Author: David Scott
Date: 2018-04-29 04:00:00+00:00

My Murderous Mind

The sun shines brightly through an unreachable window set high up in the pitched ceiling of my prison cell.

I angle myself on the bed so that the focal point catches my face and gently warms my cheeks.

With my eyes closed, I watch a kaleidoscope of dancing colours; oranges and reds twirling together and blurring into one.

It reminds me of when I was young.  I would bask in the sun with my heavy, ginger cat on my chest.  I worried that she was trying to steal my breath, as I once heard cats like to do.  My beloved predator watching and waiting; hypnotising me with her lullaby purrs.

My body relaxes fully in a sort of lethargic trance.  I drift in and out of sleep.

I recall a terrible beauty of blood spatter behind a breathless body with mannequin eyes.

It fills me with dread.  I feel as though my heart is pumping squid ink through my veins and transforming me into some sort of feared creature.

In this moment, I know myself.  I know all of the bad I have done, the people I have killed and hurt, and why I am deservedly imprisoned.

The past comes and goes.  It torments me over and over again.  Soon it will go forever and I will be released from the pains of my past.

Each memory hides away, getting smaller and smaller, as though trapped in some kind of Russian doll, before suddenly revealing itself to shock and appal me.

My mind will also murder everyone I have ever known or loved.  Dementia will have its way and leave me empty.  It is the worst demon I can imagine.

The State must want to kill me soon to avoid the moral dilemma of executing a man who has no recollection of who he is, let alone what he has done.  I suspect the prescient executioner is now so close that she could be standing on my shadow.

A small beetle busily scuttles across the cold concrete floor.  It is a welcome distraction.  I get up and gently lift it to a safer place, away from feckless footfall.  My mind calms.

I look around the white-walled room.  I wonder what I am doing here.  It is unrecognisable to me, as are so many things.

I scratch my face.  I feel long bristle, dry flaky skin and sunken eyes.  I don’t recognise the touch of my face, yet I know it must be mine.  I look at my arms, thin with saggy skin covered with the moles and blemishes of old age.  I have no weight on my body.  My bones reveal themselves and press for release.

It is as though I have been put on fast-forward to old age; a worn scabbard sheaving my young soul.  Yet there is familiarity.

I shuffle around the room to a shelf where there are two books. One is the Bible and the other is “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”.  The latter has many turned down pages, but I don’t recall it.  I read a few passages and fold another corner.

I decide to go out for a walk.  It seems like a nice day and I need to get out of this dreary room.

I move to the sink.  I run the tap and wet my thinning hair, using my fingers as a comb to provide a semblance of style.  I only have over-sized orange pyjamas on and can’t see anything else in the room to wear.

I pull on the door and it does not move.  I try again, harder this time, and start to feel panic rising up within me.  I am locked in.  What is going on?  Why can’t I get out?  I shout out.  There is no answer.  I call again, louder, repeatedly, but there is no response.

Why am I being held captive?  Am I being detained for the pleasure of some sadist kidnapper or is the door simply jammed shut?  I have no idea and no recollection of how I got here.

Sitting on the bed, I close my eyes and try to remember how to stay calm.  I breathe deeply through my nose and concentrate on the air filling my lungs, making me fat, and then rushing out to escape, leaving me deflated and desperate for more.

I remember learning this technique in therapy sessions.  I couldn’t cope when I was young and needed professional help.

I remember sitting facing a wall and hitting my forehead against it until I would bleed.  I would take my father’s Stanley knife and make little pin-prick piercings in my skin to feel some sort of release.  I would repeat words and actions a set number of times, convinced that if I didn’t do it, something really bad would happen.

While therapy didn’t cure me, it did at least teach me coping techniques (as the sterile professionals called them) to find peace of mind and tame the lion roaring within.

My father worked the oil rigs and so would often be called away to keep watch over the fiery tars in some artificial construct in an otherwise barren land.  Not that the places he mentioned meant anything to me, other than he was not at home.

I used to stand watch at the front door window for hours, waiting for him to come home.  He was always late and I used to get desperately upset, believing something really bad had happened to him; that he wouldn’t be coming back.

Maybe the deep drills or pendulum motions of the rusted equipment had carved him up, or he had choked to death from thirst in the desert sun, or worse.  I stared out unflinchingly, hearing every portent ticking of the nearby clock.

The intense relief I felt when I saw him on the horizon was overwhelming.  I used to hug his legs with all of my might, hoping to ground him on the spot, so that he could never leave me again.  But he always did.

My father was a decent enough man, but his job exhausted him both physically and mentally.

I see his crumpled frame now; asleep on our big, brown leather couch.  I would curl up next to him and just lie there.  I would try to rest his arm or leg over me and just stay very still.  I used to go into some sort of stasis; even if I was too hot, itchy, or restless, I would not move.

On the rare occasion my father could muster up the energy to play with me, it would always involve a competitive sport, in which my adolescence would prove an impossible handicap to overcome.  He hated losing and did not believe in letting me win.

When we went swimming he would talk to other people and play with their children; I drifted alongside like an embarrassing inflatable.  I would try to get his attention, by doing an underwater roll, or a perfectly straight handstand.  He wouldn’t acknowledge my efforts, unless he was being watched.  Then he would be the model appraiser.

I open my eyes and look up directly at the white ceiling.  Particles of dust ebb and flow in a nearby shard of light.  The millions, blinking, unencumbered by gravity.

I am cocooned in my blanket like a trapped pupa.  I struggle to release myself.

There is a book next to me which I pick up, and start reading.  I haven’t read it before, so I start at the beginning.  A curious girl chases a white rabbit down a very deep hole; she takes my mind with her.

The room feels familiar, but I wonder where I am and why I am dressed in orange pyjamas.

I remember that my older sister Lauren loved the colour orange.  I asked her once why.  She described the colour of the late-afternoon sun, burnt out and exhausted from its efforts.  The marigold flowers in full bloom, which plagued our garden.  The joyful boredom of long, lazy summer holidays.  It makes sense now.

Looking back, I feel sorry for her.  Lauren was my enduring babysitter and had to take me everywhere, as if by maternal obligation.  This was not a happy position for a teenage girl, venturing into the adult playground full of boys and hormones.

I remember laughing hard and often, even when she manipulated my emotions to create the centrepiece of some joke or theatrics.  My high reactions, whether through fright or humiliation, always seemed to be an enjoyable spectacle for Lauren and her friends.

Not that I minded.  I was a willing player who needed to feel wanted, or special, like Lauren.  Of course, I didn’t belong in a group of teenagers and would be quickly discarded, once the show was over.

Lauren’s first boyfriend was different.  He would sit with me on his knee for hours and treat me to novelty sweets, like watermelon flavoured gobstoppers and sherbet fountains with liquorice straws.

He endured my need to be ever-present and suffered my constant chatter.  He was one of the first people who made me feel cared for and accepted; he genuinely liked me and I could be myself with him.

Of course, first boyfriends rarely last and I cried for hours when my sister moved on from him.

My mum was always there to comfort me when I needed her; a human pacifier.  She would hold me in her arms and rest her head gently on top of mine; sing silly songs when I was sad, believing that her little boy could do no wrong.  My constant cheerleader and enduring protector.

Life had been unkind to my mum and she sought solace with late nights out drinking in town with her friends.  This was seemingly enough to get her through the everyday exhaustion of life and her loveless marriage.

The past seems so close to me now.  The detail is crystal clear, but I still can’t put together what is happening now or where I am.

I feel like a little boy again, scared and alone in the middle of a pitch-black night, and call out for my mum and sister.  They don’t come.  The door remains closed.

We lived quite far out from town when I was young and my toy figures were my main friends.  Together we would endure prehistoric jungles, find lost civilisations, explore outer space, race across stormy seas and be the ringmasters of the world’s greatest circus.  How can I remember such childhood fantasies?

One toy figure accidentally fell in the fire once and I put my hand straight in without hesitation to save her; she was charred but cherished evermore.  I think I still have her somewhere, but I can’t think where.

I had one friend at school.  We did everything together and played hours of endless games using nothing but our imaginations and a few painted lines on a small school yard.  He quickly replaced me when the new boy in town arrived; his choice left me alone again, with an unexpected and novel hurt.

The light is starting to dim, and the door opens.  A spotty young man in a blue uniform enters. Not saying a word, he places a tray on the table, before leaving.  I shout after him, but he doesn’t reply.

Is it really food?  It all looks somehow familiar, but I can’t remember what anything on the tray is.  The harder I try, the less I can recall.

I can’t fathom out how to use the plastic shapes to pick up the food, stabbing uselessly at some small green spheres.  I am forced to use my hands and feel a sense of humiliation.

Chicken, I know the dry white meat is chicken. It catches in my throat as it goes down, it is so dry and over-cooked.

I recall the chicken hut, outside of our old house.  Copious eggs that were laid by Bobby, Angelica and Peter.  Why did I pick two boys’ names for my hens?

I loved those silly creatures and found pleasure in cleaning out their hut together with my mum and Lauren.  It was one of the only things we did together, or at least one of the only enjoyable things we did together, and it meant a lot to me.

Lauren saw it as the worst possible chore, but I liked the excitement of trying to catch the hens by chaotically chasing them around and around, so that we could place them in the holding pen and tidy their home.

There were always a few spiders crawling around and I was thought to be the brave hero, who would always be tasked with catching them.  Death was demanded by Lauren and my mum, as they were comically afraid of the tiny beasts, but I couldn’t bear to kill them; I would just take them away and place them safely in the nearby hedge.

A hen once escaped from the coop.  I ran out to save her from the busy road and was gently kissed by the bumper of a passing car, as thanks for my efforts.  I was ok, just a bit bruised and shaken.  I remember the police had come to discuss it with me, and I had to take a sugary tea to calm my nerves.

It was entirely my fault, but the hens went on holiday soon afterwards, and never came back, apparently because they liked it so much.  They had found something better, somewhere new.  I was heartbroken, until I was given a small ginger bundle of fur as a new pet.

I suddenly recall that I don’t eat meat, or at least I don’t think I eat meat.  My stomach groans in disgust at this betrayal and, urgently and dramatically, I vomit.

It conjures up a memory of the time when my father left us.  I didn’t really understand what was happening at the time; I had sat on the stairs with my sister listening to our parents rowing.

Afterwards, I knew something really bad had happened, as my sister was crying, my mum was shaking silently, and I was sick.

This violent reaction to the palpable upset around me quickly refocused our attention and brought us back together.

We then just got on with ordinary life, as you have to, no matter what happens.  You can only be still and contemplative for so long.  You have to move on.

I didn’t understand at that age what it all meant or what a divorce was.  I just knew my father had left us.  I would now only see him once in a blue moon, when both his leave from the rigs and my school holidays coincided.

Nothing would be the same again.  It was about that time that I started counting my actions and repeating patterns to avoid further harm.

In fact, he took no real interest in me or my life and casually drifted out of it; like a ripple from a stone skimmed in the sea.

I still feel frustration and anger at my father; he should have made an effort and cared enough to remain at the centre of my life. Even today I struggle with the feeling of abandonment.

In the end, we all make our choices, and he made his.  Perhaps the reason for his decision is one of the worst, he just didn’t care enough; there was no malice or dramatic falling out.  My father just couldn’t be bothered with me.

I wonder what happened to him and whether he regrets his decision.  Sadly, I doubt it, but he should.  I was supposed to be the most important thing in his life.

I feel embarrassed and ashamed.  I had dirtied my nice orange pyjamas.  I don’t know where I am and all I want is to be held.  I feel a sudden and deep loss.  I feel light headed and am shaking.  I break down into tears.

The door opens its jaws with a loud jolt and consumes my self-pity.

Harry, the young guard, walks through.  I notice his acne is much worse than yesterday.  I try to engage with him cheerily, to distract from the obvious unpleasantness, but Harry just grunts and sighs.  I have added to his workload and made his day worse.

I am handcuffed and taken from the cell. I know this routine.

I enter a narrow room full of metal shower heads.  I turn the chrome shower dial on and stand with my eyes closed under the warm water.  I am surrounded in a small fog of steam.

We only had a bath when I was young.  The water was heated by the fire.  It would get so hot, and the steam from it was so thick, that you couldn’t even see your hand before your face.

Of course, it would eventually disperse and I would normally be left facing my sister, playing with my many colourful bath toys, as my mum washed me.

Afterwards, I would sit naked playing by the bath while my mum washed herself in our dirty water.

I was aware from a young age that I was physically different to my mum and Lauren and felt a desperate need to see my own sex.

After I have showered, I dry myself, and am given another set of orange clothes.  I awkwardly and embarrassedly dress, stumbling as I try to put on the trousers.

I have never been comfortable with men seeing me naked.  Maybe this is a consequence of my upbringing.  It just doesn’t feel right.  I am also body-conscious and try to avoid judging eyes.

The guard pays no attention whatsoever and, after I am dressed, walks me back to my holding pen.

Sometime later, or maybe it is the next day, a different guard comes and takes me along a narrow, white corridor and through to another small room.

The room is sparsely decorated with a long pane of glass stretching across its entire length and dividing it in two.  Either side of the glass contains mirrored elements: a small metallic stool nailed into the floor, a long wooden ledge and a black telephone.

Except I am on one side and a woman with unnaturally dark hair is on the other.

She slowly turns to look at me.  Piercing blue eyes almost melt the glass between us; these wormholes to her soul pulling me in.  I smile instinctively.

She indicates to the phone next to me and picks up the one next to her.  While I can’t say who this is, I feel that I know her and I am relaxed in her presence.

I search the gulag that is my brain and find nothing except silent echoes.

She talks nervously without pausing, even though most of the conversation involves questions about my wellbeing.

When I ask again who she is, she looks at me with a mixture of anger and sadness and slowly gets up and walks out of the room.

I sit alone, still holding the telephone and feeling rather silly.

It reminds me of the pretend calls I would make with toy phones when I was little.  Hello, is anyone there?  I was always scared to ask, convinced that some ghost or alien would somehow have connected to the line and respond.

Of course, they never did.  Only Lauren answered, still prepared to play this game despite being several years older.

The overhead lights are blindingly bright and I look at my transient reflection in the glass pane.  I see an old-looking man staring back at me.  Greasy grey hair, unshaven, gaunt faced, dark shadows underscoring familiar brilliant blue eyes.  I do not recognise the face, but it must be mine.

Lauren enters the room.  I am so happy to see her.  I stand up and place my palm flatly against the pane of glass between us.  She mirrors my action and stares into my eyes.

I can’t remember when I last saw her, but I have a feeling it was not so long ago and a flick of her unusually jet-black hair sparks a semblance of a memory.  Where are we?  What is this screen?  Where is our mum?

Lauren gives me no warning and delivers an instant death.  Just comes out with it.  Mum has been dead for years.  Lauren insists that I know this, that she has told me at least a dozen times before.

But I don’t know this.  How could Lauren think that?  How could mum be gone?  I would know it for sure.  I always felt certain that you would know when someone you loved died or that their apparition would come to see you before they finally left.  I certainly didn’t know this.  There had been no ghostly goodbye.

I don’t want to believe Lauren, but I can tell by her voice that this is true.  I break down.  I can’t help it.

Memories flash before my eyes; cuddling on the sofa, dancing together at a wedding, listening lovingly as I read the same stories out loud, calling me her brave little soldier, singing softly, and always there no matter what.

Lauren keeps repeating that I already know this and weeps a little herself, as if also experiencing this news for the first time.  Or maybe she simply can’t cope with seeing me in this sort of pain.

I am unable to regain any sort of composure or take charge of my emotion, still sobbing uncontrollably, but this news makes me even more determined to find out what I am doing in this place.

Lauren, having steeled herself, tells me in a matter of fact tone that I have been locked up because I killed some people and “did some bad shit”.

The shock of this news stops every other emotion in its track.  I don’t understand.  I remember nothing.  I tell her this can’t be right.  She knows me.  I would never hurt a fly, let alone kill someone.  There must be a mistake.  Lauren must do something about it and get me out of here.

I am angry and confused.  Everything is foggy and my head hurts.  I feel desperately empty.

Lauren hangs her head down low.  The black curtain of her hair stares blindly back at me, its unnatural sheen hiding her from the changing looks of horror and grief displayed on my face.

We are told that time is up and I am taken away.  Time means nothing to me now.  I hardly recognise or understand its passing.

Later, a large, bulky man enters my room and leads me out onto a small concrete yard.  The look of the yard stirs up the past.

I walk slowly around its perimeter, looking back at the man, who is watching me.  A disinterested bluebottle buzzes lazily past me.  I don’t know who this person is, but he is looking at his phone and lets out a deep, hollow laugh.

The sound conjures Easton into my mind.  I feel an immediate pain from somewhere deep within my body.

The problem with first meetings is that you don’t know how important that new person is going to be to you.  They could be the love of your life, passingly inconsequential, or the catalyst for your death.  You just don’t know.

I try to remember the first time I meet someone, just in case they turn out to be important, like Easton.

Had I known then what I know now, then I should have run.  Sprinted away and never looked back.  If I had turned a different corner and gone into another bar, none of it would have happened.

But I didn’t and fate will have her way.  In truth, maybe I would have chosen to take the same path, even if I did know the outcome, such were my feelings for Easton; I am not sure that anything could have dragged me away.

He found me alone at an empty bar.  I was going through one of my low periods and I hadn’t wanted company, but he just sat down next to me and started to make conversation.  I wondered how anyone could just walk up to a stranger and start talking, but he did.

Easton was not traditionally handsome, but there was something about him.  An irresistible cocktail of striking features, commanding physical presence, and natural charm.  An overall appeal, that words cannot do justice to.  A toxic concoction for my thirst.

Easton towered above me and so leant his stocky frame against the bar to lower himself to my level.  I noticed he was well groomed, with razor-shaped dark stubble, short gel-styled hair, a strong nose, sharp jaw lines and penetrating hazel eyes.  A sort of leathery musk smell permeated around him, mixing with the stale scent of beer, to arouse the air.  His skin-tight ice blue jeans and white t-shirt flattered his muscly features.  He spoke in bass tones and regularly let out generous, deep laughs.  I found myself instantly attracted to him.

As the afternoon mysteriously turned into evening and others swarmed around us, he continued to focus his attention on me.  It would have been easy to turn a shoulder or walk away, but he didn’t.

From that moment on, Easton and I were pretty much inseparable and his intoxicating presence became necessary to me.

Likewise, Easton seemed to want to keep me close.  Always watching out for me.  He would deliberately keep a place for me next to him, bring me into conversations by asking for my opinion, and look to me to support his position.  I was a willing follower; happy for him to pull on my puppet strings.

When I wasn’t with him, I didn’t know what to do with myself and would just hang around my flat awaiting his call.

The anticipation of seeing him was maddening.  I wanted to be with him as much as possible, craved his attention and would do anything for him.

I knew it was love and equally knew that allowing someone to have that sort of power over me was dangerous, but it was too late and I was caught by his gravity.

Listening to these thoughts in my mind now, I realise the sentiments sound so clichéd, but maybe there is an authenticity in cliché.  How many times have you held someone close, whether your mother, son or lover, and never wanted to let them go?

Cliché can be truthful and, in this case, it was; I had never felt before the way Easton made me feel.  I was alive for the first time.

Easton always seemed to have a crowd of followers.  I wasn’t really interested in the others, except to the extent they fought me for his attention, and then I didn’t like them.

They were all too loud, too brash and really not that much fun or interesting to be around.  Their habits seemed to revolve around drinking, eating and the ladies.

But those things didn’t interest me and it seemed they didn’t interest Easton that much either.

Easton’s first improper request of me was small, but I recall it vividly because what he asked me to do was wrong and, until that time, I had been a real do-gooder.

He had won some money in a casino when the others were not around.  He asked me not to tell anyone about it.  I didn’t question why, but I knew we were supposed to be sharing any winnings and he had no intention of honouring this promise.

I didn’t tell them.  It is so ridiculous looking back at it now, but I did it because I wanted to please him and having our own secret somehow brought us closer together; I was the trusted, beloved one.

I willingly accepted Easton’s malicious infection.  He was a tonic for my soul.  Something I needed.  I was happy for his roots to penetrate my foundations, leading to the inevitable crumbling of my core.

One evening when we had all been to a bar together, one of the crowd mocked me and asked why Easton kept me hanging around; his implications were clear, there was something more to this relationship, something physical or some kind of love.

I was furious and my pride had been dented.  But I sat in silence, which made it worse.  It confirmed my cowardice to my embryonic bully.

Easton jumped out of his seat and floored him with one punch.  He kicked him in the face, over and over again.  Spurts of crimson, mixed and diluted with saliva, spewed all over the laminate floor.  One of the onlookers threw-up.  But for me, this was a welcome horror.  A shameful pleasure.

The blood stains on Easton’s white trainers would not come out, no matter how hard we scrubbed them.  I was happy to keep the souvenir; a permanent reminder of Easton’s protective act.

Easton reminded me of some type of adorable wild animal.  Something you just wanted to get close to and cuddle, but which you know could quite easily take off your face with one bite if it wanted to, or if you caught it in the wrong mood.  But the temptation to get closer is always there, and you don’t really believe it would ever happen to you.

No one ever spoke to me like that again.  In fact, most of them didn’t talk to me at all, which was just fine with me.

Easton never spoke a word of it, but I loved the fact that he fought for me.  No one had ever done that before.  I decided then that he could have my life and do with it as he pleased.

A few days later, Easton and I were in some cheap clothes shop.  Easton casually picked up a red and black checked lumber jacket and just walked out with it.

I was frozen to the spot, certain the security team would run out after him.  But no one seemed to notice, overly intent on their own affairs, or maybe nobody cared what happened to these misfits.

Easton was leaning against a wall outside and laughed when he saw the shock on my face.  He dared me to do the same thing.  I would never normally steal, but this seemed important to Easton.  He thought it would make a point us both wearing the same stolen shirt.  Or at least that is what he said.

I wanted to impress him.  The fear of letting him down suppressed the hot flush of anticipation I felt knowing I was about to commit a crime.  His wish was my command.

Sure enough, the same outcome happened.  We were stood side-by-side wearing the same over-sized shirts, like some ridiculous comedy act.

He casually put his heavy arm over my shoulder as we walked out of the mall and down town.

Later that night, still wearing the same outfits, we walked by some recently rejuvenated canal.

The lights reflected purples and blues and beautified the dirty water; the plain brown moth transformed into a pretty butterfly.

A distant saxophone played an old forgotten love song about love letters from the heart.

I deliberately moved closer to Easton, so our shoulders occasionally touched.  He didn’t notice or, at least, pretended not to.

I noticed Easton watching a man walking towards us.  I have to admit that my immediate reaction was one of jealously.

Why was Easton transfixed by this stranger?  Why was he so intent on following his every move?  It soon became clear.

As he came closer and approached us, without any warning, Easton sprung and grabbed him around the neck in a ferocious choke hold.

Easton shouted for me to grab the man’s wallet.  I hesitated.  Easton raised his voice and demanded my compliance.  I just did it and quickly lifted the wallet out of the startled man’s jacket pocket.

Easton let him go, grabbed my wrist and dragged me away, sprinting off together, away from any light, into the darkness.

Rain started to fall as we ran.  Lightly at first, but then it became torrential.  We slowed down and stood close together under a tree to get some shelter.  For me it felt romantic, but I think Easton just wanted to stay dry.

Easton smiled at me, wide-eyed and happy.  He was talking incessantly.  I wasn’t listening to what he was saying; too busy enjoying his excitement and the steamy closeness, as the heat from our animal bodies evaporated the dampness from the rain.

I recall a sense of overwhelming guilt mixing with the delight I found in pleasing Easton.  This was something else we were in together and I wanted more.

Our criminal acts became like a shared addiction.  I felt an increasing need to please Easton.  He seemed to need the exhilaration he felt by having power over others, not to mention the financial means to live.

We carved a career in petty muggings and moved around town to keep the police at bay.

Once you have committed a crime, it seems easier and easier to commit others.  And once you set the bar at a certain level, you seem to need to go above it to get the same high.  It is a steady and progressive escalation.  It is an addiction from which there is no coming back.

Easton would quickly exculpate us from any guilt by referencing historic morals.  Why should we be judged by today’s laws and standards?

In the past it was kill or be killed and only the strongest survived.  Animals take what they need and do what they have to in order to survive.  We are created this way, and who are we to fight our nature?

If there are gods, they designed us.  If not, then why worry.  Easton’s logical reassurances always quelled my guilt.

But it wasn’t all Bonnie and Clyde.  I remember one time when I was full of cold and couldn’t get out of bed.  Easton propped himself up right beside me; I was under the blanket and he was on top.

He didn’t leave my side unless I needed something and we sat mindlessly watching television together.  I think it was some irrelevant sporting event, like a third-round curling match, but we became transfixed in the competition.

Physically I felt like I was dying, mentally I was buzzing and on top of the World.  However, I am not sure his closeness helped in my healing, as it was sending my blood pressure and temperature into the stratosphere.

I didn’t want this closeness to ever end and pretended to be ill longer than I was to make it last.

Another spectre enters my mind.  I remember one night when Easton and I had been waiting for the night bus.  It was dark and silent, Easton and I standing in comfortable silence.

I saw a man in a suit walking ahead of a group.  I think there were about five or six of them, and their pace was quickening.  The man ahead pretended not to notice, but he also stepped up his pace.  All of this in silence.

As they came closer, I could see the panic on the man’s face and it was clear that he was searching desperately for an escape route.

He looked across to me and Easton.  We were staring back. He quickly changed his direction and marched purposefully towards us.

The gang just kept walking on the same path and didn’t even glance across at us.  The man had probably crafted devils out of a bunch of harmless nobodies, but the mind will have its fun and torment us in the blackness of the night.

The man said hello to us and made some passing comment on the evening.  I responded politely and smiled.  He let out a sigh, probably both from over exertion and relief, and physically relaxed; lowering his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck and leaning against the bus shelter.

I don’t know what he thought about us, but he had obviously looked us over and was suitably happy that we were no threat; that he would gain safety from numbers and increase the carrion available to any predators.

Easton turned to the man.  The man looked up, probably thinking Easton was going to engage him in conversation, ask for the time, or something like that.  Instead, Easton slowly reached out and took him by the throat.

No sudden movements, no nefarious glares or loud threats; just a simple act, almost gentle, like a mother cat picking up her kitten by the scruff of its neck.  His grip tightened.

The man was snared and had a look on his face like a rabbit caught in headlights.  He looked at me for help but realised none was coming; his flight instincts had betrayed him.

His camel coloured chinos darkened.  He had wet himself from fear.

Easton laughed and I joined in, not because I found it funny, quite the opposite, it disgusted me that we could do this to someone, but I was part of this, part of Easton, and too weak or pathetic to do anything else.  I needed Easton’s approval and wanted him to be happy.  If that meant laughing in this man’s face, then so be it.

Easton encouraged me to take an even bigger part.  He took out a knife and put it in my hand.  I looked at Easton, then at the man, who closed his eyes, and seemed to know that the worst was yet to come.  Or maybe he had simply given up and resigned himself to his fate.

I could have just robbed the man like we usually did, but for some reason unknown to me, Easton wanted to take this one further.  Maybe he needed to go to the next level to get satisfaction.

Easton placed his hand tenderly over mine and guided the knife slowly into the man’s stomach.  Blood spilled from the puncture hole.  Easton grinned.

All that I could think about was Easton’s hand over mine.  It was electrifying and the trip-switch of my mind had turned off the consequential horror.

Easton had taken the knife from me, raised the man’s t-shirt, and carved out our initials in his skin, as a young lover might sketch out their initials in the sand or chip them into a tree, seeking to create a romantic gesture or permanent reminder of a special time and place.

Perhaps this was special to us.  The man just stared at me, wide-eyed and in shock.  All I could do was smile when I realised what Easton had done.

Nearly killed, betrayed and humiliated.  I wonder now how the man would have survived this.  How could he ever again find the confidence to go out or face himself in the mirror?

The stab wound I expect healed quickly, but mental scars can be much worse than physical ones.  We probably destroyed him.  Maybe he destroyed himself or was sport for another predator, fate having not finished her cruel game with him.  Maybe he is ok.  It doesn’t matter now.

That was the first time I stabbed someone, but by no means the last.  The brutality seemed to heighten with each subsequent mugging.  Like other addictions, you always want more and more; the escalator perilously increases speed.

Easton’s addiction seemed to be violence and power over others.  Mine was simply Easton.

Soon the cold hard steel of a knife seemed routine and I could tell Easton wanted something different.

The possibility of his boredom terrified me.  If he got bored with our common sport then he could just as easily get bored with me.

Easton needed some reinvention, something new, and I was determined not to be the discarded part.

I went to the store and came back with his surprise present.  Still cold hard metal, but this was a gun.  It was time to go to the next level.  The exhilaration of courtship was over and now for the comfort of commitment.

I justified this by persuading myself that this would relieve both of my concerns; it would give Easton a new toy to play with and should lead to less harm.  The gun was not meant to be used.  It was just to threaten.  No more knife lunges and plunges.

To say that Easton loved his gun would be an understatement.  It was tantamount to some sort of divine courtship.  He couldn’t take his eyes off of it, turning the gun over and over in his hands.  Caressing its shapely curves.  Teasing the barren bullet chamber.  Fingering the impotent trigger.

However, it was clear to me that his frustration was growing, and this would not satisfy him for long.  Easton wanted more.

While he assured me he would never use it, Easton decided that he should at least understand its mechanisms and practice aiming and firing it, just in case it proved necessary to defend us.  After all, it was better to be prepared for such an eventuality.

Of course, this appealed to my cautious sensibilities and I consciously decided not to consider any ulterior motive; it was easier to turn a blind-eye to the possibilities presented by training Easton to use his new weapon.

I also wanted Easton to be happy, as simple as that, and didn’t want my gift to disappoint him in any way.  I also knew that we would probably have a fight, if I disagreed, and Easton would do what he wanted in any event.  So, I went along with it.  I even lined up empty tin cans for the slaughter.

Easton soon became proficient in using the gun and would normally hit every target on his first attempt, naturally talented in destruction.

Easton encouraged me to try and even got me a cheap, second-hand pistol.  I really did not want to use it; I had been brought up to understand that guns shouldn’t be touched, and it is hard to fight against vehement nurturing.

However, I put up no resistance when he stood close behind me, touching his front to my back, and put his hands around mine, which were clasping the gun, and forced my finger to pull the trigger.

The explosion was sudden and loud.  I pressed-up hard against Easton as it fired.  Under Easton’s guiding touch, we hit the target.  He laughed out loud over-dramatically and moved away from me to do some ridiculous victory dance.  Easton tried to get me to join in, but I felt awkward and embarrassed, so protested until he stopped.

Apparently, that was all the training I needed and I was relieved not to have to do it again; having something so potentially deadly and devastating in my hands felt terrifyingly unnatural and yet surprisingly welcome.  I put the safety catch on and wedged the hard, still-warm gun down the back of my jeans, like some old-fashioned cowboy might have done after a showdown.

It was not long after that Easton started to reveal his gun to our terrified victims.  The problem was that they gave in straight away, which seemed to prove anti-climactic to Easton, and did not give him the same highs as actually hurting someone.  It was all over too easily and too quickly, with no violent consummation to satisfy his blood lust.

I could almost see this disappointment in Easton’s eyes and in his muted response to our hold-ups.  More cash was coming in, but this was not making Easton happy.  It was obvious to me that Easton would have to take things further and was just looking for an excuse to use his gun.

The opportunity was quickly engineered by Easton.  On our next hold-up, of a smart looking young couple, Easton insisted they must have more than the paltry 50 bucks in the lady’s purse.

They both protested for all their worth, sensing Easton’s aggression, but it did not save them.  Easton shot through the man’s shoulder; not wanting to kill him, but to see what a bullet could do, and to get the long-awaited thrill.

Shooting an empty tin can is one thing but seeing a bullet rip through human flesh is another; it is surreal, as though you are watching a movie, and not real life.

The blood spurts out everywhere and leaves pools of deep red blood, stains on expensive clothes and splatters across anything in its path; indiscriminately, it will mark people or places.

The worst thing is the look of surprise mixed with horror on the victim’s face when the gun fires.  At that time, they see their life flash before their eyes and know this could be the end.  That is the look of fear.

After that, Easton seemed to find always a reason or excuse to fire his gun.  I would just stand by watching.  I wouldn’t shoot anyone myself, but I would join in the spectacle, and otherwise support Easton as much as he needed.

Easton told me that he never spent too long in any one place, especially if he had engaged in too much profitable sport.

He found it difficult to accept his sport was actually violent acts of crime, but he knew all too well that it was too risky to stay in any one area for too long for fear of being caught.  At the rate we had been going, we really needed to go soon.

Easton explained that he would normally leave everything behind when moving city.  However, he said that he had grown used to me and would like it if I went with him.

I didn’t hesitate to agree.  Wherever Easton wanted to go was fine with me, as long as I could go with him.

Of course, I really do not know what Easton felt about me.  He never said anything or made any pass at me; we were so very close and yet at the same time distant.  I am pretty sure that he knew how I felt about him.

But you never know with these things.  It may not have even passed through his mind that another man has romantic feelings about him; what was obvious to me in that situation may not even be a possibility to him and so would not register.

Equally, I am not so naïve as to not recognise that he might have been using me; just another pawn on his chessboard.

Still, I held on to a glimmer of hope that he felt the same.  Maybe it was best not to know, as I couldn’t have left him or faced his rejection.  There was no possibility that I could tell him, as it could destroy everything.  The odds were low and it was a gamble I wouldn’t take.

We decided to up sticks and go straight away.  We grabbed some clothes and cash and found a cheap motel.  It reminded me of something out of Psycho and I was careful to check for peeping holes behind the tired paintings in our twin room.

The twin was more like a double, with the two beds touching.  There was no air conditioning and so the room was sweltering hot.

The room itself could not have been more ordinary, with white walls and brown carpeting, but it felt like some enchanted palace to me; I was about to run away with my handsome prince.

We slept in nothing but pants and flung the blankets to the floor.  We both curled up, facing away from one another, back-to-back.

I could feel the heat from Easton’s back warming mine, he was so close.  I could imagine his tanned body, the small prisms of sweat, the curve of his spine, the bristle on his neck, his dinosaur shoulder blades, all so close, so near yet forbidden and untouchable.

I kept hoping that something would happen that night, but it didn’t; I lay hot and breathless in unfulfilled anticipation.  I was terrified that my expectation was palpable and would be fiercely rejected in a fit of disgusted rage.  Of course, this never happened and I eventually drifted off to sleep.

When I awoke I felt more tired than the night before, probably due to being in the middle of some sleep cycle.  I felt a chill and saw Easton was gone.  I panicked.  Easton had left me, had at last got sick of me and moved on.  He had lied. I meant nothing to him.  Alone and disappointed again.

I was frantic; I jumped up and checked the bathroom.  Nothing, he had gone.  I went to the window in the motel door and waited.

Easton eventually came in, smiling, with the sun shining behind him, perfectly framing him in the doorway.

He had gone out and bought some coffee and doughnuts.  Being his “champ” I ate up as ordered, as we chatted about nothing and everything.  Enjoying each other’s company and the anticipation of a new adventure together.

You never appreciate enough the simple pleasures of everyday life.  Those ordinary and inconsequential conversations.  The light touches of affection.  The common sights around you that somehow lost their wonder.

If you knew it was your last day with the person you love most in the world, you would treat each moment as if it were special.  And in reality, they are.  Today could be your last day.

Learn from my mistake, as I certainly did not treasure enough what would turn out to be our last morning together.

We went to a local store for some essentials.  It had very narrow aisles and was over-filled with every kind of item you might possibly want to buy, but probably didn’t need.  Buckets and spades hid under shelves of chocolates.  Diapers surrounded marshmallows.  Energy drinks mixed with liquor.

I was contemplating how someone could actually fit all of this in to such a small space, when I heard Easton shouting.  It was the beginning of our end.

Easton had drawn his revolver and was pointing it at “Duncan”, whose name badge not only revealed his name but also that he “was here to help”, the dullard cashier.

Duncan was likewise pointing a weapon at Easton.  The sweaty, desperate look on Duncan’s face told me that he was going to pull the trigger.

I shouted and pulled out my own gun.  I knew what I had to do.  It was Easton or the cashier.  It wasn’t a choice and instinct just kicked in.

It all happened so quickly.  I heard the sound of gun shots.  I could not look to see what was happening and focused on my target.

Duncan was on the ground, with a beautiful blood spatter butterfly marking the naked white walls behind him.  He lay dead on the floor.  His messy blond hair spiked and modernised by blood.  Eyes wide open and still, watching but not seeing, like a porcelain doll.

I hadn’t meant to kill him.  I just wanted to stop him from hurting Easton.  But my amateur aim was guided by some otherworldly treacherous marksman and my murderous bullets claimed their victim.

I felt a boiling hot pain in my shoulder, as though a poker had been taken from a furnace and slowly driven through me.  Duncan had shot me.  I almost felt pleased for him; at least he had made an impact in his last stand.  I fell to the ground.

I called out to Easton, but he didn’t reply.  I then realised that he was also on the floor.  Duncan had got in two shots.

Watching me with glassy eyes and tears forming, Easton stretched out his hand towards me.

I desperately tried to reach him.  When I did, I grasped his hand and held him, as tight as I could, with all of my strength, and told him everything would be alright over and over, as I fought back my pulsing emotions.

I wanted to tell him I loved him and always had, that I was his and couldn’t go on without him, that I would soon be with him, in whatever comes next, but some spiteful embarrassment stopped me.

I had time to leave Easton with my love, but I didn’t and he died.  I will regret that forever.

I grabbed the gun, pointed it at my temple and pulled the trigger.  No hesitation or doubt.  No thought, it was the only thing to do.  But the gun did not fire and there was no kind bullet left for me.

It was the end of both of our lives.  Every positive emotion I have ever felt suddenly seemed to boil down and condense into an undeniable pain.

The guard shouts over to me.  I snap out of some day dream and I am left with the name Easton in my head and a feeling of some sort of passing grand emotion.  I try to think why it is there or who Easton is, but I recall nothing.  All of my recent thoughts seem to have evaporated into thin air.

I am led from the yard into a small room.  It is entirely white.  It is quite disconcerting, like the sort of place you might expect to see in some dystopian vision of the future – a spaceship cabin or underwater lodging.

There is little in the room except a table, toilet, bed and small shelf.  The Bible and “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” prop each other up on the shelf, preventing each other from falling over.

I reach for the fiction and find comfort in reading my favourite childhood book.  A familiar friend I can keep close by to hold on to my sanity.

Later, as dusk approaches, I hear the door unlock and see the young guard, Harry.  This can only mean it is dinner, visiting or shower time.  In this existence, such basic pleasures become the meaning of life.  Any change to sitting alone in that room is an ecstasy.

Lauren must be here.  She is the only person who visits me.  I don’t remember other visitors or even visits, but I seem to know this.  I don’t recall seeing mum and wonder why she hasn’t come to see me.  I feel a twinge somewhere beyond my heart.

I always feel certain sadness when I see Lauren now.  She looks so much older than the headstrong teenager I recall.  The extra lines, the wrinkled and looser skin, uneven skin tones, thinner arms and the comfortable fashion she now likes wearing; the uniform of the aged.

Gone are the hot pants, tight t-shirts, strawberry red lips, peacock eyes and taut youthful skin of little Lauren who attracted all the boys.  Now there is just a tired, old woman slowly treading towards her fatal ending.

Only we do not stop at the visitors’ room or the usual wash rooms and, instead, we continue walking.  Walking past all of the places I know or recognise.

Harry rests his hand on my back, guiding me slowly and gently onwards.

We stop in a room.  I am ordered to take off my top and my hair is wet and lathered.  I smell something familiar.  It is the scent of the bubble bath I used as a child which filled the air with rainbow bubbles and magic.  A little one’s laughter at nothing other than the simple pleasure of warm water being poured on my hair, washing away the stinging soap and leaving me clean.

Only this water is too hot and pains me.  I hear a loud buzzing sound right next to my ear and see grey hair floating down to the floor, leaving me bald and cold.

I sense that others are with me, but I see only Harry.  The hairs on the back of my arms bristle.  My heart quickens.  Something is coming.

A man has his hand on my back.  I ask what he is doing, but he doesn’t reply and pushes me forward.  I resist and he is quickly joined by a man and a woman, also wearing dark uniforms.  They hold me.

I resist, it seems the right reaction.  Every inch of my being tells me to fight.  I yell.  I scream.  I struggle.  I am held in strong arms and taken into a room.

There is a dark wooden chair, with black padding and many ties and binds, cords and buckles.  There is a large, rectangular window ahead with a black curtain drawn across it.  What is this place?

I look desperately around.  It has a clinical feel, but I can’t see any doctors or nurses, only double the number of people in dark uniforms, all looking at me very seriously.

I must have done something very wrong.  I don’t know what is happening.  What have I done?  Where are my mum and Lauren?

My body feels like jelly and I am shivering all over.  My knees give in and I have to be lifted up.  I cry out for help, but no one answers me.  They just talk to one another in formal low tones.

I am placed in the chair and restricted.  They bind me tightly and I panic with a sense of claustrophobia, as I cannot move any part of my body.

I wrestle wildly from side to side but nothing gives. The ties remain unforgiving and the chains of my past actions prove unbreakable.  My waist is compressed, as though I am wearing a belt two sizes too small.  It cuts into me.

No one comes to help me or offers me any words of comfort or explanation.

They place a cold cap on my head.  Goosebumps immediately cover my body.

The dark theatre curtain heaves up and I see a familiar face looking down at me.  Lauren looks so sad.  She presses a hand against the glass window and stares at me, trying to connect. Her eyes haven’t changed and betray a distant sadness and defeat.  She drops her head down low and her black hair falls.

A sudden and intense sting surges through my body.  They are killing me.  I am being electrified.  My body spasms uncontrollably. I wet myself and feel incredible shame. I close my eyes to avoid the audience’s stares.

Memories sprint urgently through my mind.

Sticky summers.

Lights dancing on a river.

Tidal waves and toys in the bath.

A burnt hand.

Silly hens and sweet tea.

Wicked wasps swarming for my ice cream.

Maple seeds helicoptering down from the sky.

A smiling, fat, ginger cat.

Staring through a window, waiting for my father.

Rolling around on the floor and crying with laughter with Lauren.

Being held by my mum and hearing her soft songs.

Easton looking into my eyes and smiling.

Easton.  I cling on to this thought with all of my might, desperate not to lose him again.

And then a mixture of oranges and reds finally come together and lead me on to a dark amorphous mass, from which a shadowy hand stretches out to me.

I reach out and let go.

Note from David Scott:

Thank you so much for reading my book!  It is the first one that I have written and, if you enjoyed it, I would be really grateful if you could leave me a review.