The Last Croak

Timothy - The Presence

"Sometimes being yourself is the worst thing possible"  — Robert Armstrong

Soughing through the meadow was a pernicious presence, unnoticed by the senses but clearly visible to the imagination. It was watching, waiting, skulking about in the shadows, lapping at the weakened minds of flawed individuals, waiting for that optimal moment to infuse a malicious devilry into their character.

Timothy had felt the presence most of his life. His medication helped to keep it at bay, but robbed him of his creativity. Although he appeared completely normal when medicated, he was a raging psychotic otherwise. It was that sweet spot between the two extremes that he aimed for, where he was at his most creative, when forces of self and presence were equipoised. Many times the presence had pried its way in to ravage his mind, and each time he had ended up in a very special place.

Today Timothy woke up, realized he had wet his bed again, and proceeded to clean the sheets and himself of urine. It infuriated him that he still wet the bed, so after dressing, he walked to the mirror and he repeatedly punched himself in the face as punishment. "You will not pee on the bed again! You will not!" he said to his reflection, and followed up with more punches to his face. This was becoming his regular morning routine.

Timothy lived alone. His hobby was torturing small animals and he earned a living busking at the town square. He tortured small animals for fun and to give an outlet to an urge that wanted much more. His hobby was deeply personal and private, but yesterday's frog had escaped. He had meticulously removed the outer layer of skin from a living frog, leaving a thin translucent membrane, but he had fallen asleep and the frog was nowhere to be seen when he woke up. The frog was somewhere in his apartment but he would have to find it later. Right now, he had to earn some money to cover this month's rent payment. He grabbed his lunch bag and quickly left his apartment and rode his bike to town, forgetting his medication in his haste.

When he arrived at the town square, he walked to the steps of the courthouse, set out his tip jar with a couple of dollars seeded, went through his pre-performance regimen of stretching, deep breathing exercises, deep knee bends, and finally, with no musical accompaniment, he began to sing. He was not a bad singer, but the people who stopped to watch did so more for his oddity than his talent. He was on key but out of place. This was not the proper venue for a singer; there was no precedent. As he sang he could feel the presence slowly encroaching on his mind but not yet dominating. It gave him energy and fueled his creativity. He began to sing louder and with more verve. A small crowd had gathered around him and he received an occasional tip. As more time passed and his medication waned, the relentless presence violated his mind to secure a hold that would not be given up easily. Very soon Timothy found himself raging rather than rhyming. He was screaming the lyrics in a loud monotone voice.

By late afternoon he was completely mad and in a full psychotic rage. His screams where incoherent and his audience grew at the spectacle. He knew the presence was about to take over completely so he started punching it to make it go away until his eye was swollen and his nose bleeding. He kicked his lunch bag in anger and, "OMG!" he thought. His translucent, skinless frog hopped out of the bag. Everyone knew now! Knew what his hobby was! He ran over to the frog and tried to pick it up but it hopped. He grabbed at it a second time but it hopped again. Furious, he grabbed the frog with both hands and secured it against his chest as he took it back to his lunch bag, but the frog peed on him and all over his shirt. He dropped the frog and unleashed an unearthly scream of frustration. Raging and fully psychotic, he picked up the frog again and pulled back his fist to punch it, but right at that moment he was tackled to the ground by two men in white lab coats who would escort him back to that very special place before the sun touched the horizon.

It was quite amazing after all the frenzied activity was over that the frog survived. It was well camouflaged and had not moved in hours. People had assumed it was some discarded food and avoided stepping on it. Hours passed and all the people were long gone. It was dark now. At a little past midnight the frog hopped. Then it hopped again.