Heathens-Joshler

2

 I'm not sure if you're supposed to cuff mental patients. But they cuff me. Probably because I'm dangerous.

I talk to a lot of people, who ask me a lot of odd questions. They ask me if I have the urge to kill people, and if I lived alone before, and a lot of questions about what had happened before, what had gotten people thinking that maybe a mental hospital was a better place for me than jail.

I wait outside the door with two guards as two doctors discuss me inside the room. I listen closely to words that I'm probably not supposed to hear.

"He's an interesting case. No doubt he belongs here. He was muttering to himself a lot. He had plenty more to say to himself than to me. He said that his trial had gotten the story wrong, and that he didn't really live alone, even though, when I checked with his landlord, no one else is living with him. He has these strange tattoos...that's beside any kind of point, but they're interesting enough. I was curious so I asked about them; he said he'd gotten them when he was pretty young, he can't remember how young, and that they all meant something, but he wouldn't say what, other than, 'disorder'."

"A strange story, isn't it?" The other agrees. "Just a simple case of robbery and arson, but so much more. He caused havoc when he was robbing the place, and he was wearing a skeleton mask. He went to an abandoned house and apparently vandalized it with creepy messages, and they found him there. He didn't try to run or fight when he heard or saw them coming, just curled into a ball and said he swore that he didn't know how he got there. Then he said he was sorry. That's when the cops smelled the smoke."

"So strange. Interesting. I asked about his childhood thinking maybe it could be a factor. Maybe abuse, or something of the sort? Maybe he never had any parents? But he was very guarded. He got quiet until I asked the next question. His lawyer apparently saw some symptoms he recognized, because he knew for sure that this kid needed to plead insanity. He likes fire, apparently. I would say that's a cliché, and maybe he's faking it, but given the arson, it fits. I don't know much about this, it's not making much sense. But the one thing I do know is that he does need to be here. This is where he belongs."

They aren't completely done talking, but I don't care. I can't listen to this anymore. I have to cover my ears, close my eyes, and curl up on the floor. The house, the fire enveloping me and the police and everything...I can't listen to it. My only consolation is that I burned that place to the ground. It's all gone now. All disappeared to ash.

I was supposed to burn with it. I was supposed to leave this place, and let the flames that burned the house eat into me until there was nothing left of house or man but ash.

But I felt my body, still whole, still alive, being lifted. No police officer was hurt, neither was I, other than some mild smoke inhalation.

They couldn't salvage the house, even the framework, because the firefighters got there a lot later. I half expected a blanket for my shoulders or something equally compassionate and comforting, but instead, I was treated to nothing but the click of cuffs and getting helped into the backseat of a police car.

We talked, me and the officers. We had a nice chat. I robbed a convenience store. I had a gun. I stole gasoline from the pump outside, and as many packs of matches as I could fit in my pant's pockets. And spray paint. I shot a few bullets around, just to release some tension, but made sure not to hurt anyone. Everyone was screaming when they hit the floor, and I started to panic. I needed them to be quiet. I needed to go. I tried to tell the officer that I wouldn't have stolen at all if this weren't absolutely urgent, and if I could remember where I lived, so I could go back home and see if I had any money. That detail, my home, seemed to have slipped my mind.

They tested me for drugs, and they were pretty confused and upset when the tests told them that I wasn't under the influence of any substances.

I don't want to think about it. It was ugly, but it's over. I did what I had to do, and even if it lead me here, it was worth it.

The two doctors step out of the room. I've talked to only one of them before, the woman. I try to smile when I see her, but I sense that I don't actually succeed.

The two doctors and two guards lead me down a long, white hallway. Everything is white, the ceilings, the floors, the uniforms on the patients, the lab coats on the doctors. The bright white lights flicker a little. Everything is sterile. I want to breathe life into it.

The patients give me funny faces I don't understand as I pass. It's haunting how solemn they are. I feel my hands struggling against the cuffs without me telling them to. I feel panic crawling up my throat. I feel my body moving, but I'm not in it anymore. I'm somewhere else.

I don't feel anything my body does anymore. I don't know if I hit or kick anyone. The next thing I feel in my body is a needle pricking into the side of my neck, and then a dull, sterile calm.