Snake Eyes

SNAKE EYES

“A drowning man does not die silently.” - Sin City, Meredith Brooks

MAY 5, 1953

My name is James Barnes. I’m 35. Married to the love of my life, Kitty. I work for the FBI. Well, I used to. I’m sick, but I’m going to get better. At least, that’s what everyone keeps telling me. I want to believe them, even though I don’t think I’m sick. But what do I know? I’m a lecturer, not a doctor.

Dr. Underwood told me keeping a journal would help me track my progress. So here I am. I guess I should tell you why I’m here.

I’m a pervert. For over a year, I engaged in a perverted, sexual relationship with my neighbor, Fedor. He was everything Kitty couldn’t give me. I felt alive when I was with him, but it was wrong, even though I never felt like it. He even gave me a ring, told me he loved me. I said it back because I meant it. My dad had a cabin all the way down in Louisiana. We stayed there for a weekend and I always dreamt of going back.

One day, we weren’t careful. He called me when I was at work, called me his “dear Jim” or something like that. After that, I received a notice of the Executive Order 10450 on my desk, and soon the people I spent every day at work with were interrogating me, accusing me of being a homosexual. Fedor’s from Lithuania or Russia, so he’s already gotten s**t from the feds.

Fedor told me we could run, start over. I was too considerate to leave Kitty.

I lost my job and my bosses were quick to tell her why.

Then I was taken here. I don’t remember who chose to come--me, Kitty, or the feds.

They took my wedding ring, Fedor’s ring. I haven’t seen anyone or heard from anyone in weeks. I write letters but I think they hold my mail.

“Isolation is better for treatment,” they say. I believe it.

I’m a pervert.

And I’m going to get better.

MAY 14, 1953

They moved me from emergency care to solitary. Because of my illness, they think I’m a threat to others--that I might make them homosexual too. My perversion is contagious. I could hurt them.

I don’t see much of Dr. Underwood. I don’t really see much of anyone, besides the person who comes to give me my medicine every day. Her nametag says Daisy. She tells me my pills are hormones to make me more of a man. I don’t know if I believe it.

I want to believe my treatment is working. I want to. But nothing’s really happened yet--I feel more like I’ve just been shoved into a dungeon to keep me away from society rather than to help me. No one’s allowed to visit me or correspond with me--“to help with my treatment,” they say.

I have a few books in here and an American flag. There’s felt-tip pens and soft paper. That’s it, though. Nothing else. It gets boring.

I miss Kitty. Maybe I’m not in love with her, but she was one of the only constants in my life. When we met in college, we instantly became close. She was so smart and beautiful.

Maybe I’m not in love with her, but I love her. I love the child--our child--that’s inside of her.

I can’t help but think of Fedor. He told me once that he came to America on a school visa, right off the boat from Lithuania. Some of his family died when the Soviets took over, but he never told me how. I never really asked. But they investigated him a lot, wired his phone. Even though he hates the Soviet Union, hates Communism, they still think he is one. He’s so much more than that, than what they think.

We used to go out to that little cabin on the weekends, spend the whole together, never sleeping. Not wanting to sleep, because we wanted to be with each other until we couldn’t anymore. He was always good at cooking and baking and tried to teach me how to cook something besides cajun and gumbo. I was never good for much else besides fixing boat motors, but he liked that. He liked me.

We had our moments of forever, but they weren’t enough.

Maybe in another lifetime.

JUNE 1, 1953

I haven’t been able to write in awhile because I’ve been so sick. They tell me it’s a side effect of my treatment.

Basically, they showed me pictures of men and kept flushing medicine into my system to make me sick. I kept puking. They hope that the reaction will become instinct, and that whenever I see an attractive man, I’ll get nauseous. It’s called aversion therapy.

All it’s been doing is making me sick all the time. Nothing else.

I still think about Feor. I still think about him in the early light of dawn on the rare mornings we got to spend together, tangled in simple white sheets. I still think about his fancy suits and polo shirts, his kitchen when he cooks extravagant Eastern European recipes I’ve never heard of before. I still think about the way he tastes like salt and smells like expensive aftershave and sounds like velvet.

And, when I think about Feor, I start to wonder if I’m really sick at all.

JUNE 7, 1953

Am I sick?

Am I crazy?

All this alone time with me and my puke bucket gets me thinking. I have no windows, so I can’t see outside. I don’t talk to anyone besides my doctors and Daisy, who doesn’t make good conversation at all. There’s only so many times I can read anti-masturbation guides without wanting to shoot my f*****g head off.

I’ve always loved to read, though. But I’ve always been attracted to all the bad stuff--the stuff that was banned from my church, from school. Hemingway, Steinback, Twain. I received quite a few strikes when I was in sixth grade for the copy of The Jungle found in my bag.

Those were the days.

But Feor used to read to me, too. He has such a great voice. It doesn’t matter what he reads, I’m into it.

I dream of him reading to me sometimes. Sometimes I imagine him here. It makes it easier.

I haven’t gotten any calls or mail, though. They’re telling me no one’s trying to reach out to me now, despite my letters.

They’re either lying, or I’m that f*****g insignificant.

JUNE 10, 1953

Dr. Underwood told me that he’s going to have to resort to a more radical treatment for my disease because the therapy isn’t working.

I hear the rumors. I know what happens. I told him I didn’t want it, that I wanted to get out of here, but he showed me some document with my signature on it. I never signed anything. He said he’ll give it another week, but if it continues to show no results, then I’ll have to go through with the surgery.

I never wanted this. I only wanted to be normal. I only wanted to get better.

There is no getting better because I’m not sick.

JUNE 16, 1953

It’s been almost a week. I still have impure thoughts. I’m still a pervert.

Does anyone even notice I’m gone? Does anyone care?

Feor told me not to forget him before I left. I’m starting to think it’ll be easier that way.

JUNE 17, 1953

My name is James Barnes. I’m 35. I’m a prisoner at the Atascadero State Hospital. I’m in love with a man named Feor. I don’t give a f**k if I’m a pervert for it, if I’m a homosexual, if I’m sick. I don’t f*****g care anymore. It doesn’t matter what the pamphlets say, what J. Edgar Hoover says, what Ike f*****g Eisenhower says.

Nothing that anyone says matters.

And I won’t forget.

SEPTEMBER 23, 1953

I’m cured.

Author's Note

I would love feedback of any sort. Constructive criticism is welcomed and even encouraged. Also, this was posted via my iPhone, so please ignore any glaring format errors.