the absolute worst part about
being locked up
in the psych ward was having
no access to guns

No greater torture
for him

He spent his creative hours
in the workshop
drawing chicks with guns
and jerking off to them

“You're pretty good at this,”
said one of the
nurses

He snorted. “I'm hella good at
everything that involves
shooting, babe.”

“Oh sir, I didn't mean... I
meant drawing. You're pretty
good at drawing.”

“Yeah, fuck drawing. I wanna
shoot shit. Say, could I
at least get some gunpowder. I just
wanna snort it. Nothing more,
I swear.”

She gave the usual answer. “I'll
check with the doctor
and see what
can be done.”
and was gone

He wasn't mad enough to believe
her
He was just mad enough to
use the tools in the workshop to
shape a wooden gun handle from
a small log
and staple it to the
base of his penis, to make the whole
thing resemble a pistol

He held the wooden
handle and moved it
up and down while staring at
his drawings
until he shot his load at them

Oh, that face
Of a mother
Her mother

And that grin

And the voice that never spoke
aloud, only whispered
“Oh, look at you, dear. You
think you’re grown
up? You think
you’re ready to leave? Abandon
your dear mother? Go start
your life with the fool
who got you pregnant? Oh, please.
Can you get any more ridiculous
than this, I wonder? Ah, dear,
you’re not gonna have a happy life.
I tell you what
you’re gonna
have. An abortion and the duty
to turn that fool away. You’re
not leaving
here. It’s not your destiny, dear.
Besides, he’s not gonna love you. Not
after he finds out
about your... problem. Ha-hah-haa!”

Yes, eight years
later the words still echoed
in her mind
They were the opening theme
before every episode
of seizures
in the show of life with epilepsy

It turned out to be
a self-fulfilling prophecy
but only by half

The fool was driven away, indeed
but the child
remained

He was a good boy
who always stood by his mother’s side