Mr. MortonA Story by SSKaitlyn "When intelligence and disease clash, they form one of the most twisted concoctions." Mr. Morton When intelligence and disease clash, they form one of the most twisted concoctions. The mind is a wondrous place, of knowledge, emotion and memory. It directs our lives, dictates our bodies. When it says jump, you jump. The ability to control it is a supernatural one, one of myth and legend. Perhaps once upon a time it were possible, when life was so much more simpler. Even then, though, who could actually, really, claim themselves as sane. Sane...sanity is a fickle thing. What’s sane, what’s insane. Little sally plays with her friends, that’s sane. Johnny boy refuses to drink with his friend, that’s insane. But who’s judging? I certainly am not. Who am I to socially condemn one's decisions? Maybe I’m insane. But if you’re aware of it, does that make you sane? Oh no, there it goes again. Rocking back and forth, with a drizzle of drool dripping down his chin, Mr. Morton cradles himself in a tight embrace. His lazy-boy recliner is empty, along with the floral printed sofa his mother had for decades. It’s worn and withered, like the creaky floors and leaky roof. For whatever reason the middle aged man chose the rotting wood as a place to rest. He’d snort at the word rest, mumble something about rest being a figment of the imagination, and flinch at an imaginary bug. Rest didn’t come easy to him. It’s no wonder, with the lulling stench of decrepit decay and the dim lighting of unpaid bills. When one thought clashes with the other, a storm erupts, and the body isn’t sure how to react. I used to tell my classes that. I used to tell them a lot. They stared at me, watching me, waiting for the next words to come. I can still feel their beady eyes sinking into my soul, judging and waiting. They always did that, like they were searching for something. Like they were trying to decide if I was worthy. Am I worthy? My brain says yes..no, no it says no, but maybe. I can’t find the validation, but should I need it.. No, but my mind craves it like a baby craves a mother’s touch. I can’t look at them, I can’t do it anymore. They keep watching, and waiting. Will it be enough, I wonder. Two times a day Mr. Morton manages to stumble from his fetal position, into the molding kitchen, and make himself a peanut butter sandwich to eat. There’s always the same amount each side of the bread, with the crust peeled off and left to harden. He’ll stumble back into the living room, where he collapses onto his lazy-boy. About halfway into his sandwich he’ll shriek and chuck the sandwich at the wall in front of him, just above the tv of static. He forgets, each time, that someone could have tampered with the ingredients. There could be the remnants of a carcass, or of insects, and he throws the other half. It’ll fall once it hits the wall, and land on the other half sandwiches that have hardened like porous rock with splotches of blue-green. He’ll grab his head and mutter curses, cursing the things that keep haunting him and his food. The once brilliant man doesn’t realize the fowl carcass he imagines is real, from the cockroach that had gotten into the bread and passed. Once you become aware, it all falls into place. You know, you know all. You know that half the brain’s function is irrelevant. Emotions, memories.. All a waste of space. I don’t need it, it makes me weak. They feed off that, the emotions. They’re like leeches, they suck away at them. Or like mosquitoes. Mosquitoes, vampires, and leeches, oh my.. I can’t show them, can’t reveal my mind. It can’t be nitpicked, and sorted through. I won’t let them! They can’t.. This is mine, mine and mine alone. Alone.. Oh dear, I am alone. They can’t see me here, they don’t know. I’m safe.. I’m, no, no! They torment me still, and poison my food. Damn you! Just leave me alone, leave me. When there’s a knock at the door, there’s a scream that answers, and then a bang and shatter when a glass bottle is thrown against the splintered door. He mutters again after crying out, and three little girls scurry about in a hurry to get away from the crazy man’s door. One drops a box of cookies, but they rush on, taking the small loss without a second glance. The shards of the bottle, without a doubt, will land with the others, in a sea of jagged glass. Somehow he always has a spare bottle, right there on his side table, either half full of stale beer or entirely vacant save for a couple dead flies and gnats. There’s a few dirt ridden pills to his side, having rolled over there from a lonesome night of self-realized insanity. He’ll pick one up later, thinking it’s a tic-tac, only to spit it out violently. Cursing again, he’d spout vulgar things about “them” and their corruption. Afterwards he always forgets, stumbles into the kitchen again for a cup of water, but when he yanks the handle over it sputters and spits before dying into a small, barely there stream. Just enough had come out though, and Mr. Morton sloppily gulps down what he can. They’re everywhere.. All over. It’s suffocating, no, damning. They won’t leave me alone. I try, I try. Try as I might, cannot get away tonight. Tonight, night is dark, dark is bad. Bad things in dark, they watch. They watch and wait, staring. I can’t let them know, can’t let them see. Seeing..I see, I see all. Can’t trick me, can’t..I know, I know. I’m not demented. They are. They are. After his less than hearty drink, Mr. Morton slams the glass down and it slips out. Tumbling, it’ll either fall to the floor with a clatter or roll the opposite way and clash with the pilling, grease stained dishes in his sink. All the while he’ll stumble back out of the kitchen, and into the dining room, where his father used to help him with his homework. Mr. Morton missed his father. He was the one man Mr. Morton could depend on, since his mother passed. His father was strong. He’d been in the army. It had been a dream of his son’s, to do what his father had. He wanted to be strong like him, and smart. He can still remember his father’s last words. They are, papa, they are. They’ll never understand, never.They can’t, but I can. We’ll show them, we’ll do it! They’ll rue the day they doubted us, papa. And I did it. I marched on papa. I did it. I did. Turning with a wobble, Mr. Morton sluggishly faces the handcrafted cupboard his father had made decades ago. The image of his father flashes in his mind, and he goes to reach for the cupboard. On any other day he’d retract his reach, shake his head and remember he forgot to check the mail. Or he’d fall in the process, hit his head and lose consciousness long enough to forget about the cupboard. The day does come, though, when he stares at that cupboard, approaches it, and manages to steady himself long enough to stick his hand through the broken glass and grab what’s inside. They, they didn’t get you. They didn’t. You.. you free. They won’t see, won’t wait. Quiet, quiet is nice. So peaceful. The mind needs peace, the mind is a wondrous thing. My mind, my mind is special. Special soldier boy. Soldier boy marching on and on and on and on. His father told him to be a strong soldier, to march on and be the best he can be. Then he was gone. His mother had already gone on, so it was his uncle that put him through college. It was one accident after another. He never was the same. He never blamed his father though. He thinks of his dad, who had been his inspiration for everything. So he stumbles again, the neck of a crusty ol’ beer bottle loosely in hand. In his other hand he feels the weight of metal. It’s both nostalgic and exciting, because now he can be like papa. He’s already fulfilled his wish, and excelled. The voices stop haunting him, just for a moment. Mr. Morton finds peace in it, and a certain kind of joy. It brings tears to his eyes, a salty moisture he’s all too familiar with. Trembling, he raising what’s soon to be his deliverance. They, they didn’t get you. They didn’t. You.. you free. They won’t see, won’t wait. Quiet, quiet is nice. So peaceful. The mind needs peace, the mind is a wondrous thing. My mind, my mind is special. Special soldier boy. Soldier boy marching on and on and on and on. Click. I did it papa. I made you proud. I’s a doctor. Doctor of mind. A beautiful mind, a special one. Special.. Special soldier boy. I did it. I marched on. They didn’t get me. They didn’t. They never will. With one last tear dripping down, There’s a resonating bang. Then silence. © 2017 SSKaitlynAuthor's Note
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SSKaitlynMOAboutThey say writing is just writing, that it's not a real job. If someone asked me what I do, I'd tell them I write, rather than disclose my full-time job as a rep on the phone. I don't consider writing .. more..Writing
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