A Warriors Heart

A Warriors Heart1

Chapter 12

It is not for my benefit that I write these precious words which consume me.I have no choice.The pen in my hand moves methodically. I could no more not write than I could not breathe. These words, however inadequate, are the very essence of my being. My soul cries out. My heart bleeds.I write.The time is drawing near when writing will no longer be an option.3

No, my mind is not sane. Whose is? We all share some grotesque form of insanity in the deepest caverns of our being. Instead of allowing our madness free reign, we box and bury it. We bury what makes us human. We damn our own greatness to an eternity locked behind a prison wall. Our strengths are flaunted daily. Our weaknesses we use to our advantage. Our insanity repressed. Forgive my ramblings. My own psychosis I display proudly for the world to see. Yes, I accept my insanity without trepidation. 4

Past attempts at collecting and combining words have left me bitter. I have failed then failed again. Compelled by a force I cannot lay hold of, I write. I attempt to grasp an unalterable feeling in an unstable mind to perform an impossible task. My options are none .My existence a lie. I write the truth. My heart is filled with a heaviness knowing the integrity by which these words were penned will be efficiently dissected by cold hearts. The truth will be made vague. The vagueness will bring about indifference. Indifference is my enemy.5

I glance at the scars of hate and selfishness on my arm. These scars are visible yet harmless. The invisible scars crisscrossing my heart generate the most pain. Wounds etched deep into my very being. Pieces of life ripped away unremorsefully. For these wounds there is no healing. No peroxide to fight infection. Untreated, they fester and contaminate the recesses of my soul. My mind screams! All is silent. Madness overtakes me in the midst of silence. Bless the people who find serenity in silence. I am not one of them. My peace abides in confusion and my serenity in chaos. 6

Why should I even try to make sense of the madness cycling through my mind? Pen in hand, I write with a furious passion. The question will not leave me. Exerting every ounce of will power inside, I press on. A greater good perhaps. Some unknown reasoning trapped in the recesses of my mind propels me further into darkness. I allow myself to succumb to the darkness. Darkness is my strength. My hunger is fed by a power beyond my control. I lose my mind.7

A single bead of sweat carves a path from my left temple to my cheek. Could this be a sign? Unconsciously I swat it away. Still, this single bead of sweat unnerves me. Could this be a chink in my armor? I shake my head furiously as if to push uncertainty out of my mind. I imagine the uncertainty riding down my ear canal then plummeting down to the floor to its death. I hear the cries of pain as it lies in a twisted heap on the floor. Uncertainty dies. Gaining control of my wayward mind, I once again focus attention on the paper before me. The world viewed my life as victorious, yet a victim I will always be. 8

“Caleb.” The voice pierces through my thoughts. 9

“The doctor is waiting.” My thoughts disintegrate.10

“Of course he is.” The terseness of my tone has no affect on the nurse. She stands at the door smiling.11

“Doesn’t he know how vital my writing is?” 12

“I am sure he would be happy to hear all about it.” 13

The patience in her voice sickens me. Her shoulder length red hair is complemented by emerald green eyes. Unfortunately the compliments stop at the combination of her five foot four, nearly two hundred pound frame.14

“How old are you?” I ask unashamedly, noticing the lack of a wedding ring or any ring for that matter. Her plump body tenses slightly. I derive pleasure from her misery.15

“The doctor does not have all day,” she states. Her calm demeanor has been replaced by one of stoicism.16

A twinge of guilt creeps though my body. What would Caitlyn think? She would no doubt be abhorred at my callousness. Sorrow assails me. Fighting back tears, I gaze into green eyes. “You will find your soul mate.” I whisper these words sealing them with a gentle smile. Her eyes soften. Anguish is swept away by kindness.17

Performing a one-eighty, she walks away. We march down the hallway as soldiers would. She leads. I follow, matching her step for step. I lock gazes with no one, refusing to allow people a window into my soul. The bluish hue of my eyes is my weakness. Eyes which carry burdens they were never meant to. My blue demons remain focused on her shoes. The Nike Shox , all white with the exception of the green Nike symbol, coordinate with her green scrubs. 18

Emerald stops. I stop. Two metal doors, with twelve by twelve inch wire meshed shatterproof glass windows, block our way. The tan brown paint is fading and chipped. Who cares about chipping paint in a mental institution anyway? The doors buzz, click, and are opened by a security guard on the opposite side. We continue our march. Emerald expertly navigates the hallways and double metal doors which buzz, then click. She stops in front of a door marked Dr. Presstridge. Pushing the door open, she turns to me for the first time since our departure from my room. I give her a wink, and then walk into the doctor’s office. 19

“Caleb, how are you doing this morning?” The fake smile plastered on the doctor’s face annoys me.20

“This morning I was doing well,” I reply. “As it is now twelve-thirty, I would have to say my afternoon has taken a turn for the worse.” 21

My sarcasm has no affect on the composed psychiatrist. He pushes up the wire frames of his designer bifocals, opens a manila folder with my name marked on it, and leans back in his oversized black leather chair. I take this time to park my rear in a much smaller, cloth covered gray chair. 22

“Is the hospital staff treating you well?” The doctor asks.23

“They feed me, shove medication down my throat, and allow me to smoke every two hours. I don’t remember all that in the brochure.”24

“Is there some reason for your sarcasm this morning?” Dr. Presstridge asks, his eyes scanning my charts.25

“I was not sarcastic this morning.” I reply.26

“I’m sorry. Is there some reason for your sarcasm this afternoon?”27

“Don’t placate me by saying you are sorry when you are not. Is that your best way of appeasing me and lulling me into a false sense of security?” 28

“The answer to your question is not relevant. We are here to discuss you, not me.” The doctor replies, a forced smile appears then vanishes.29

“Of course, you are being paid to interpret my mindset. Once you have completed this, you will give your findings to the court and move on to the next case with a clear conscious.”30

“That would be a way of wording it.”31

“And yet you take no time to know me: my feelings, my desires, my thoughts. More than likely you key off specific words and draw your conclusions.” 32

“I would say deductive reasoning plays a part in it also. Not to mention the many years of intense schooling I went through.” He leans forward in his gaudy chair, tosses my folder onto his desk, and readjusts his glasses.33

“Schooling which teaches you facts. You learn the facts, get a certificate, and take on the world one nut at a time.” 34

“I hardly think it proper to call yourself a nut, Caleb. We all have issues and circumstances in our lives which knock us off balance. We must overcome these setbacks. Besides, you’re just sick.”35

“Did your deductive reasoning figure that out? What about motivation?”36

“I am not here to figure out what motivated you to commit murder. I am here to analyze your state of mind.” This stated matter of factly, the doctor leans back once again.37

“So you’re saying you can effectively dissect the innermost parts of my mind and come to an educated decision based on the few simple words I communicate to you.” I allowed a small laugh to escape as I shook my head.38

“Okay Caleb, I will bite. What was your motivation and what did you hope to accomplish from murder?”39

I had proficiently removed the doctor from his position of command. He was now in for the ride of his life.40