Tattered
By Sean Cambron, 2013
The tattered and worn colt rested his mold-tainted pencil on his metallic desk. After a grueling session of mental writhing and confusion, he had produced the "masterpiece" residing before him. The creamy parchment was adorned with the grey scribbling that his mind had released through his hand. His penmanship was childish and vague, and his work cheap and childish, but he always assumed a position of pride in the face of his answers. He would receive a small booklet of inquiries that touched mathematics, language skills, or more personal matters on the slim occasion. And so he would provide his unseen caretakers a paper saturated with the random statements and quirks his brain held. Aged by years of pills and orders, his consciousness had been mutilated through the thick knife of stress and emotion. He never truly understood why 'they' kept him within these cotton-lined cells since the moment he departed his mother's womb, or why he was inside his mother at all. He never even gazed upon the whole being of another or himself. The only bare guess he could produce about his body was that he had 5 limbs and a big ball on top of him that he saw the world through. They would never speak to him about the outside world (If it existed) or others beside the members of his caretaking group. They would frequently bark at his wantonness through the chipped and ancient intercoms that were lodged in the ceilings. Every misplaced arm or lewd gesture he enacted would be berated and demolished, a concept proven by time and experience. They sometimes merely barked at him, other times they would dim the lights and haunt him through the darkness with various recorded moans and shrieks. They often released an invisible monster to chase him through a padded maze, or force fed him a disgustingly grey mixture that inflicted stomach-woes. The only escape from this constant harassment was success: through a passing test grade, a satisfactory response or answer or by doing various tricks for his master's cruel amusement. Only in success could he find a liter of appreciation and love; everything else would bring suffering and sorrow. A camera zoomed in on his work. Shortly after, the intercom buzzed and transmitted the raspy voice of Kimberly, his primary doctor…
"Ashper… what in our name is this?" she slithered from her mouth. "All I see is a pulp of rotten foalhood reason that a 1 year old could refute…"
The colt's tongue wiggled about until words could form.
"I just did like you told me to… what did I do wrong, doc?" he squeaked.
"You know what was wrong. You always know. You just want to irritate me till I rip out my hairs. Every time I allot you the privilege of taking our questionnaire, you write down this barbaric nonsense!" she hissed violently.
"But… I didn't mean to-"
"2 – 3 = 5? My favorite color is white? Nonsense! Absolute, utter nonsense fabricated by the mind of an idiot!""
Ashper shuddered out of his seat. His head was barricaded from her bantering by the desk's steel coating, and his eyes closed to protect his remaining dignity from the beasts she would surely release.
"Every day I listen to your little monologues of insanity and absurdness that your unworthy mouth utters! Every week I read this asshatetry that you mark as 'work'!" she screamed.
Tears landed on the floor and shattered onto his torn leather shoes.
"No more no more I can't hear you no more lalalalallala" was the sole response his primitive mind could gift the manic woman.
"No more? No more what? All I want from you is a single piece of intelligence! Just something to represent the brains we gave you! Do you know how long it took us to create you? Do you know how much time and money went into your existence?"
His whimpers evolved into a tribal cry blocking the woman from his ears. Kimberly merely raised the volume of the speaker to a deafening point.
"You never have proven your worth! You are a meager parasite that feeds on the slop we throw into your cell! You are nothing… but a speck of dirt that has reached my tolerance's end…"
His cry was murdered by her dominating tone. The concept of comfort had escaped him, and was replaced by the tense waiting for punishment that lasted for hours. Yet, the intercom was silent, and so it plunged him into confusion. While the relief of silence forced comforted him, it simultaneously shrouded him in a dread that occupied every inch of his being. Uncertainty was the sole torture that would completely destroy him. They could probe him; break his ankles, burn his arms, but none of those would force him to retreat to submitting totally. Only through a sharp sense of apprehension could he fully be weakened.
The hour passed into darkness. The overhead lights were abruptly shut off at the very moment he began to extract hope from his situation. The only company he had was a faint hissing that lurked above him. He hollered at the blackness that engulfed him, "hey hey come on now! I don't like this!", yet only the hissing was there. A hissing that seemed to be growing by every second passed, and with each growth brought further Hell. The noise bombarded his eardrums with the monotone pain that dug trenches into his brain. Before he could bang his hands the walls, it dawned upon him that his head was heavier, and his limbs were limp and no longer in his miniscule range of control. His body fell with a tenderness granted by the poison pumping through his viens. A soft tune that he once overheard the doctors singing exited his lips...
"Under… the rainbow.. under the skies… beauty shall meet your eyes…"
His closed his eyes.
"Under our branch… in the ranch… we'll be together forever at last…"
Drool pooled on the floor.
"If you ever see… an old oak tree..."
He rested his head on the ground.
"…Just th-think of me…"
"… and you'll be..glad and… gay…"
Chuckling entered the cell, as if the collective of doctors, nurses, psychologists and chemists that were his only companions were embracing a newfound freedom from a minor inconvenience. It would not matter any longer; he knew they hated him, and he always knew. Even his rubbish mind knew this. The last droplets of tears he could create clung on him. All would be fine for him now… no more yelling, screams, aches, or sorrow would entrap him now. No longer would he be forced to wail for mercy, or keen in defeat. Tests, questionnaires, pills were now mere memories dying with him. He was being saved, not punished. And as he lied on the floor twitching, he realized something:
He finally was free.
The End