The smell of disinfectant on the yellowed tiled floor, dances with the stink of pee and heralds my attendance to the room, once more.
I can hear the crack and zap of the electrical rods that will rightly let me see the world as it should be, once again.
They’re only here to help: they’ve told me that enough, for goodness sake mister smith it’s nineteen fifty-three. This is a modern world.
I teach mathematics at the local college where the students can call me prof. Some do, some don’t, you can’t enforce these things.It isn’t that I am ashamed of anything I’ve done; I’ve tried to be a man of tolerance, of kindness.
I love my wife and my two upright, all American children – they will make us all proud, one day.
But as they strap the rods to the side of my head, I remember all the pain that’s to come and how it’s for my best, I mean, they’ve told me so.
It was only a photo, that’s what I told my wife. That’s what I told the cops. That’s what I told the judge. That’s what I told the doctors.
I can hear the hum of the machine, getting ready to burn that dark devil inside my head. I’ll be a better man for it. I know that now.
A professor of Mathematic shouldn’t have a photo like that in his desk.
bobby stevenson 2016