The hairline cracks spidered gently across the screen printed rink of 13, chipping away like old vinyl, flaking off as a pale hand tugged downward on the faded screen tent, causing it to billow round his hunched frame, pulled from his front , plastering the weave to his back. Radioactive eyes scanned down the length of his shirt. --It fit looser than it had a few months ago. --Yeah. It looked like he'd lost a few. Just a few pounds. How embarrassing- almost underweight-delusional-. But not quite, and that's violence- what mattered. -Exhibits asociality- He could always order out for dinner-catatonia-. That was always a lot of food for him he really--
"and suicidal tendencies."
The flash of transparent lenses.The sun from outside refracted beautifully through the first window, and bent yet again through his superior's adjustable eyes. He made a slit with his thin lips and made the sound of turning pages, as if commending his extraordinary articulation focused on the word "and" in his double worded question , then dipped his head passively back upwards and offered him his organic eyes.
"You were in the hospital for two days due to self harm."
An invisible flush of heat scathed the patient's face, clawing up from his cheeks to his forehead.
His hair flew backwards as he swept a bandaged hand across his forehead, collapsing into thick strands, revealing bright eyes and a canine smile.
"Not you? Well, tell me! Who was it?"
The doctor leaned in, hinting at true concern for the juicy bits of his patients private, damaging affairs.
"Ah, well. Me I guess."
A dismissive, but direct shrug. His smile benignly folded out into a simple line, and he began chewing on his bottom lip.
"Then it was suicide? --Attempted. Attempted suicide."
He squeezed his eyes shut at each "attempted", as if in great thankfulness--but everyone knew there truly was none such brewing from with in him, as the two had only met once briefly this morning.
The man opposite the desk released his nonchalant slouch at this, and positioned himself forward, erect. His brow laid upon his eyes heavily, an expression of sudden confusion and disgust.
"Suicide-? What's THAT?"
The doctor did not as much furrow his brow, as years of this practice had taught him how not to. Still, from his lips flew that same sound of turning yellowed pages. (Tcht)
"It's when someone ki-"
"No, I KNOW what that MEANS. Just SUICIDE. Me? No-not SUICIDE. Not me. Never. Suicide."
"But your eye
"Oh, it's missing."
The patient suddenly jerked himself backwards into his chair and gave the man a sideways glance. Over his right eye was a white cotton suture, a long strip of transparent medical bandage creeping forth from his left forehead's profile to his right's cheek. The cotton swab was greased with a Vaseline-like substance-medicine to keep his broken tendons from infection.
"What happened to it?"
"Well, I got rid of it."
why would you do that?"
The same expression of surfeit repulsion returned, twisting his lip upward, squinting his remaining eye to express his abhorrence of this doctors brashness--nay, his stupidity.
"It had things in it!"
"Things--! Swimming things that bury mechanics in your retina so they make you see things!"
"What kind of things?"
"Didn't that hurt though
"I DIDN'T FEEL IT!!!!"
"But that seems like it'd be rather painful-"
"YES IT HURT!!!! IT HURT JUST LIKE WHEN YOUR WIFE HAD YOUR DAUGHTER, JUST LIKE WHEN YOU TOOK THOSE LITTLE LAGNIAPPE EVEN THOUGH YOU KNEW YOU COULDN'T GET A BETTER JOB THAN TO SIT HERE ALL DAY AND CHECK UP ON PEOPLE WHO LOSE THEIR EYES AND SAY HELLO JUST AS SOON AS YOU SAY GOODBYE TO THEM!!!! And you KNOW you KNOW if you're lucky you'll get to take them home and then get hit by a truck when running away from the firemen-the yellow-brick-light ambulance, and the gardener with the scissors in his hands will CHASE you-it hurts because that's what you don't WANT him to do, man! That's WHY IT HURTS BUT YOU KNOW YOU KNOW you're damned if you do and you're even MORE damned if you DON'T!!!! So that's why I got hit by a truck! Because I KNEW and I HAD to! And that's why it hurt, that really hurt! No one put me in a hospital for that BUT IT HURT. YES, SAM, IT HURT. AND IT HURT MORE THAN THIS!!!! IT HURT MORE THAN IF I LOST THEM BOTH, BUT NO ONE PUT ME IN A HOSPITAL FOR THAT WHY, WHY, DIDN'T YOU HOSPITILIZE ME FOR THA--Ah
He'd paused the slapping of his socked feet against the cold tiles, the pointing and the hair yanking, towering lankily over his desk, palms hiding away his already hidden eye socket, muttering a rapid string of "ow's" under his breath, his attention suddenly drawn entirely elsewhere.
A bird had flown directly into the window.
Yanks breathed steadily, his confused, manic attention captured by something new-untrodden territory for his racing thoughts to scavenge.
The sun filtered in with a chicina glory light, kissed the floor and exposed the tiny airborne plankton into tangible reality. And outside, it was still a beautiful day. The evening of July 16, 1994. The sun fixed himself in such an angle that it could peek in through the hospital window and salute him, tousle his corn silken hair. The feathered down scattered about, wafting gently atop the still air, copper tattered feathers everywhere. The bird did not get back up.
A nervous, wide eyed smile twitched at his lips-his face lambent underneath the outside's dying, but benevolent light.
He dropped his hands so that they dangled by his hips and softly returned his gaze toward doctor. Paused, then glanced back at the phosphorescent window. Not just once.
"Would you like to take a seat?"
"Brendon, would you like to take a seat, now?"
Then sniffed, and all sneezy-eyed collapsed back into the crooked chair across the psychologist's desk.
Brendon smiled lazily towards the west.
"I'm right here."
"Are you seeing things?"
Yanks pressed his lips into a curved smile and slowly wagged his head.
Nothing but the genuflecting bolts of light, raining like auspicious sabers, reflecting off his mirrored eye. Only the god's naked feet, voices tittering nervously from above like pre adolescent girls in a power outage in Maine, waving around their flashlights in all directions at the same time. Nothing but the yellow sirens-the ambulance sirens from outside slam up against the secured windows like a figure skater's turn gone awry. The fearful expression writ across his daughter's face, staring longingly through her prison of a window pane, hurt and beaten, pleading for the photographer to help her out. Mr. Wilson beat his daughter into that 2-D box, and she gently called for him to pull her out of the bullet proof photo frame. And that bright light. That bright eye. Those bright eyes said something else. A sympathetic eye trick. He knew better than to aid his enemies, but still, even now the light drenched the conspirators. Spotlights caressed them too. So if this were so-that these shoeless gods cascaded light down upon even these tiny poisons, all must have been well. And it was so. He relaxed and sneezed easy, reassured by the increasingly bright, oh-so-bright-sunshine.
It was a beautiful day.
A pause. The doctor unattached his ballpoint from his oxford's pocket.
He smiled tacitly, then through underwater air reached forth and retrieved the Doctor's single picture frame from his desk and set it pleasantly upon his lap.
that's my daughter."
The doctor beamed a drowsy, warm glow of pride that fogged up his glasses. His chiseled, tan face shifted as he pushed the corners of his mouth upwards. Dimples.
Yanks flinched soundlessly in disgust. But because the sun had enforced this pact, he hid it quickly and smoothed out his face to treat him civilly.
"Yeah. She's sad. "
she's smiling there, isn't she?"
"Only because you told her to."
Yanks wiped off the picture frame with his bandaged hand intently.
"Does she smile by herself? I mean. Without your help."
He opened his mouth almost hesitantly, his single eye squinting as if he were again, about to sneeze. Twitching, maybe.
You'd be surprised. I swear she's the happiest girl you'll ever know-Love her to bits."
Yanks dragged his thumb along the glinting window frame, leaving an elongated print of his identity to remain here-on his doctor's desk until someone squirted a dab of Windex on it.
"It's Yanks." He responded choppily, indicating mistakes would not be tolerated.
"Well, Yanks. Our records here are saying you have no known relatives-is this right?"
He chewed idly on a fingernail.
"It was Mr. Kingsbury who called for the ambulance, right?"
"You mean Melvin? Yeah that cock suckin son of a bitch."
"Mmm..Yes. that's right, Melvin."
"Yeah is he picking me up too?"
'No, I'm afraid he won't be."
Yanks smirked triumphantly.
Flipping paper noises.
"Mr. Kingsbury has expressed his concern for your health Brendon-"
He's concerned..for your safety. And naturally, he's concerned for his own safety at this point as well. From what he's reported you haven't been behaving very healthily for quite some time
Refusal to eat, lack of hygiene, complaints from the neighbours. ..even gone so far as to disappear for days at a time
If not into the city, at the very least, disappeared into your bedroom and locked your door so no one can ever hope to socialize with you. Brendon,
"BRENDON, does this seem like productive behavior to you?"
"What we're concerned about is the possibility of you actually accomplishing what you had intended to do on Wednesday night
No one can afford that
So what Mr. Kingsbury has taken the liberty for--for your sake-- is an extended admittance into Spring Harbour institute. Here we can work out those nasty habits, get you talking again to people just like you, who have the same problems as you. The therapeutic value is just simply in-"
"Mind you, unlike this latest trip to the emergency room, this will be covered fully by your insurance. You will not have to pay a dime. It's free."
"No thanks. I really just wanna get home now."
"Brendon, I'm afraid you have no say in the matter
Mr. Kingsbury has already arranged for your complete admittance. The police will be here at any moment to escort you downtown."
Purple, fatal bruises scarred the tips of the sky, replacing the glorified sunny hues of 7:32. Silence. Complete choked silence.
"Fuck this, I'm going home."
"It's just like camp Brendon
You remember boy scouts. The therapeutic value is simply incalculable