I talk out loud when I write, keeps the voices quiet, otherwise, my mind is a noisy din- - - - the voices are polite, I have raised them right . . . .my son is like me, sits in his bedroom in the darkness, listening to the voices . . .his darkened bedroom is his favorite place to be. . . . . we have seen the doctors and now he is drugged, can no longer hear them talk, only sees them, little men, in top hats . . .lonesome . . I still hear them, thus feeling guilty, but that is just between you and me. . . . my son and I are reformed sinners, have recanted and repented, when we see another sinner, our eyes find the ground, prayers said, hoping the pretense remains. . . . .sssh, we really have not recanted, and we are not reformed, but perception more important than reality, we want no more help, no more drugs . . . I will die when it is time to die, without doctor’s mind games and sadistic experiments. . . . . . omelets are tasty, filled with ham, potatoes, onions and eggs, breakfast topped off with a smile from my son, so precious and rare, breakfast and dessert, I am ready for the day and whatever it brings, well that is bullshit, no one is ever really ready, but it doesn’t matter, I saw my son smile, and he was happy, at least for a moment. . . . .we are captives, though my son likes his captivity much better than me, too young to remember the freedom of other places, too brainwashed and scared to even try, . . . to remember. He is what brought us here, was the bait, by which they bagged me, . . . that was the beginning . . .when we eventually were forced to recant.
Death lurks beyond the city streets, leave and you shall die, I used to spit in their eye, and curse them with words learned in other places . . . uncouth words, taught on farm and ranch, where life is so much more real. . . But now, too weak and resigned, and when my son reads my angry thoughts, I see the fear fill his eyes, and quite quickly the anger dies, and I hope the thoughts only read by him. . . . . . . . .the hood of my pickup is wired down with # 9 bailing wire, the most useful wire in the world . . .rusted floor boards, you have to know where to put your feet, my son knows just how to place his feet, unless the demons begin to attack. . . . . my son many times refuses to go for rides, preferring his darkened room and the soothing voices of the little people, he can no longer hear, just started a new drug. Sabril, it will battle the demons, but possibly leave him blind . . . the doctors with scalpels have already taken half of his sight. . . .a sort of payment in kind, for not trusting and being sinners, but both he and I have recanted. . . .We live in the city, don’t we? our days spent eluding the hunters, demons and men, but it is understood, everything is always in a state of constant flux, weeds, trees, buildings, streets, nothing is safe, unless deemed so, by these special, special people, in this special, special place, so we live our time trying to adapt, and keep convincing the people we have honestly and voluntarily recanted, and no longer believe what we once held true, no longer believe what the voices knew, and no longer to listen to voices, for their lies are easily seen through. . . . at least that is the mantra we repeat to the special people, of this special, special place.
I, once, loved writing stories, but now can’t find my way, the writing isn’t hard, but the way back out, the challenge. . . . the voices once helped, looking for bread crumbs dropped along the way, now, I fear they pick up the crumbs as fast as I toss them down. Trust became an issue about the time I pretended to recant, . . . already time for more pills, another dose to keep the demons at bay. . . .though it is heartbreaking to see and feel a glimpse of the sun, before the clock on the wall, and the voices start screaming for more pills. Sometimes I am left to wonder if God truly real.
Silence the voices, silence the doubts, that is not what life is about. . . .education consists of the ability to cope . . . .I have waged the battle best I could, yet I knew the war was not to be won, that was a fact . . . . . and I and my son could hold out a little longer, if I would retreat, and admit defeat . . .which I did while the voices screamed, still angry, blaming me, . . . but they are not the ones who suffer when the punishment inflicted, no that is inflicted on I and my son. . . . the recanted sinners, afraid of the sun.
