LXXVI | Some Violence
❦
It’s a bit early
for medicine time.
The sky
is still very bright.
Tammie’s grip on one of my hands
turns it white.
I wiggle my fingers
but she doesn’t respond.
So I let her.
Yes, I play favourites.
Asher’s not allowed,
but Tammie can.
They’re different
so I treat them different.
Maybe not so different.
I’ve hurt
both of them.
Asher’s chair is empty.
It’ll remain
empty.
Everyone gets their medicine
except me.
Extra pills to forget
what they’ve just seen.
When everyone’s
shuffled off blearily,
they give me
the injection
and untie me
from my armchair.
Tammie lets go
of my hand then.
Steps back.
I let sleep
and the nurses
take me.
I memorise her serene face,
her familiar apologetic smile
before everything
turns black.
❦
I killed Asher.
I need to tell you about it
before I forget.
My notebook disappeared.
And I’m going to forget
as soon as
I open my eyes
again.
It’s my selfish defence mechanism.
When you sin,
you must recall it
so you can pay the price.
But I get away
with these things
because I’m
a lunatic.
Loony people get special pardons
when they do something wrong
because they don’t really mean to do it.
They don’t really want to do it.
They just can’t help but do it.
So the sensible ones
forgive pityingly.
Build special prisons
for us to languish in
for the rest of our lives.
They show off
to one another
by going to those places,
spending time with us.
The more time they spend,
the more compassionate.
They smile a lot.
We’re encouraged
to do the same.
Not anymore.
Singapore has done away
with that kind of pretence.
We’re secluded.
Separate hospitals,
separate facilities.
Wonderland
is the worst of them.
The most cruel.
But it is because
this place exists
that lunacy is better understood.
They watch us.
The experts—
doctors, psychologists, researchers
—from cameras in the walls.
They see everything.
They don’t interfere.
Much.
There’s no way
to predict
when they’ll get involved.
What experiment they’re conducting.
Who’s the specimen.
I can only guess that
today,
it’s Asher.
I thought he was dead
when he fell
so I let go of him.
Coaxing my numb legs
to prop me upright.
Surveyed
the damage.
His hands—both—
grabbed my wrists.
Pulled me onto him.
I yelped
and kneed him
in the balls,
my forehead
cracking his jaw.
I heard the snap
and my ears burned
from the scream.
Then there was a paintbrush in my hand,
and I plunged it
over and over
into the soft part
of his neck.
His eyes watched me,
drooling
red paint
until he got bored
and went to sleep.
He took a deep breath
but it spluttered and broke
halfway.
The nurses converged
on us
after that.
Murmured soothingly,
pulled the others away
until I was alone
with his corpse.
They asked for the red paintbrush
in my hand
but I refused to give it.
They let me be.
Let me stay
kneeled beside him,
as they cleared the wreckage
from under him.
His body flopped
like a doll
with each piece of wood
they pulled
from under him.
He didn’t wake up again.
Some part of me
thought he would.
Then I would
pound the truth
deep
into him
so he’d never forget it.
I waited,
waited,
waited,
for a confrontation
that never happened.
His blood seeped
into the carpet
now that he was lying flat on it.
Finally,
they brought a bag,
zipped him up in it,
even though I told them
there was more
I needed to say to him.
One of the nurses
told me to stand up
but my legs were numb.
Black ink
creeps
over this moment,
pulling it
into darkness.
They carried me into
my armchair.
White rope from their belts.
Darkness spills
quicker
like water from a vase knocked over,
blotting out
everything.
❦
