The Mental Patient

Chapter 31 - It's All a Lie

A gurgle of gulped medications gargles in my grey matter. I see a mirror when I stare at the pages. These treatments poke fun at me, but I like it. I think I am in love with pill-cups and mouthfuls of water. Who needs a woman?

I think it's time, time to confront the doctor and ask for regular meetings with my sister, I'll bribe him with my money, if he won't. A part of me knows he'll say no, cocksuckers just work that way, sucking the life out of everything. I'm sure he'll be on my side when he reads a new piece of material, it needs a catchy title, think about it. Everything has an audience.

A doosh-doosh-doosh of the door alerts. I've been here too long, I just need something to make me keep going, or else what's the point. Jess, I'm coming for you honey, I'm still here. Killing Davis and going mental on everyone else, the other day, may have fucked-up my chances.

I grab my paperwork, time to go to war with the world with words.

"Open cell fifteen, over." Greg croaks down a walkie-talkie. The door slides to the side. Let weekly brain fumbling blast-off. "Turn around, Kyle, and put your hands behind your back. The usual routine." His tone is monotonous, I'd get bored saying the same thing day-in and out too.

His claws come out when the cuffs come out, he snatches my hands and jerks them into place as he locks them together.

"Aaaaahhhhhh! Fuck sake, easy does-it, you fucking dick-splodge, they're attached to me, you know. Man, if you rip my work, I'll... Jesus Christ." Settle down, settle down, count to a bazillion.

"Kyle, c'mon. It's a big day today." He turns me by the shoulders and points me down the hallway, walking behind me.

I wonder what he means by a big day.

"A big day? Is it cause' I killed that racist Nazi? Shit, I should be getting a handshake or hand-job for that."

He forwards me in the back with three fingers. I can't respond, need good behaviour to get what I want.

Ellen and Jake are huddled at the bottom of the staircase, talking. As soon as they notice, looks are broken and thrown away. Something's going on.

Unclipped and free to sit, I flick my work.

"Got another story, perhaps for that magazine. I like this one. I call it, A Murder of Crows."

"Swell, can I have a quick browse? We have a lot to get through today."

I part with my slog. What is going on? Greg stands solidified in the corner and the doctor hasn't asked him to leave.

---

Peer pressure and wayward ways, we were called the 'Front yard boys.' There was Jimmy "Pecker" Peck, he was our leader. The toughest kid in school but the weakest in his household, every time we met up he'd always have a fresh cut or shining sable eye. He was always the first into conflict and last to leave our gang when the streetlights flicked on. Troy "Peeps" Epson, he was the brains of our operation, he let us copy his homework which he handed in on time and received full marks, specky-eyed glasses were thick as a plank of wood, in the middle they were secured together with black electrical tape. Don't let the thick rimmed glasses fool you; he takes them off every time we fight for school yard territory or rep.

Stevie "Ste" Banks, he was the fastest runner in our school and always excelled in every gym lesson we had. He was the only black kid in school, so he hung around with all of us so no one got the wrong impression to make fun of his colour when the adults weren't around. And, for the nineteen thirties Idaho, it was rather a big deal for some eyes.