told anyone about my special place.