HELPING ERECT LUCID LIFESTYLES
SUBJECT/CASE NUMBER: 530-85-4561
Awareness.
Identity rememberance.
Faint images: a World Series ticket stub serves as a bookmark in Erasmus' "In Praise of Folly," lying on a hearth before a blazing fire; a beautiful high cheek boned, red-headed girl leans against a trash dumpster in a barren alley, in a pose reminiscent of a pregnant Mary Jane Watson of Spiderman fame, with arms crossed over an ample and expanding belly, right leg crossing left and a slow smile teasing the corners of luscious lips; a kitten lies on her back playfully batting a shoestring which hangs from a toolbox; two boys in camouflage caps and t-shirts idle down a road - meandering through a thatch-roofed village guarded by white-tipped, azure mountain majesty - on their bikes, laughing at some unintelligible joke.
Trying to move, He realized He was paralyzed, except His brain, across which incidents from His life persistently flashed, interwoven randomly as if in a dream. Childhood memories formed, only to be replaced by more recent images.
Eventually some became more distinguishable.
The first He barely remembered, so much else having transpired since then , though by the time it faded the memory was vivid.
The cat - struggling with a shoestring noose around its neck, gagged with each convulsive kick of its hind legs which secured the noose's other end - was a birthday present from His father on His ninth birthday.(...ahh!! damn cat...)
The smiling boy, kneeling next to the cat, occasionally prodding it cruelly with a screwdriver when it ceased struggling was the ten-year-old version of Himself.
His murky brain vaguely recalled the intense dislike He'd always felt for the animal. It hadn't been independent enough, always needing looking after, and constantly getting Him into trouble.(..."that cat is a symbol of your utterly irresponsible and inhumane attitude"...Fuck you, old man!)
It had been without enough fight for His taste too, always just wanting to sit on His lap and get its chops scratched. It never offered Him any gratification whatsoever. Beyond this.
The incident faded following a particularly brutal jab to the throat from the screwdriver, drawing blood. The cat struggled fiercely , eliciting multiple hisses - the original torture's objective He suddenly remembered - blood flowing faster from its throat with every thrash of it's feet, suddenly it let out a high pitched wheeze before ceasing all struggles.
Killing that cat had caused all kinds of trouble. His father, who'd never understood Him anyway, had flown into a considerable rage, after walking into the room, finding Him kneeling over the dead cat, screwdriver still in hand. There'd never been another Birthday present from His father, ever after He had made His mark on the world.
Images flashed through His brain too fast to decipher then.(...recordings on flash forward?.....where am I? home?...just some weird bad dream.....)
The next memory was vivid from the outset.
He was in the mountains so familiar during His service. The small, emaciated boy, camouflage cap tilted tiredly to the right, dark circles under this eyes, stepped off his bike in the bushes, a white shirt tucked into the barrel of the rifle slung loosely around his shoulder. He had a pleadingly innocent expression.
The boy held his hands over his head, after dropping the rifle on the ground at His feet. A look of hopeful surrender turned to expectation of sudden violent death, as He raised His gun , and unhesitatingly emptied His clip into the youth (...goddamn kid....deserved that coming out of the bush like that....most anybody would've shot him before even noticin' that retarded shirt....kill or be killed!!!...the only rule there...bein' generous never got me nothin'....).
The memory faded as He stood over the boy, writhing in his death throes, blood from nose, mouth, and sixteen other wounds turning the mud puddle where he lay a slow crimson.
The alley was immediately recognizable, the scene of many youthful conquests. He'd become a man there on His fifteenth birthday.
(..far better gift than anything the old man could've ever hoped to give me...)
This vision was later in life though.
A woman, who would've been strikingly beautiful had her long auburn hair been combed out, rather than disheveled about her face, vomited repeatedly into a trashcan.
He sat in His classic Chevelle SS (...man I loved those wheels...kicked ass...would've killed for them...), drumming His hands on the dashboard in time to the music blaring from the DVD player. The Chevelole idled curbside, in front of the plain brownstone building, 'Reproductive Health Clinic' unobtrusively lettered above the door.
He leaned impatiently out the window, yelled something to the woman, who responded with a gigantic heave into a trashcan. He gunned the engine then. Looking back at the auburn haired woman, He stuck His hand out the window, middle finger extended heavenwards, and grinned into the rear view mirror.
The woman, at the sound of the tires squealing, attempted to move towards the car, but the Chevelle just continued down the street, tires smoking, leaving the auburn haired woman helplessly puking over her already soiled blouse while trying to stagger after Him.(...What the hell????...she was a fuckin' pricktease....biggest one around in the neighborhood...I finally nailed that...she deserved what she got...flipping those locks around, flirting just enough to entice you spending the rest of your roll on her...anticipation would become too much to bear...the bitch would leave you at the door, with a little peck on the cheek...high and dry...not this boy...act never approached the anticipation anyway...she had to have the damn thing...explained it to her and she understood, so it wasn't my fault...paid for the thing, 250 bucks...broke me...never paid that much for a hooker, lots of who were a better lay than old garbage lady...she expected me to pay for one night's enjoyment for the rest of my life!??...rotten slut..she knew me better than that....)
The image faded as the Chevelle thundered back by, horn honking mockingly, as the woman now retched into the storm sewer. Trying to wave down the Chevelle, she slipped forward on her own vomit and tumbled headfirst into the now puke-filled drain.
His brain had cleared enough for Him to reason, if not for the ubiquitous parade of visions across His mind. The next perceptible depiction was of the very recent past.
He recognized the room immediately. It had been His father's sanctuary for as long as He could remember. The massive mahogany desk. The Apple Mac. The Frazetta prints. The World Series baseball, autographed by Ozzie Guillen and Paul Konerko, of which His father had been so proud. The bookcase of the classics He had always abhorred. Only difference now the room was in utter disorder, giant blemishes in the once perfect mahogany desk, the smashed computer monitor, the slashed Frazetta prints, the upended bookcase, books scattered and shredded all over the room.
His father lay slumped across the recliner in front of the fireplace, where a few embers still glowed. A rope played a noose around his neck, the other end secured his feet, pulling the noose tauter with any struggle. His hands were bound with the remnants of his shirt, while the autographed ball stuck as far in his mouth as it would go, served as a useful gag. A series of blisters in the shape of a cross pockmarked his torso and face. Smiling, standing over the the old man - who'd achieved a slightly bluish tint, to mingle with the puffy redness of the scars - was Himself, a fireplace poker in hand.(...ahhh!!!...can't stop dreaming....didn't want to do that...had no choice he was going to ruin me....asked how I could possibly have sprung from his loins...said no Christian man should have to live with siring a son so ruthless, cold, and calculating...so now he didn't have to...called me an embodiment of evil......but he wouldn't see reason, even with a little coercion....said I wore the mark of the devil...that I'd pay for acts sooner than I thought...so I let him wear the mark of his beliefs...nothing that hasn't been done throughout history...)
The scene faded as he jabbed the old man in the neck. After eliciting no response he assaulted the safe in the corner.
He screamed in His mind then, as nothing could escape His lips. Temporarily relieving his mental anguish He lost consciousness.
Tactile consciousness came soon after.
First thing He identified was the cold, not a freezing cold, just a numbing Chill. His whole body radiated it.
As soon as He was in total control of His sense, He attempted to determine His predicament. He was totally unclothed and the landscape offered nothing, it was barren of any natural or man made contrivance for as far as the eye could see. Though He couldn't see any ground, because of a thick grey mist which shrouded everything, He felt solidity beneath His feet.
By the time He'd surveyed His surroundings, the Chill had become irritating. He decided His best bet was to get some circulation going by moving about.
(...last thing I remember??...the wall safe...then something burned my neck...then i was in a hospital bed!?!??...then I was burning again...whenever I find out who's responsible for this little charade they'll rue the day they were born...probably old man's doing again....more trouble in death than he was ever worth in life...like that damned cat....first burning now freezing...WHAT'S GOING ON HERE????...)
Walking on He tried to determine which was worse, the induced fever or the Chill. He decided they were equally uncomfortable and would try and avoid both from now on.
He continued walking, how far or how long impossible to discern as every landscape inch was identical.
Just as He was sure He'd go crazy from the monotonous landscape, the pervading Chill and the constant walking, He noticed someone standing well ahead of Him. (...IMPOSSIBLE!!!...no way he could've survived all that...NO WAY!!!...)
A tall man, 6'2" or 6'3", with a long gray beard not immediately discernible because it blended perfectly with the landscape, and dark foreboding eyes showing no humor, eventually came into focus. A scar in the shape of a cross marked his face and torso. He was also undraped, save for a pair of apparitions on his back that extended from shoulders to feet. In his left hand he carried a black iron fireplace poker.
By the time He was within three feet of the figure He was shaking uncontrollably. Only thing making it bearable were the answers He felt were forthcoming.
Questions poured forth form between His chattering teeth, answered only by a cold, penetrating stare, seemingly making the Chill worse.
Finally the gray man spoke. "It's not quite what you thought it would be is it?
"What the hell you talking about, old man? I thought I was finally finished with you." He screamed rubbing Himself against the Chill.
A mocking smile appeared on the gray man's countenance. "I think you have a better grasp of the situation than you let on."
He gave up rubbing Himself, it apparently did no good.
"Whatd'ya mean by that? I don't know how I got here, why I'm here or even where here is."
"Somehow I think you know the answers to those questions."
"You weird winged freak, I want some answers. Now!" He screamed.
The pseudo-smile disappeared replaced by the cold penetrating stare. "You know fully where your are. Your psyche just fails to accept it yet. It's not quite what you thought it would be, nor is it like you were taught to believe in your mortal lifetime--"
"Mortal lifetime," He shrieked, agonizing disbelief crossing his face.
"Nonetheless," the gray man continued, "you have earned what you now receive. Regret, for you have plenty of time to be regretful now. Look back on those events you might've handled differently. " He was pointing the poker now, and the Chill intensified. "If you still don't comprehend, think back on the visions you had before eternity. Then judge for yourself how you came to be here and why the Chill permeates the temple of your lowly soul."
He jumped at the gray man then, attempting to wrestle the poker from his hand but was warded off with a simple backhand.
"This can't be the end," He wailed picking Himself up out of the mist. "it's not supposed to end like this."
"Preconceived notions of the unknown are for fools. This is your judgment and you'll have to live with it for eternity."
"The judgment was mistaken. I did what I had to to survive."
"Impossible. You trusted no one and hurt everyone, down to those you claimed meant something to you. You live here eternally as you did mortally, alone and cold. Blame not the judgment, blame your own miserable self, for you made the eternity you now endure."
What little color He had had, now deserted Him, and a look of futility played on his face.
"I must be off now for there are others to meet," with that the gray man melted into the mist and was gone.
The Chill was the only thing left now. He stood for a moment trying to absorb everything he'd heard, before the intensifying Chill caused him to sink to his knees. A tear formed in his eye, halfway down his cheek it froze.
Temporarily relieving His mental anguish, He lost consciousness.
He toppled into the mist headfirst.
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DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS
OFFICE OF PSYCHIATRIC REHABILITATION
NORTHERN ILLINOIS DIVISION
ROCKFORD, ILLINOIS
Subject/case number: 530-85-4561/I27641217200IH
Offense: Patricide: systematically branded and strangled his father while trying to elicit the whereabouts of a certain thumbdrive his father had turned over to authorities the previous morning , implicating subject in spurious dealings with a large nationwide drug manufacturer.
Judgment summary: Subject shows no remorse over his act. Party continually connived and hurt to achieve the "successes" of his life. An arrogant braggart, without hints of compassion or morality, as his judgement attests, he admits to no unethical activities as being his fault. His actions, invariably harming someone, are always the fault of the victimized. He consistently rationalizes his deviant behavioral actions as the result of someone else's failure rather than his own. Party had alienated himself from family and friends long before this incident. He fails to acknowledge any depth of commitment in his personal relationships, be they friend, acquaintance, or family. Based on his life experiences, failure to acknowledge the justification for his mental discomfort - even after prompting by the Judge - establishes grounds for his internment. Once his scope of circumstances settled in no offer of forgiveness was made, constant denial and deflection was the attitude. Once realizing the ultimate circumstance, he resorted at attempted psychic violence - consistent with his physical history - and was dealt on inconsequential psychic slap by the Judge. Judgement visions show his crimes to be numerous, and the court's consensus is subject would have ended up in the system eventually, if not for patricide, for something equally as heinous.
VERDICT: GUILTY AS CHARGED
Recommended sentence: A total lack of humanity rules subject 530-85-4561. The court believes he remains beyond the scope of any cure under the mental rehabilitative techniques presently in vogue. The court recommends 530-85-4561 receive a conditional life sentence in a Subconscious Memory Projection Module (SUBMEPROMOD). Those "healthy visions" amd life images used in his judgment, along with others displaying his inhumanity, are to be replayed repeatedly throughout the term of his sentence. The standard dosage of the negative re-inforcer Chill is to be administered intravenously, dosage increasing geometrically for acts of psychic violence. This sentence is conditional depending on remorse exhibited and advancement made in psychological techniques and will be reviewed on a bi-decade basis. Any parole should be contingent upon a willingness for appropriate societal restitution.
The Honorable Dr. J. Luck, PH.D.,
Judgmental Psychiatric Board Chairman
Northern Illinois Division
Rockford Illinois
April 8, 2055.