I Met We
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 forhis 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
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