I Met We
By Bryan May
None of the children knew why they were
there, or even who put them there. Some were too young to
even know who they were, or even to give any thought beyond
their basic needs, which were far from being fulfilled.
Timmy had succumbed to the lack of light and warmth and
food. He went two days ago, but no one really gave it much
thought until his skin began to crack. It was moments later
that he was removed, although no one could recall who or
what removed him. The animals afflicted with
anthropomorphic tendencies walked about unnoticed. Ted was
three, and only the hamster Mallory called him by his
Christian name. The rest of the children referred to him as
Theodore. Ted, the only kid in the lot who knew why he was
there, could have led the charge, but he was disinterested,
lacking the necessary motivation. Mallory knew this, but
talking animals are so overworked that while noting the
subtly omniscient presence he possessed, I will not permit
him to speak to you. Ted had requested of Kathy that she
let him teach her the waltz, while “piano playing” Steven
chimed away on his Casio that he had received on his sixth
birthday, which comes next May. Therefore, in an effort to
remain precise, I suppose he hadn’t received his Casio on
his sixth birthday, but rather for his sixth
birthday. Mrs. and Mrs. Luther-Eller had known that Steven
was to be placed in the room, and being the thoughtful
keepers of the garden that they were, they felt it would be
appropriate to celebrate Steven’s birthday in tumultuous
fashion, complete with hundreds of ink jet printers emitting
page after page in near unison. The in unison inkjet
emissions were always Steven’s favorite sound. The two
Luther-Eller women did not have Steven count sheep; they
simply hummed “jeet jeet,” “jeet jeeeeeeeeet” through
gritted teeth until the young boy drifted off, which
typically did not take very long.
With no printers present, Steven experiences
six-year old insomnia of a nightmarish nature. Insomnia
amongst youngsters is a far more serious affliction than in
adults. I don't know if you were ever sleepless as a
six-year old, but I was. You lay and rot, partially
paralyzed but with a hyperactive mind that ceases to calm
and disables you from any activity other than insanity-laced
panic attacks. And that is in a soft bed with a down
comforter and blinds that shield the neighbor's outdoor
lamps that he keeps on to ward off trespassers. Steven
struggled even then, but now, with the whimpering of
children and grunting of animals, the candles that smelled
of burning flesh and Nancy who shared the cot and tugged at
his little penis, there was no escaping it. There were no "jeet
jeets" and motherly figures to confuse him into slumber. So
he played his keyboard.
"Theodore. Would you care to hear
Beethoven's ninth?" All Ted really wanted was to be back in
the camp, toiling away with the rice patties. They were
soaked in blood, and the moon permanently eclipsed the sun,
yet it was strangely enjoyable. His eyes had been burned to
the point where he glared at the other children with milky
cataracts, previously unattainable by a five-year old. But
all of those months with eyes flickering upward, catching
glimpse after glimpse of the eclipse had finally crippled
him. And the blood he had ingested corroded his ability to
digest real food. His stomach was permanently cramped, and
the majority of the time he was forced to hunch in the
corner, bent over and grabbing the soles of his feet with
his fingers. It was the only thing that would give his
stomach even the slightest bit of relief. "I... I do not
want to hear Beethoven's ninth. And my name is not
Theodore." He struggled through a single sentence, but
speaking more than one consecutively was a virtual
impossibility.
Ted did
not really miss the blood-filled rice patties. And Steven
did not realize that he missed his beloved jeets. Mallory
knew that he missed his wheel, but he was rather ambivalent
toward the whole exercise thing in general. Marc was
different. He possessed desire, and had experienced love,
and he was angered when Ted asked Kathy to dance. It was
the first time in weeks that Ted had not been rendered
useless by his violent abdominal agony, and he figured he'd
better make the most of his brief semi-comfort. Kathy
replied "that isn't a good thing," and the dance never
materialized, but Marc was bothered nonetheless. Kathy and
Marc came in together. They were from the same domain.
Kathy used to flirt and skirt Marc, and it enraged him. He
wanted to marry her if he grew up and held down a reasonable
income. At seven, Marc was Kathy's senior by exactly one
month, but mentally, she was years ahead. Marc sincerely
believed that he suffered from schizophrenia, but none of
the other children believed him. When he would go into one
of his acts, bellowing profanity and flailing his arms in a
cross-eyed tirade, the group would get on the ground and
sweep his shins out with their tiny legs as he would run
by. Marc would fall, become injured for a few seconds, and
then jump up and start it all over again. This behavior
would usually last about ten minutes, until he would either
snap out of it and become his normal, sullen self, or
realize that his injuries were not worth the dramatic mania,
and he would stop on his own volition. No one knows the
truth about Marc, not even me. It is my opinion that he was
not a certifiable schizophrenic, yet he was a viable one.
He truly did believe that he was born with schizophrenia,
yet clinically, his brain was indeed functioning normally.
He just needed some herbs or something. Or maybe a mother.
Or maybe to be removed from this wretched room full of
confused mammals.
The
candles never burnt out, yet they were never replaced, were
they? Perhaps when the leaders entered early in the morning
to borrow one of the lads they replaced the candles when no
one was looking. The specimens of yellow wax were located
in the three corners of the room, the three corners of the
dunce cap shaped triangular prison. The lamp planted in the
center didn't work, but its rust was getting worse by the
day. A few of the kids took to eating the brown paint chips
that were scattered on the ground. Ted could not tolerate
Steven or Marc any longer. "Stupid heads! Eating paint! Do
you want to end up like me, with a sick tummy? It hurts so
much, and you guys don't even care. You are dumb
paint-licking tooters. Come here, Mallory. Get away from
the paint dummies. Come cuddle with me." Mallory scurried
over, snarled, and trotted away.
Perhaps it was the paint that was making Marc
schizophrenic. Steven was busy flipping Ted his stumpy
middle, but Ted could not see that far. That’s when Steven
began to shout at him. “Get the hell out of my room,
Theodore. Mallory loves chips.”
But he couldn’t. And she didn’t.
Bryan May
bmay@emarketmakers.com
