Of The Body part 7
“When does belief become irrational?”
Of The Body part 7
The smell was gagging him, the tape was gagging him. He woke blowing chunks, forcing puke out his nose, mouth sealed, full. Swallowing what he could fighting the compulsion to heave, spraying snot and puke down his chin and cheek, clearing for air. Convulsing. Bucking. The restraints held. Slowly settling, breathing found rhythm. Relaxing to the certainty of the bonds. He fought back a wave of nausea. That damn orderly had drugged him. His face felt funny and his eyes wouldn’t open, tape there too. It had been at least a year since he was last strapped down, remembering to stay calm, relaxed, still. Stillness, he tried to stay still, feeling the motion. Stopping, starting, slowing, accelerating, turning, where was he going and why? This couldn’t be court ordered.
The lawyers, doctors and witnesses had saved his ass. Lawyers threatened lawsuits, the police and politicians wanted everything finished quickly. Doctors couldn’t explain how he was alive, but were sure the trigger was pulled in reaction to being shot by the police. Witnesses told confusing stories of how he saved them, then turned on them. They all agreed that it was a miracle that he had lived. The other thing that was agreed on, he would be sedated. Throughout the entire proceedings all was in a fog. He felt no pain. Watching his parents cry as the options were given. Not responding clearly, muttering only about the dreams. Hospitalized he was to be freed, but never free of the truth. Institutionalized after the second suicide attempt, he had often found himself strapped down. But nothing like now, gagged and blinded, his stomach knotted, he puked.
Thank God he’s not dead, he could hear the man in back snorting and gagging. How did he survive that dose? It was enough to kill. His holiness was right, there was something to this guy. Slowing the van he turned into the woods. Rutted unpaved road, more fit for tractor than car, darkened by a canopy of trees and overgrowth, served as the last half mile. He pulled up to the side entrance of the large two-story house, parked and exited, stretching his legs. “Whew,” the smell assaulted his nose, the van’s back doors swung open. Damn, this guy had better be worth it, he thought upon seeing the dried vomit and stained pants of the now passed out man.
The water woke him, naked in a shower. Two hands held him up while two others washed. Turned, pushed, pulled, disorientation and nausea left him malleable, weak. The water stopped, he was toweled off, led into a plushly carpeted room and seated. No one had said a word, the door shut and he felt alone. What in the world was going on? Why? Shortly the door opened then closed, no one entered. A muffled exchange beyond the door preceded its opening this time.
“Dress yourself first,” a man’s voice, firm. “You hear me? Dress first.”
He nodded. A soft bundle landed on his feet. His hands were freed. The door closed, alone again. With the backs of his legs touching the chair, he stood and dressed.
“Your grace,” the orderly dipped his head, stepped away releasing the knob and continued down the hall.
Entering alone he shut the door. There he is, ‘the blessed one.’ Looking at the young man pulling up his pants, now paused, face turned in his direction. The duct tape gave a surreal appearance.
“No, no, please dress I will wait,” he moved to a seat across from the man who was pulling tape from his mouth. “Sorry about that, but we had to take precautions. When you’re done with that you should sit, because I’m sure the drug is still in your system. Though I doubt that matters now.”
“Ouch!! Shit!! Where am I? Who the fuck are you? You just wait!” the words flew with the spit. Fingering, peeling, the tape on his eyes started to give, it cost him hair from lid and brow, “Ouch!!”
“You really should sit down.”
“Fuck you!” a blurry man sat in a blurry chair a few blurry strides away. The world spun. He sat clutching the arms of the chair.
“You should be dead.”
“Why?” fighting the urge to shit, the urge to puke.
“You should have been dead before.”
His vision was clearing. A graying man in robes addressed him; he didn’t care, didn’t listen. There was the door, the only door, behind the man facing him. There was also a window but the curtains were drawn and he couldn’t tell if it was day or night. It was a good-sized room that seemed larger with only the two over-stuffed chairs in it.
“There is no where to go,” he watched the young man tense up.
“You’re no doctor.”
“No, not a medical doctor.”
“Then what do you want?” the door could be reached.
“To ask you a few questions.”
“You tried to kill me.” The window? No, the door.
“There are other questions.”
The first two steps were shaky but he was at the door. Dammit, the knob was solid, the door firm. The window. Curtains parted to reveal darkness and wrought iron bars.
“You really should sit down.”
Nausea in a wave rocked gently side to side. The robed man was coming. He stepped back. The chair comfortably roomy, drool was wiped from his chin.
“How do you do it?” adjusting his robe and sitting.
“I don’t know,” scooting forward in the chair.
“There is nowhere to go.”
“I know. There never was.”
“What?” finally we get to it.
“There was never any where to go. I mean, you’re a man of the cloth aren’t you? Where do you go to escape God?” there I said it, that’s what this is about anyway.
“Escape God?” what was this. “We are all his servants.”
“How could you — why you,” this is no savior. “His miracles abound. You live,” his anger checked.
“Lucifer’s doing,” recalling the dreams.
“Blasphemer,” he felt hot, this is no savior, “God is all great, all knowing.”
“He knows, that bastard,” why was the old guy sweating, it wasn’t that hot in here.
God would never do this. He is still weak. God tests me. We were wrong. Please Lord, forgive me, “Are you certain?”
“He used me, now he tortures me with life,” slowly the rage was building. “They live in my head, they barter with my life, a chip on the table. You too, you asshole, are nothing to God.”
“He smiles on me. He is my shepherd. He is”
“He shits on you,” this is crazy, I got to get out of here. “Why am I here? What do you want?!” his voice rising.
“Creator protect me!!!” Hands tight on the possessed man’s throat, “You will go to Hell!!”
Tangled in robes, he was unable to fend off the man, who was bulkier than appeared. He sank into the cushiony darkness, prayers were muffled, air was a memory, now just the smell of chlorine.
©Ted Washington 2009