A Beautiful Sun
The Boy loves to sit and wait for the sun to raise, his eyes bulge when it emerges from the darkness. Little things like that amuse him, given him a sense of excitement and joy. He would love steal the sun to keep and admire, to admire its gleam, its shine, its warmth. His room is a capsule of simplicity, it has no colour or flamboyance, and just a place for rest, at least the sun adds life to the cold complexion of the walls that surround him. His family abandoned him, placing him among a horde of head-fucks, people who are proclaimed to be nut cases, born from the wombs of Mothers who are contaminated with a bad seed. Well that is his viewpoint on things, his synopsis of how he ended up in such a confinement.
A confinement bulging with the insane elite, people with minds littered, broken with no signs of being recycled. The Boy can entertain himself with his own thoughts; he uses it as a tool of escapism. The haven where the boy nestles is routinely coordinated, he showers his skin at a particular time, there is even classes where he gets to admit the thoughts that seclude him from a normal existence. These meetings are not relevant to him; he refuses to partake in such helpful pursuits. He would rather stew in his room, he would rather pick the skin from his fingers, and he would rather be alone.
The craze house has settled for centuries, Victorian and dated. It seems out of place in such a modern era where technology rules. Stationed away from the bustle of city life. Its dark, cold like aura gives off an unwelcoming atmosphere. There is no way of escaping; the security is fierce, fenced in like its inhabitants minds. The boy knows that his life will be carried out behind the walls of an institution. He will walk around the place a million times; he will swallow the medication to stop him from battering his head off the wall. Everyday will be emulation. Everyday will be a battle.
The men that parade in white coats are formed to rally the demons from the patient’s minds with sweet talk and lethal cocktails of drugs, just enough to blot out a mind raring to recover. The boy straddles to the checkpoint, his examiner looking upon him with a set of black, cold eyes, pushing questions into the face of the patient ‘’ How’s the mind?’’ he says with a gritty tone ‘’There playing war games’’ responds’ the boy ‘’their firing cannons, constructing their tactics’’ the boy commences an art of picking his fingers, to the point of crimson showing ‘’My nerves are off-guard, they really are taking liberties’’ the white coat looks uninterested and unsettled, he sees growing men fall everyday, deeper into a black hole, endlessly. The interrogation halts, the doctor provokes no questions from his experiment, his deed is to upgrade the potency of the medication and then move along to the next glaring zombie. The boy’s peers look like zombies, sick and empty, broken and generic. They zoom the corridors, back and forward, draped in identical garments, no originality or individuality. Drugged and numb, they have no destination or livelihood; this is their home now. Yet the boy sees a breakthrough, a way out of this hive that traps him. He loves to paint, to paint his own sun. It draws his mind to something else, something more than self-loath and feelings of self-destruction. The colours enchant him, the vibrant collection energises him, and he feels whole. The talent the Boy possesses is never showcased, never complimented by the unit that safeguard the establishment. They process his square meals but swerve past the paintings he spills heart and soul into. He has no faith that God will resume his normality, once bitten by the bug there is no way of curing it, he is crazy and not suited for a perfect mind.
At night he is woken by the demons that patrol his brain, he thinks of the family that once guarded him, that once washed, fed and clothed him. They confide in their safe havens, he confides in solidarity. Insanity has married his soul without any chance of breakage, caged and spoon-fed with drugs, he doesn’t know realism or reality, just cold walls and tedious routines. Friendships’ aren’t easy to assemble when thoughts overturn socialisation, his only peer is the sun, it may lie in the distance but it’s always there. 18 and scarred, still a teenager learning the world, he is far away from what the world contains and how its built. Sweating away inspiration and motivation, the boy is blocked from any sweet smells, from any delights that other people in his age group can widely consume.
There is no sense of concentration; the boy doesn’t open his head to anyone. The pacts that walk the corridors refrain from making conversation, they abide by their own minds. Zooming and twittering to themselves like fowl on speed, TV is introduced to stimulate but all they do is glare. No comfort, no change, just routine. A word used so profoundly in the system, it is straightforward, abided by and never altered. These people are the lost souls of a world full of minorities, classes and systems. People dead in the head classed below the mainstream human. God had no mercy when programming their births; he left the flaws to brew in the wombs.
Visiting times do exist; the patients are allowed to speak to the people that granted them access to the World. Walking in a line like comrades readying for battle they progress to their sections, lifeless and torn. He sits, his Mother stares asking him multiple questions on how healthy his mind is and if he’s ready to tear away from all this insanity. Her eyes are fuelled with disappointment, her face is wrinkled due to worry, and her heart isn’t coated in black. It beats for him; it screams for him, it needs him. A boy to his Mother face to face, minds to minds, she speaks ‘‘you well?’’ she says without making her vocal chords sweat, the boy lips clash with rage, his teeth grit, his voice hits range ‘’I’m alive’’. ‘’Good, are they treating you respectively?’’ she reply’s with a shudder of hope for a more defined response. ‘’They Bloat Me With Pills, They Crucify Any Hope Of Me Finding A Place, I Am A Pawn, A Name, A disfigured Shape, At Least My Heart Still Responds To My Pulse’’ his Mother looks clueless, she cant find a breakthrough in her son’s armoured emotions, he may well be stuck to this cauldron of invalid minds for the remainder of his outing. ‘’Do You Love Me, Or Hate Me’’. ‘’ You Placed Me Here, I Hate Your Motives, I Hate Your Complexion, I Hate The Stench Of Your Perfume, I Hate How You Mingle With Your Hair, I Hate How You Shake To Every Word That I Spit, I Hate You’’
The meeting deflates, she knows her place, and she has been driven away, shelved. The boy embarks on leaving his Mother cradling her handbag and battling the leak gage from her red coated eyes. Silence becomes apparent as speech withers, they near their respective avenues. The boy will head back to the chamber; the Mother will kiss the air. The bell rings for a conclusion, rattling through like a shockwave, her eyes close, her head dips, her optimism is shattered. She looks drained and lifeless, shaking and needy, he turns his head and walks on. The Boy has no energy to force himself through, he just wants to sit and paint and look at the sun.
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