Walking In The Shoes Of Madness

A Story by Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

A human interest story of philosophical contemplations become a test's trial by fire ...

Walking In the Shoes of Madness

A Thomas C. Flynn Story

Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

The Aluminum Cycling Industry's Reverb Furnace Fires

The madness swept over him in waves now, frequently as not drowning out any semblance of reality; its presence an all-encompassing darkness prevailing irresistibly over his mind; a world of warring shadows and fleeting images of what used to be. Behind his despondent eyes loomed a vast pool of oblivion where upon occasion you might detect an indistinct flicker of light, indistinguishable in that if one could actually peer into the human mind you might wonder if you had seen anything at all. Yet, for a moment, seemingly so intense that the interior of the cranium illuminated with a hint of genius, purpose, and possibly more … Hope … But, no, whatever you thought you had seen was gone and you were left wondering if you had seen anything at all while you quickly looked away lest the contagion afflicting this poor soul should overtake you as well.

Ah but it has, as that momentary look into his eyes has taken you captive, having shanghaied you upon a journey into the world of a madman’s mind. A world where jungles are as dense as they are dangerous, desert mirages are realities eagerly sought after, and deep crevasses and canyons resound while rivers of pain and torrents of fear, worry, and doubt make their way towards the cold murky depths where they coalesce into what is now all he knows himself to be. You are along for the ride … Wherever the road may lead … Whatever the future may hold …

Madmen inhabit the earth in significant numbers, though their presence rarely noted unless, of course, they are famous for vile acts of murder or mayhem. Otherwise, the average madman himself is seldom, if ever, seen. He may reside among us in the same community; sometimes working at the same job; perhaps even living next door. We, in our higher plane of cordial bliss, assume they are all locked up securely somewhere out of sight … Out of mind. It is we who choose to not see them. They are invisible because we have cloaked them with invisibility, sweeping them beneath the carpet of our consciences as one kindly covers the dead -- not so much for the sake of the dead, but for the sake of those forced to look upon them.

____________

Let us now meet our Klingon friend, who lives his life hidden behind the cloaking device we have bestowed upon him. His invisibility has rendered him what’s his face or what’s his name to most. Even to those he considers his friends, those who actually know his name, he has always been a bit odd, but they have been impressed over the years -- perhaps with a pinch of jealousy -- with his talents and abilities, and a confidence which, to them, bordered on arrogance. They could not help but take note that he fanatically gave his all to his every endeavor and, despite those who might secretly hate him for it, reaped success. Shane Lipinski exhibited all the appearances of a man having his life together, his ducks all in a row.

That is, until the day they all noticed … The change. Something was different. It had always been there looming in the distance; something elusive which they could not quite put their fingers on; something which made him different, in an inexplicable way, from themselves and others; something which they could not quite understand or pin point. Now, jangling alarms were going off within their heads signaling a warning that something indeed was most definitely wrong.

He had always changed jobs quite frequently over the years. Though that had come to be considered a no-no in today’s society, to his friends it seemed that he was focusing on what was truly important in life -- that being money -- and with each job change came an increase in income for their job wandering friend. Whenever it might look as if he had reached the end of his employment rope, low and behold, he would always land a job better than the last.

One day, he did not land that new job … An undeniable sign that something had changed …

Unknown to them he had been desperately pushing a very large boulder up an ever increasingly steep hill for these many years. Appearing to be audacious and conquering the world to those outside, inside he had been growing weary for quite some time and the boulder of success had long since begun to roll back down the hill upon him -- overtaking him for all his friends to see and, of course, the small-town in which he lived. As the scent of blood coursing through the sea will draw sharks for miles around, or the smell of blood in the air draws wolves, the vultures of a small community gather hungrily with ravenous eyes to feed impatiently upon those who have fallen maimed or crippled. Gossip is their feast and they feed well upon it reveling in its filth -- proud of their catch and greedy for more. Keenly they sense death is near and await its every throe. Let the feeding frenzy begin! The most energetic of vultures are, of course, always those you believe to be your friends ...

What his friends presumed to be audaciousness and arrogance was in reality a simple defense mechanism deployed to deter those who might destroy what little confidence he had in himself. He had fought desperately to live up to the status quo; be what everyone expects a man to be; work hard, earn a living, and support a family. They were unaware of the fact that essentially he was damaged goods and had been most all his life.

In today’s modern terminology, he was dysfunctional -- the byproduct of a dysfunctional family. The many ingredients which had contributed to the molding effects of his environment, had begun with the divorce of his parents when he was but a toddler -- they, themselves, dysfunctional offspring of dysfunctional families. Both parents having remarried to different people, he had been raised from the age of three by his mom and step dad -- another dysfunctional soul as like attracts like -- who had spent their years together fussing and fighting, with numerous separations, near divorces, and moving -- always moving. Always moving always meant a change in schools, a change in friends.

Change had been a certainty in his life; lurking within the shadows of any semblance of stability. At one time he could recall thirty-three different addresses -- various rent houses and stays with relatives -- he and his parents had lived at from the time he was three or four years old, until he was eighteen. Now time had erased much of this memory, with only twenty-three remaining addresses he could honestly jot down. It had never entered his mind that some of this might rub off on him; maybe affect him in later years. Much like the road noise that you continued to hear in your ears long after arriving from a trip back in the days when cars and pickups were not quite so well insulated, it seemed, though his childhood days were over, he was still in the process of moving with his parents deep within the recesses of his mind.

The final product: Shane was a compulsive worrier. There had always been something to worry about every day of his childhood. He worried incessantly. He simply did not know how to stop. Unconsciously over the years, he had acclimatized to always having something to worry about and living his life in a series of do or die situations. He hated those situations, but many times it was he, himself, who helped to create them, feeling within an uncontrollable urge to move.

Over the years, he had learned to fear two words intensely: Mental Illness and hereditary. There were four letters as well which caused him to cringe at the very thought of speaking: MHMR. (Mental Health and Mental Retardation). All of these things seem to have a certain stigma about them, most especially within the confines of a small-town.

It had crossed his mind on occasion that you received friendlier looks if folks thought you had an STD (Sexually Transmitted Disease), than to have them know that you were an MHMR patient. It seemed that most people enjoyed thinking about sex quite a bit more than they did Mental Illness. Something about the term mentally ill frightened people. How well he had come to understand this, now that he himself was wearing the shoes of Mental Illness and walking in them within his own mind.

He had not had a clue what his mom had lived with, having always assumed she was faking her condition to get attention. She had passed on some years ago. It was too late for apologies now, and he lived with deep regrets as to how he had treated her. He had never even taken the time to do any reading or research to try and understand the symptoms of her illness, or what she might be going through.

Redundancy had quickly become repetitive in nature, as the small-town vultures viciously strewed the tasty morsels of their victim to the four winds of the community. Working odd jobs when and where he could, he found that having worked hard all his life -- when tallying in all the frequent job changes -- now was equated with not having worked at all. It struck him as extremely cruel that the business world of today set a higher value on lazy clock watching unmotivated-employees, whose only attribute was showing up regularly for a paycheck for five to ten years, over someone who would seek to profit their employer with honest, self-motivated, hard work. Truly, America had changed, and the days of the much-appreciated drifting worker had long since passed. He had not been in one place long enough to notice. He was still moving -- living helplessly in the past.

If you factored in the whispered words mentally ill, or MHMR, now you had a whole 'nother ball game. Pour in the magic ingredients of self-medication with alcohol or drugs, as is common with many mental illnesses, and that will set the vultures of any small-town, anywhere, at the very pinnacle of ecstasy -- within a hairsbreadth of loosing their own minds from the sheer pleasure of savoring each, and every luscious, deliciously marinated and seasoned, beak full.

Of course, his vulturous friends eagerly desired to give him their kingly advice in seizing the moment of realizing he was now at the lowest point in his life -- pummeling advice that someone never having experienced blindness might insensitively offer to a blind man without possessing the slightest inkling of the very real reality of living in a world of total darkness, all the while pecking and scratching for newer, juicier, information as the chickens in any pen will peck at another if it has but a speck of blood on its feathers; pecking away at the sight of blood until the unfortunate fowl drops dead in its tracks; a gaping hole eaten into its body.

In his attempts to get a handle on his illness and regain control of his life once more, he had come to realize that the, feigned medicine, of caring advice his friends were feeding him was worsening his condition. Often times, he would be having a decent day until stopping in to see one of his friends, to only find himself discouraged and depressed upon leaving. He had enough of that in his life already. There had been times recently when he had remained in bed for days on end, sleeping, not wanting to face the world. He had no need for more. He dreaded seeing them, and avoided talking with them as often as possible.

His hometown had suddenly become the prison in which he lived, not only trapped within the confines and agonies of his mind with a wife and children struggling to understand what he was going through, but now paranoia, like a virus, had overtaken him and the pecking whispers of the vultures seemed to be echoing in everyone he saw. Shame had become his name; shame because he could not be like everyone else; shame because he could not be what everyone else expected. To ease his inner pain, Shane began to play a little game -- with himself. He called it: Shame’s Game.

It was only a game, or so he told himself, simply innocent fantasies of imagining ever newer and diverse ways of doing himself in¹ -- a sweet repose from his war of worries. He knew somewhere deep inside, that this fixation with dying had its beginnings long ago and its roots in never being able to grasp or hold onto happiness. Happiness was elusive -- always out of his reach. Each new job, new hobby, or new habit in his life had always been an attempt at being happy. Others found happiness, but not him. He had thought that he had found it a few times, but something within him would rise up and push the happiness away as if to say, “This is something you can’t keep … It’s time to move on.” When Groundhog Day came out at theaters, he felt as if he had already lived the movie for much of his life, and he was tired -- so very tired.

____________

In desperation, he had turned to religion, visiting several local churches. In seeking to simplify his life, he soon discovered that seeking the Creator of all that is and will ever be could be quite complicated. God was said to be all powerful and all knowing. Folks said He was every place, even in space, at the same time. This baffled Shane, immensely, in wonderment of how God could have been everywhere at the same time, in the same instant, and yet somehow He managed to tell every flavor and variety of religion a different version of who He was and what He expected from mankind. Shane was mentally ill, but he was not stupid. He could reason for himself, even if his mood swings often got the best of him.

If half of what religious people said were true, it stood to reason that God was pretty damned old. Maybe He'd developed Alzheimer's. Alzheimer's had to have come from somewhere. One thing was for sure: God had an insecurity complex. Because, even after creating all that is and will ever be, He did not feel appreciated and recognized for all of His accomplishments. Another thing: If religion could be believed, clearly God was a narcissist and the originator of the terminology big I and little you.

Shane had seriously begun to wonder if religion and its various renditions of God were just some sick joke played upon those gullible enough to be duped into believing a bunch of magical fairy-tales and ritual observances -- that, coincidentally, always tended to lighten one's pocketbook. Why would God need money? What did money have to do with worship, except that men do tend to worship money? Perhaps, religion's leaders needed money and giving to God was just a clever front used to fleece the sheep.

He could not help but wonder how a God who didn't need food or sleep could possibly need to be worshiped. How could it possibly be that a person's lack of belief in God could affect Him. Would God cease to exist if no one believed in Him? Did God exist only because we believe in Him? If that were the case, would it not be man, in fact, who created God?

So, who really did create the Universe? Who, exactly, was responsible for Shane's existence, miserable as it had become? There had to be a true Creator out there some where -- there had to be! And so, Shane sought that true Creator in fervent prayer. For lack of a better term, he continued to call him God.

He prayed for healing that simply did not come, not healing for his Mental Illness alone but, healing in his spiritual walk, to be the man he believed himself called to be. To both pleas, he had received no reply. Of course, religion said that God does not always answer every prayer with a yes. Of late, he had questioned whether any God answered any prayers at all -- anymore.

Obviously there had to be a Creator, of some kind, or else there would be no existence, but where was the true evidence of a personal -- one on one -- God? And why did He seem to be angry more often than happy? It seemed that happiness eluded even God. If true, then, Shane knew he didn't have a chance in hell of ever finding happiness -- or so it seemed ...

No … God was far too busy creating new galactic works of art to take any interest in doing any touch up or repair work on His creations outside the realm of the masterpiece category. God made time, created it, but He did not have time for Shane. Obviously, God could not control time, if He could not make time, after having created time.

A bit of paranoia had brought him to a grandiose conclusion: Time was a Frankenstein! Wasn't Frankenstein named after his creator, Dr. Frankenstein? Thus, it had to be that God is a Dr. Frankenstein. God is a doctor that has no time to heal. He specializes in monsters like Hitler, but has no time to help the working class, mentally ill, average Joe struggling to make ends meet.

All the whirring of all the gears turning and grinding in seeking answers of understanding had now brought Shane to the brink of sheer mental melt down, as more than ample seasoning for too much reasoning upon the illogical mental conditioning of man's organized religion. Shane had arrived at the point of saying, “F**k it all!”

____________

“Life's a b***h and, then, you die -- not near soon enough!,” had become Shane's motto.

This line of reasoning usually ensued when he made his regular appointment to the MHMR office. As is so often the case with small towns, this small-town was not quite up with the times, new millennium or not, as though the date 2006 meant absolutely nothing to city officials, much less city planners. Shane consoled himself in the fact that there even was an MHMR office in this, Podunk², Texas, small-town, where Mental Illness was a word always whispered behind hands that sought to conceal gossiping lips.

It came as no surprise, upon his first visit, to find the MHMR office located in a building along with various other medical doctors, dentists, and practitioners. So a special treat was in store for those who entered, as they received the privilege of sharing the waiting room with other patients, each with appointments and doctors of their own. Somehow, the privacy clause which protected MHMR patients from others knowing they were nuts had long since been nullified by simple and logical deduction. Clearly this small-town considered HIPPA to be a Yankee form of the word hippie, rather than a law passed in 1996.

Patients are people, though not always treated as such, and people in general are not stupid. On the contrary, given time, even the dumbest of us would take notice of which nurses or employees work for which doctors, after all it is human nature -- worse still, it is the vulturous nature. While all eyes watched attentively, the nice lady -- who so obviously worked for MHMR -- would come to the doorway and call your name, and bingo: Everyone instantly knew you were an MHMR patient. From that time forward, you were not looked upon quite the same. You were sinfully, nakedly, visible. Normal folks now saw you whether they desired to or not, and not was what they desired. Privacy had become an idiot’s illusion. If you believed it, that in itself was evidence you were mentally deranged.

One fellow in particular, as chance or karma would have it, always seemed to be there when Shane made his monthly visit; always staring with an angry look of disgust. This fellow, Bill Payne he had heard his name called, would get up from his seat and move as far away from him or other MHMR patients as possible -- increasing the discomfort level in the air immensely by the very act of doing so.

Many times, he had prayed that Bill would stop coming, find a different doctor somewhere else, move away, anything but sit there and stare at him every visit to the MHMR. If he was seeing a dentist, just how many teeth could the man have?

In disgusted desperation he had offered up one final prayer, “Please, if you won’t heal me, at least let this jerk know what it feels like to walk in my shoes. Maybe then he will stop staring and mind his own damned business.”

Shane felt he was paying for his sins -- paying for the hateful and selfish way in which he had treated his own mother -- and obviously, to him, God was sending Bill to punish him for his wickedness. How long would he have to pay? He knew he deserved forever -- and then some.

It was on his next visit, as he was asked about his spiritual life, that he learned one of the many symptoms of his disorder was termed as: Religious connotations³. Even in his desire to be a good man, he was doomed to be consistently inconsistent, because his religious zeal was simply a product of his cycles of mania -- a delusion of his elevated state of psychosis. This new knowledge literally took all the wind of hope out of his sails. Never had it entered his mind that part of his psychosis was due to years of ingrained mental conditioning by the sorcerers of religion. While his logical mind had concluded man's organized religion as bullshit, his emotions continued to be ruled by the very false hope, guilt laden, lies he sought to be free of, while recognizing that some one or some thing had to have created all of existence. Regardless, Shane's life had never looked so bleak …

____________

Just when the ship of his life seemed becalmed upon a dead sea, he landed a job. An aluminum recycling plant was located just outside the city limits. He had applied there several times without any result. The company suffered from a heavy turn over of employees, and Shane was sure that out of shear desperation and lack of other applicants they had given him a shot working in production on the midnight shift. The wages were not at all what he had grown accustomed to over the years, but it was steady work. He had heard that the company usually ran a skeleton crew during the night and that, at least, would allow him to not have to deal with so many other people. He worked best when he worked alone.

Several months went by and, to everyone working at the plant, Shane was doing a really bang up job. He appeared as if he liked the midnight shift, and he seemed to get along well enough with the other guys he worked with. He was giving it his full one hundred percent effort just like he had done with every job he had ever had.

As a few more months went by, the picturesque atmosphere at work began to darken, with storm clouds gathering. It was happening again. Shane could see the cycle was about to repeat itself … Not so much the cycle, but him -- always him -- always moving. It always started with the manner in which he fanatically gave his all to everything he did. Sooner or later, those you work with will begin to resent your well intended efforts beyond the call of duty, especially if it falls into the category of being beyond what they themselves are willing to contribute for the good of the company.

More times than he could remember, it seemed he could always count on at least one individual to, eventually, develop a nasty hatred or resentment of him. This had been Shane’s life since grade school. Every year, and in each new school he had attended, there would always be that divinely designated person whose assignment for the entirety of the school year was to make Shane Lipinski’s life miserable. Perniciously singling Shane out, he would relentlessly hound him without mercy. Being the new kid in town was not all it was cracked up to be. The new kid does not belong. From the first breath, some children are often born with the propensity for being the cruelest of creatures. The new kid always seemed to bring this latent talent to the surface as though one were awakening a sleeping bear. Being the new kid on a continual basis fed his acquired appetite for worry -- truly his worst enemy. He was beginning to get that old familiar feeling once again. It usually triggered the move.

No one could possibly be a harsher critic of Shane, than Shane himself was. This was the great unknown driving his self-motivation in all he did to the maximum degree of extreme, expecting nothing less than perfection from himself. Criticism from others rang forth in his ears and dampened his heart as crescendos demanding -- “More power Scotty, I need more power” -- far and beyond the utmost all he was already giving in his attempts at perfection, at happiness, and at pleasing others -- his overloaded warp engines already pushing him at full velocity. Their well intended criticisms served as a powerful magnifying glass, focusing ever so sharply and crisply on every detail of Shane’s unattainable goal, destroying his beleaguered confidence in himself and his need to be a valuable employee to any company he worked for. There had been times in the past when he had outright quit jobs, because he, himself, did not feel he was doing his best at his position.

____________

... The incident came as no surprise, though his ever fiber had hoped against it ever happening. It would have been nothing big to most folks, just a little disagreement, where one of the men on his shift had made a wise crack about him being a brown-noser. Shane had tried to take the comment in a friendly manner, and had even responded jokingly that the guy was full of s**t.

This brought about an angry response from his coworker. “You act as though you own stock in this company or something. You’re the shift foreman’s personal little shadow!”

The entire confrontation lasted only a few minutes. His coworker was over his expletive venting of personal frustration, and within a short while, to him, the whole episode seemed quite trivial. He knew Shane wasn’t really a brown-noser, but with Shane working as though he were killing snakes, it caused everyone else on the shift to look bad unless they also picked up the pace …

____________

… Several days later, Shane was still upset, living out in his mind the disagreement with his coworker. Having taken every word to heart, he felt that this must be what all his coworkers thought of him. He had gnawed upon it night and day, like a dog with a bone, since it had happened. He could think of nothing else. Common sense told him to let it go, but he simply could not get it out of his mind. It might take a few more days, or another week, before his mind would be able to turn it loose. After all: Just because you're paranoid, does not mean that someone is not out to get you. A little paranoia can be a good thing -- at the right time.

If not, like a stuck record, he would keep playing the entire scenario through his mind over and over again -- dissecting it piece by piece, word by word, motive by motive -- in beating a dead horse until in the end he simply wouldn’t be able to think or care anymore. It would be time to crawl in the car with his mom and step dad and move on to a fresh start where things would be new and without problems, without worries, at least for a while.

As men peer out through the bars of their prison cells, to have it sink in at last that there is no escape, he knew in his heart of hearts that this could not be. There would be no car packed full of belongings, no parents moving once again, because death had finally conquered their moving ways -- but not his.

Employment wise, he was traveling a mountainous road with its precipice a dead end, the road he traveled much too narrow to turn around and much too hazardous to back down, with the warning sign ahead an ominous foreboding of the deadly depths below ...

Trapped!

This feeling had always caused Shane tremendous mental duress, to the point of melt down. Something had to give, because his mind had already entered the process of melt down -- having reached critical mass -- months ago. The circuit breaker within his mind, carrying the high amperage current of all his pent up worries, was ready to trip, and he knew that when that happened he would cease, entirely, caring about anything or anybody, as his mental survival instincts took over. Surviving to Shane meant moving, moving away from anything or anybody that caused him this unbearable anguish.

Before he had swallowed his pride, facing the truth, and admitting to himself that he needed psychological help, booze, drugs, or both had been his avenue of escaping the impending threat of mental meltdown. With medication over time, he had calmed the desire to use alcohol or drugs to treat his symptoms, but no prescription drug is without side effects and his medications seemed to leave him empty, dead, and emotionless inside. Outwardly, he gave those who wished to believe he was well that appearance, but inwardly the raging machine of worry continued to fester. Pills treat symptoms, but they do not have the power to heal the mind. Shane had given up praying for that. He had given up praying at all ...

His only solace was playing his game. It had become an addiction, a frightening rush that set him free from the storm brewing in his mind, if only for a short while. If you play a game long enough, one day the game will beat you. Shame’s Game had evolved into a new, more terrifying edition. Shane knew it was The Final Solution. Sure, to let things go this far was ridiculous, against everything that he believed, and absolute shear madness, but someone had once said, “fatigue makes cowards of us all”. Fatigue had wrung Shane out like an old dishrag, and hung him over the sink of tears to dry -- leaving him fixated upon his own pain, unable to think of family or friends ...

A few days more went by, and his coworkers knew something was wrong. They really enjoyed giving Shane a hard time. He usually made them all bust a hump to keep up with his work pace, but now he was not the same. His interest in his work seemed to have suddenly vanished. At lunch breaks, he would go off alone and eat his meal. No longer was he a threat to his coworkers. They did not have to worry about him making them all look bad or work harder. Something else, he had stopped talking. One of the guys had even commented to the others, wondering if he was doing drugs again or back on the booze. Though they would never tell him so, they had come to respect his work ethic. He made them jealous all right, but it was a good jealous that made them better, harder workers. Recently, the plant manager had complimented their shift for its increased productivity. Now he was letting them down. They did not know whether to be concerned, or angry. Their feelings were a mixture of both.

A calmness poured over him as the hurricane raging within quieted with the approaching eye of the storm -- madness waited for him there. It had to be madness, what he was about to do, it must be. Shame’s Game had now become Shane’s master and the fantasy begun as a game now viciously attacked and annihilated all opposition to its ultimate mission -- “Resistance is futile”. Possessed by his own creation, he finished his lunch and returned to his production duties.

Within the Aluminum Recycling Industry, part of the process of recycling aluminum involves melting the scrap to be recycled in large furnaces or kilns. There are different types of furnaces used in Recycling plants, such as Reverb, Rotary, and Holding. Shane’s plant had one of each. A Rotary furnace resembles a Ready-Mix Cement truck without the truck attached. It rotates and mixes as it melts the scrap in the same fashion that a Ready-Mix truck thoroughly mixes its load of cement. A Reverb furnace is a box shaped furnace with a door-enclosed opening on one end for scrap loading purposes and a door-enclosed opening on one side for the removal of impurities, called dross, which float to the surface of the scrap aluminum when it reaches its molten state. A Holding furnace is simply what its name implies, a furnace used specifically to hold readied molten aluminum at the proper temperature for casting.

One of Shane’s duties involved removing the dross from the surface of the molten aluminum in the Reverb furnace. This task required the aid of a forklift with a special tool -- called a Dross Rake -- attached to the forklift's carriage. The past few weeks he had not given his all to this task, but tonight was a special night and, after opening the Reverb door, he skimmed the surface of the molten aluminum immaculately, dragging it off and into the dross buckets which were set in front of the Reverb furnace door.

Aluminum has a melting temperature of 1218 degrees. When the temperature reaches 1380 degrees it is ready to pour up into molds and cast into, what the recycling business calls, sows and ingots. Upon reaching this optimum temperature, it is no longer the innocent cool looking silver metal used to manufacture your kitchen pots and pans. At this point, it has taken on a life of its own, having absorbed all the energies pumped into it by the furnace fires. On this night, it ever so seductively beckoned to Shane with its silvery-red-glistening appearance -- shimmering before him … A Pandora’s Box of evil in its purest form -- one hundred thousand pounds of pure molten evil.

Normally, when finishing this task, he would close the Reverb door and park the forklift with the rake resting upon the plant floor, while going about his other duties. This was not a normal night. Resting the rake upon the dross bucket in front of the Reverb door with the forklift engine continuing to run, Shane stepped from the operator’s seat, around the side of the forklift mast and up, onto the forks and the rear section of the rake.

For a brief moment he stood there, gazing at the cavernous opening of the furnace with its natural gas fueled fires of hell blazing within its mouth. While he removed his heat resistant jacket, he could see the molten aluminum there, waiting, churning, inviting him for a swim.

All was quiet within his mind. When had that happened last? He had no memory of it. What do zombies remember anyway? He could have easily passed for one of the zombies in the old black and white movie, Night of the Living Dead. As he began his first steps towards The Final Solution of Shame’s Game⁴, he never recalled the steps he took walking the eight-inch pipe of the rake and the distance between the forklift and the opening of the Reverb door …

He had never really learned to swim, having always been afraid of water. Strange things can go through a man’s mind when he is about to die, and this thought brought a smile to Shane’s face as he dove headfirst into the inviting waters of the molten aluminum waiting there to engulf him. His clothes had begun to smolder and catch fire only seconds before he jumped, though he had never noticed, his face beginning to blister before he ever entered the molten abyss -- a swim to remember. An old commercial from his childhood played in his mind -- “Take the Nestea plunge” …

… Over the ages, fantasies received their illusionary name because of their alluring and elusive nature, because if, and when, they come true they are never quite what you expected, never able to deliver the happiness your imagination has promised, as the honey you have longed to taste turns to gravel in your mouth. In reality, fantasies tend to be merely well dressed lies decorated by the lavishness of your own mind -- as it was, also, with this fantasy. Shane had fantasized that death would come instantly. He was not far from wrong. He was leaving this world to escape the unbearable pain.

For that brief moment while his eyes burned from their sockets, his face frying like bacon, he felt as if all the pain and misery in the universe had washed over him -- engulfing him in its sweet caress -- followed by nothingness as his brain came to a boil, quickly roasting inside his skull. Molten aluminum now raced down his throat, and into his lungs and esophagus -- cooking him thoroughly from within while the rest of his body received the same overwhelming warmth without.

In a short time there would be nothing left of him but bones, perhaps. Given enough time, there might be nothing left at all. This had been his last wish: To disappear without a trace; his coworkers -- after noticing him missing and closing the Reverb door -- assuming that he had walked off the job and quit. Curses would fill the air, because they had to finish the night short handed …

____________

… While the molten aluminum popped and sizzled, continuing to cremate his body, Shane suddenly realized that he could hear a voice calling softly in the distance, “Shane, Shane Lipinski.”

____________

When he awoke, he sat there for a moment, very still, before taking a deep breath. He could smell the over powering scent of the chlorine used to draw the impurities out of the molten aluminum and, something else, something nauseatingly repulsive. It was faint, but it was there, the aroma of burning flesh -- his flesh.

Tears had begun to stream down his face long before he ever opened his eyes, as he realized that this had all been only a dream, not an irreversible reality. He had simply dozed off while awaiting his monthly MHMR appointment, dozed off while playing Shame’s Game, a game that had become virtual reality. The ending sucked. He knew. He had just been there, only moments ago. Never again!

As the MHMR nurse called out his name once more, he stood up and, as he did so he, inadvertently looked into the eyes of Bill, his monthly waiting room enemy. Tears were streaming down Bill Payne’s face, as well. Shane had not been the only one napping, nor had he been the only one taking, “The Nestea plunge.” A man shanghaied travels where his captor leads. Having completed his journey, the angry stare had melted from Bill’s face, and an incredulous look of contrite humility had taken its place while they looked into each others eyes, the question marks there communicating to them both the impossibility of what they each knew had happened. Could it be, they had both had the same dream? The stench, which wafted and intermingled unpleasantly within their nostrils, answered that unspoken question.

“Would you like to have a cup of coffee some time,” Bill shakily offered as they stood there, each drinking in what had just transpired. “Perhaps, we have more in common than we thought.”

Choking back tears of relief, Shane put his hand out for Bill to shake, answering, “Sure, why not”.

As their hands joined, a friendship kindled. Healing began to flow, repairing old wounds, old worries, things inherited and things acquired, as the years of anger and frustration which had imprisoned them both was banished to its rightful place of perdition. It was not anything you could see with the naked eye, but it was there, deep within the hearts and minds of two men who had reasoned within themselves that they had nothing in common except, perhaps, unanswered prayers.

Promising to meet with Bill for coffee early the next morning, Shane slowly followed his MHMR nurse from the waiting room and down the hall to his appointment.

“Are you all right?,” she asked.

Tears continuing to flow he stopped and, turning to face her, replied, “Lady, I’ve never felt better in my life ...”

… Pondering upon what had happened, Bill -- struck with a sudden idea -- approached the receptionist and asked to reschedule his appointment with his dentist for another day. He had decided to venture out to the cemetery and visit his father who rested there.

Bill’s Dad had suffered from Mental Illness, committing suicide when he was but a small boy. He had harbored bitterness and anger towards his Dad, or anyone claiming to be mentally ill, since his fathers’ passing. He had prayed for understanding, more times than he could remember, as to how anyone could do what his father had done, but the answers had never come, until today -- only a dream ago.

A nightmare he would forever remember had brought him peace and understanding, and had delivered him from the eventuality of following in the same path as his father, ending up in his fathers’ shoes, while Bill had just spent a little time walking in the shoes of madness …

____________

… The sky over the lazy small-town rumbled that day without a cloud in sight as the true Creator of all that is and will ever be chuckled at those creatures who accused Him of never answering prayers. The sky rumbled once more with His chuckle fading into the distance, while He returned to creating new galaxies and solar systems upon the canvas of the Universe, having taken a momentary break from His labors, in this galactic neck of the woods, to enjoy His favorite pastime of a few rounds of golf. It was a good day. He was pleased in having made it, finishing up well under par by skillfully putting a few uninhabitable planets into black holes, and having set a couple of mistaken men straight on Who and What He was. He seldom interfered in the affairs of Man. Doing so was not His style. And, He often frowned upon Man's invention of religion. But golf? What a splendid game!

(Written January 12^th, 2006)

Walking In the Shoes of Madness

A Thomas C. Flynn Story

Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

Madmen inhabit the earth in significant numbers, though their presence rarely noted unless, of course, they are famous for vile acts of murder or mayhem. Otherwise, the average madman himself is seldom, if ever, seen. He may reside among us in the same community; sometimes working at the same job; perhaps even living next door. We, in our higher plane of cordial bliss, assume they are all locked up securely somewhere out of sight … Out of mind. It is we who choose to not see them. They are invisible because we have cloaked them with invisibility, sweeping them beneath the carpet of our consciences as one kindly covers the dead �" not so much for the sake of the dead, but for the sake of those forced to look upon them.

____________

Let us now meet our Klingon friend, who lives his life hidden behind the cloaking device we have bestowed upon him. His invisibility has rendered him what’s his face or what’s his name to most. Even to those he considers his friends, those who actually know his name, he has always been a bit odd, but they have been impressed over the years �" perhaps with a pinch of jealousy �" with his talents and abilities, and a confidence which, to them, bordered on arrogance. They could not help but take note that he fanatically gave his all to his every endeavor and, despite those who might secretly hate him for it, reaped success. Shane Lipinski exhibited all the appearances of a man having his life together, his ducks all in a row.

He had always changed jobs quite frequently over the years. Though that had come to be considered a no-no in today’s society, to his friends it seemed that he was focusing on what was truly important in life �" that being money �" and with each job change came an increase in income for their job wandering friend. Whenever it might look as if he had reached the end of his employment rope, low and behold, he would always land a job better than the last.

One day, he did not land that new job … An undeniable sign that something had changed …

Unknown to them he had been desperately pushing a very large boulder up an ever increasingly steep hill for these many years. Appearing to be audacious and conquering the world to those outside, inside he had been growing weary for quite some time and the boulder of success had long since begun to roll back down the hill upon him �" overtaking him for all his friends to see and, of course, the small-town in which he lived. As the scent of blood coursing through the sea will draw sharks for miles around, or the smell of blood in the air draws wolves, the vultures of a small community gather hungrily with ravenous eyes to feed impatiently upon those who have fallen maimed or crippled. Gossip is their feast and they feed well upon it reveling in its filth �" proud of their catch and greedy for more. Keenly they sense death is near and await its every throe. Let the feeding frenzy begin! The most energetic of vultures are, of course, always those you believe to be your friends ...

In today’s modern terminology, he was dysfunctional �" the byproduct of a dysfunctional family. The many ingredients which had contributed to the molding effects of his environment, had begun with the divorce of his parents when he was but a toddler �" they, themselves, dysfunctional offspring of dysfunctional families. Both parents having remarried to different people, he had been raised from the age of three by his mom and step dad �" another dysfunctional soul as like attracts like �" who had spent their years together fussing and fighting, with numerous separations, near divorces, and moving �" always moving. Always moving always meant a change in schools, a change in friends.

Change had been a certainty in his life; lurking within the shadows of any semblance of stability. At one time he could recall thirty-three different addresses �" various rent houses and stays with relatives �" he and his parents had lived at from the time he was three or four years old, until he was eighteen. Now time had erased much of this memory, with only twenty-three

remaining addresses he could honestly jot down. It had never entered his mind that some of this might rub off on him; maybe affect him in later years. Much like the road noise that you continued to hear in your ears long after arriving from a trip back in the days when cars and pickups were not quite so well insulated, it seemed, though his childhood days were over, he was still in the process of moving with his parents deep within the recesses of his mind.

Redundancy had quickly become repetitive in nature, as the small-town vultures viciously strewed the tasty morsels of their victim to the four winds of the community. Working odd jobs when and where he could, he found that having worked hard all his life �" when tallying in all the frequent job changes �" now was equated with not having worked at all. It struck him as extremely cruel that the business world of today set a higher value on lazy clock watching unmotivated-employees, whose only attribute was showing up regularly for a paycheck for five to ten years, over someone who would seek to profit their employer with honest, self-motivated, hard work. Truly, America had changed, and the days of the much-appreciated drifting worker had long since passed. He had not been in one place long enough to notice. He was still moving �" living helplessly in the past.

If you factored in the whispered words mentally ill, or MHMR, now you had a whole 'nother ball game. Pour in the magic ingredients of self-medication with alcohol or drugs, as is common with many mental illnesses, and that will set the vultures of any small-town, anywhere, at the very pinnacle of ecstasy �" within a hairsbreadth of loosing their own minds from the sheer pleasure of savoring each, and every luscious, deliciously marinated and seasoned, beak full.

Of course, his vulturous friends eagerly desired to give him their kingly advice in seizing the moment of realizing he was now at the lowest point in his life �" pummeling advice that someone never having experienced blindness might insensitively offer to a blind man without possessing the slightest inkling of the very real reality of living in a world of total darkness, all the while pecking and scratching for newer, juicier, information as the chickens in any pen will peck at another if it has but a speck of blood on its feathers; pecking away at the sight of blood until the unfortunate fowl drops dead in its tracks; a gaping hole eaten into its body.

It was only a game, or so he told himself, simply innocent fantasies of imagining ever newer and diverse ways of doing himself in¹ �" a sweet repose from his war of worries. He knew somewhere deep inside, that this fixation with dying had its beginnings long ago and its roots in never being able to grasp or hold onto happiness. Happiness was elusive �" always out of his reach. Each new job, new hobby, or new habit in his life had always been an attempt at being happy. Others found happiness, but not him. He had thought that he had found it a few times, but something within him would rise up and push the happiness away as if to say, “This is something you can’t keep … It’s time to move on.” When Groundhog Day came out at theaters, he felt as if he had already lived the movie for much of his life, and he was tired �" so very tired.

____________

Shane had seriously begun to wonder if religion and its various renditions of God were just some sick joke played upon those gullible enough to be duped into believing a bunch of magical fairy-tales and ritual observances �" that, coincidentally, always tended to lighten one's pocketbook. Why would God need money? What did money have to do with worship, except that men do tend to worship money? Perhaps, religion's leaders needed money and giving to God was just a clever front used to fleece the sheep.

So, who really did create the Universe? Who, exactly, was responsible for Shane's existence, miserable as it had become? There had to be a true Creator out there some where �" there had to be! And so, Shane sought that true Creator in fervent prayer. For lack of a better term, he continued to call him God.

Obviously there had to be a Creator, of some kind, or else there would be no existence, but where was the true evidence of a personal �" one on one �" God? And why did He seem to be angry more often than happy? It seemed that happiness eluded even God. If true, then, Shane knew he didn't have a chance in hell of ever finding happiness �" or so it seemed ...

____________

“Life's a b***h and, then, you die �" not near soon enough!,” had become Shane's motto.

Patients are people, though not always treated as such, and people in general are not stupid. On the contrary, given time, even the dumbest of us would take notice of which nurses or employees work for which doctors, after all it is human nature �" worse still, it is the vulturous nature. While all eyes watched attentively, the nice lady �" who so obviously worked for MHMR �" would come to the doorway and call your name, and bingo: Everyone instantly knew you were an MHMR patient. From that time forward, you were not looked upon quite the same. You were sinfully, nakedly, visible. Normal folks now saw you whether they desired to or not, and not was what they desired. Privacy had become an idiot’s illusion. If you believed it, that in itself was evidence you were mentally deranged.

One fellow in particular, as chance or karma would have it, always seemed to be there when Shane made his monthly visit; always staring with an angry look of disgust. This fellow, Bill Payne he had heard his name called, would get up from his seat and move as far away from him or other MHMR patients as possible �" increasing the discomfort level in the air immensely by the very act of doing so.

Shane felt he was paying for his sins �" paying for the hateful and selfish way in which he had treated his own mother �" and obviously, to him, God was sending Bill to punish him for his wickedness. How long would he have to pay? He knew he deserved forever �" and then some.

It was on his next visit, as he was asked about his spiritual life, that he learned one of the many symptoms of his disorder was termed as: Religious connotations³. Even in his desire to be a good man, he was doomed to be consistently inconsistent, because his religious zeal was simply a product of his cycles of mania �" a delusion of his elevated state of psychosis. This new knowledge literally took all the wind of hope out of his sails. Never had it entered his mind that part of his psychosis was due to years of ingrained mental conditioning by the sorcerers of religion. While his logical mind had concluded man's organized religion as bullshit, his emotions continued to be ruled by the very false hope, guilt laden, lies he sought to be free of, while recognizing that some one or some thing had to have created all of existence. Regardless, Shane's life had never looked so bleak …

____________

As a few more months went by, the picturesque atmosphere at work began to darken, with storm clouds gathering. It was happening again. Shane could see the cycle was about to repeat itself … Not so much the cycle, but him �" always him �" always moving. It always started with the manner in which he fanatically gave his all to everything he did. Sooner or later, those you work with will begin to resent your well intended efforts beyond the call of duty, especially if it falls into the category of being beyond what they themselves are willing to contribute for the good of the company.

More times than he could remember, it seemed he could always count on at least one individual to, eventually, develop a nasty hatred or resentment of him. This had been Shane’s life since grade school. Every year, and in each new school he had attended, there would always be that divinely designated person whose assignment for the entirety of the school year was to make Shane Lipinski’s life miserable. Perniciously singling Shane out, he would relentlessly hound him without mercy. Being the new kid in town was not all it was cracked up to be. The new kid does not belong. From the first breath, some children are often born with the propensity for being the cruelest of creatures. The new kid always seemed to bring this latent talent to the surface as though one were awakening a sleeping bear. Being the new kid on a continual basis fed his acquired appetite for worry �" truly his worst enemy. He was beginning to get that old familiar feeling once again. It usually triggered the move.

No one could possibly be a harsher critic of Shane, than Shane himself was. This was the great unknown driving his self-motivation in all he did to the maximum degree of extreme, expecting nothing less than perfection from himself. Criticism from others rang forth in his ears and dampened his heart as crescendos demanding �" “More power Scotty, I need more power” �" far and beyond the utmost all he was already giving in his attempts at perfection, at happiness, and at pleasing others �" his overloaded warp engines already pushing him at full velocity. Their well intended criticisms served as a powerful magnifying glass, focusing ever so sharply and crisply on every detail of Shane’s unattainable goal, destroying his beleaguered confidence in himself and his need to be a valuable employee to any company he worked for. There had been times in the past when he had outright quit jobs, because he, himself, did not feel he was doing his best at his position.

____________

This brought about an angry response from his coworker. “You act as though you own stock in this company or something. You’re the shift foreman’s personal little shadow!”

____________

If not, like a stuck record, he would keep playing the entire scenario through his mind over and over again �" dissecting it piece by piece, word by word, motive by motive �" in beating a dead horse until in the end he simply wouldn’t be able to think or care anymore. It would be time to crawl in the car with his mom and step dad and move on to a fresh start where things would be new and without problems, without worries, at least for a while.

Trapped!

This feeling had always caused Shane tremendous mental duress, to the point of melt down. Something had to give, because his mind had already entered the process of melt down �" having reached critical mass �" months ago. The circuit breaker within his mind, carrying the high amperage current of all his pent up worries, was ready to trip, and he knew that when that happened he would cease, entirely, caring about anything or anybody, as his mental survival instincts took over. Surviving to Shane meant moving, moving away from anything or anybody that caused him this unbearable anguish.

His only solace was playing his game. It had become an addiction, a frightening rush that set him free from the storm brewing in his mind, if only for a short while. If you play a game long enough, one day the game will beat you. Shame’s Game had evolved into a new, more terrifying edition. Shane knew it was The Final Solution. Sure, to let things go this far was ridiculous, against everything that he believed, and absolute shear madness, but someone had once said, “fatigue makes cowards of us all”. Fatigue had wrung Shane out like an old dishrag, and hung him over the sink of tears to dry �" leaving him fixated upon his own pain, unable to think of family or friends ...

A calmness poured over him as the hurricane raging within quieted with the approaching eye of the storm �" madness waited for him there. It had to be madness, what he was about to do, it must be. Shame’s Game had now become Shane’s master and the fantasy begun as a game now viciously attacked and annihilated all opposition to its ultimate mission �" “Resistance is futile”. Possessed by his own creation, he finished his lunch and returned to his production duties.

One of Shane’s duties involved removing the dross from the surface of the molten aluminum in the Reverb furnace. This task required the aid of a forklift with a special tool �" called a Dross Rake �" attached to the forklift's carriage. The past few weeks he had not given his all to this task, but tonight was a special night and, after opening the Reverb door, he skimmed the surface of the molten aluminum immaculately, dragging it off and into the dross buckets which were set in front of the Reverb furnace door.

Aluminum has a melting temperature of 1218 degrees. When the temperature reaches 1380 degrees it is ready to pour up into molds and cast into, what the recycling business calls, sows and ingots. Upon reaching this optimum temperature, it is no longer the innocent cool looking silver metal used to manufacture your kitchen pots and pans. At this point, it has taken on a life of its own, having absorbed all the energies pumped into it by the furnace fires. On this night, it ever so seductively beckoned to Shane with its silvery-red-glistening appearance �" shimmering before him … A Pandora’s Box of evil in its purest form �" one hundred thousand pounds of pure molten evil.

He had never really learned to swim, having always been afraid of water. Strange things can go through a man’s mind when he is about to die, and this thought brought a smile to Shane’s face as he dove headfirst into the inviting waters of the molten aluminum waiting there to engulf him. His clothes had begun to smolder and catch fire only seconds before he jumped, though he had never noticed, his face beginning to blister before he ever entered the molten abyss �" a swim to remember. An old commercial from his childhood played in his mind �" “Take the Nestea plunge” …

… Over the ages, fantasies received their illusionary name because of their alluring and elusive nature, because if, and when, they come true they are never quite what you expected, never able to deliver the happiness your imagination has promised, as the honey you have longed to taste turns to gravel in your mouth. In reality, fantasies tend to be merely well dressed lies decorated by the lavishness of your own mind �" as it was, also, with this fantasy. Shane had fantasized that death would come instantly. He was not far from wrong. He was leaving this world to escape the unbearable pain.

For that brief moment while his eyes burned from their sockets, his face frying like bacon, he felt as if all the pain and misery in the universe had washed over him �" engulfing him in its sweet caress �" followed by nothingness as his brain came to a boil, quickly roasting inside his skull. Molten aluminum now raced down his throat, and into his lungs and esophagus �" cooking him thoroughly from within while the rest of his body received the same overwhelming warmth without.

In a short time there would be nothing left of him but bones, perhaps. Given enough time, there might be nothing left at all. This had been his last wish: To disappear without a trace; his coworkers �" after noticing him missing and closing the Reverb door �" assuming that he had walked off the job and quit. Curses would fill the air, because they had to finish the night short handed …

____________

… While the molten aluminum popped and sizzled, continuing to cremate his body, Shane suddenly realized that he could hear a voice calling softly in the distance, “Shane, Shane Lipinski.”

____________

“Would you like to have a cup of coffee some time,” Bill shakily offered as they stood there, each drinking in what had just transpired. “Perhaps, we have more in common than we thought.”

Choking back tears of relief, Shane put his hand out for Bill to shake, answering, “Sure, why not”.

Promising to meet with Bill for coffee early the next morning, Shane slowly followed his MHMR nurse from the waiting room and down the hall to his appointment.

“Are you all right?,” she asked.

Tears continuing to flow he stopped and, turning to face her, replied, “Lady, I’ve never felt better in my life ...”

… Pondering upon what had happened, Bill �" struck with a sudden idea �" approached the receptionist and asked to reschedule his appointment with his dentist for another day. He had decided to venture out to the cemetery and visit his father who rested there.

____________

(Written January 12^th, 2006)

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shoesinquiry

Very nice information about Walking In the Shoes of Madness

Posted 1 Year Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

1 Year Ago

Thank you ... This tale is part of my story compilation book, titled, When Nightmares Rule & Other R.. read more

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Added on August 17, 2023
Last Updated on August 17, 2023
Tags: Philosophy, Human-Interest-Story, Dark-Story, Suicidal-Ideations, Suicide, Organized-Religion, Thriller

Author

Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

Smalltown, TX

About

“Hello! Welcome to my profile page. As a Creative Writer, I pen a variety of material that ranges from piss poor attempts at Poetry, to morbidly Dark Fiction, to investigative, in depth, re.. more..