by Tiana Laveen
“Aaron, that is a perfect segue. I ask again, who are you?”
Aaron lowered his throbbing head and ran his hand over the damn thing, feeling the buzzed softness against his palm.
“I’m the wrong man for you to fuck with, Dr. Owens… That’s who I am.” He slowly glanced back at the man, his eyes blurring with freshly spent rage. “Now, I’ve been real nice to ya up until this point.” He fisted his right hand, relaxed it, then repeated the movements. “I know what you’re doing, but you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. I can play this silly game with you, make up some shit, tell you what you want to hear and be on my way, but I refuse to be your success story, the one where you can tell your buddies you broke a white supremacist, a Nazi, a nationalist, and made him see the evil of his ways.”
“Tell me about that.”
“Tell you about what?”
“About your hatred towards non-whites.”
“I don’t hate non-whites, you see…” He shook his finger in a disapproving way at the doctor. “That’s the problem with people like you… you lump us all together. I don’t hate Hispanics, blacks, Asians, none of them. I don’t like them, but I definitely don’t hate them. They can’t help themselves. They are following their nature. I can’t hate a bear for being a goddamn bear. I can’t hate, say,” he shrugged, “a cockroach for being a cockroach… I don’t have to want one in my house, but hatred is not what I’m about.”
“What are you about, Aaron?”
“I’m about the preservation of my race, my children and future grandchildren. My people are vanishing, slowly disappearing. The white race is in grave danger and our values are being flushed down the toilet due to a derelict, perverted society. I’m trying to protect it, to ensure that this doesn’t happen.”
“This is the most you’ve talked to me, ever.”
“And?” He threw up his hands.
“You can speak and speak and speak, go on and on about this movement, your involvement in this group, but you can’t share one darn sentence about yourself, the stuff about you that exists outside of this construct, your xenophobia, and intolerance. Racially related matters rule your entire existence. Don’t you find that peculiar?”
“Not really. But first let me correct you. Xenophobia implies that I’m afraid of people that are not like myself. That’s not the case; I’m not scared of anyone. Xenophobia… it’s one of those fancy terms thrown about by white, liberal brainiacs such as yourself who like to sit around with your hazelnut Starbucks coffee and Jesus sandals, pontificating over shit you don’t understand but wish you did.”
Dr. Owens cracked a smile, then looked as if he were clearly stifling a bout of laugher.
“Funny, right? Funny but true… After your wine tasting, you people gather by roaring fires in big houses, half drunk off your asses, and discuss the African kids you wanna adopt and the ills of the world while passin’ around trays of aged cheese and sour grapes. Then you get these brain fuck, Dudley-Do-Right jobs to make you feel better, like you’re helpin’ the world but you aren’t, just taking up space and cloggin’ toilets after eating all that goddamn granola. You’re just a worthless turd.”
Dr. Owens burst out laughing, sighed, and ran his hand over his stomach.
“You’re funny, I give that to you, but let’s get back on task. You’ve now spent over two minutes telling me who you think I am, but once again, Aaron, you haven’t told me who you think you are. You continue to toss insults my way, use inflammatory language, and it has done nothing to improve your situation right here, right now.” With a huff, he crossed his legs and folded his hands onto his lap. “Who are you, Mr. Pike?”
“I am my work, and I can talk about myself without referencing to this. I just chose to not do that with you because you’re like the police.”
“How so?”
“Every word I say can and will be used against me.”
The man burst out laughing again as he spun slowly around and around in his chair, a carefree spark in his eyes. His reaction crawled inside Aaron, made his nerves itch.
“So, we’re two weeks in, Aaron. Let’s let today be different, shall we?”
“What is it you want me to do, Dr. Owens?” He leaned forward, as if about to engage in a football huddle and have a discussion of the future play-by-play.
“I want you to do what you’ve been fighting, but deep down it’s the thing you truly want to do once and for all.”
“And what’s that?”
“…Tell me the truth.”
“About what?”
“About yourself. Let’s not make this a circular conversation, Aaron. You have proven you are not easily broken, but so have I. We can keep going for the rest of the time you are here, battling and moving about on this Ferris wheel, or we can drop our swords and end this now. If you aren’t afraid, then prove to me you aren’t. Words are meaningless without action…”
They both sat quiet for a moment or two.
“Where do you want me to begin?”
“Tell me what I asked you in the questionnaire. Tell me about your life as a child.”
“Why?” His brows bunched as annoyance re-entered the picture, taking over the canvas.
No… you can’t have that part of me. I choose whom to share that with, when and how… I have control over this… not YOU.
“That is over and done with. It’s much better to focus on what we can change, what’s going on right now. All that childhood shit doesn’t mean anything. That time is gone… over. Done with.” He’d exposed himself a bit for Melissa. It was the least he could do since she’d done the same, but Dr. Owens was different. He could use it against him, make him pay. He got nothing in return. With Melissa, it had been a ploy to get a key to reach inside her. Sure, he’d told the damn truth, but he was trying to establish familiarity with the woman… make her give him a chance.
“You know why I want you to discuss it, Aaron, and that’s what worries you the most.”
“I told you I’m not afraid of anything on this damn planet, and I meant that. They have my ass in the goddamn hole, had me living in solitary then moved me to the death wing, with guys that do weird shit like cannibalism and rape and murder of their own goddamn grandmothers, so why in the furry foxtrot fuck would I, of all people, be afraid of these mind hump and dump questions?!”
“You’re not afraid of the questions, you’re afraid of the answers… Prove to me that it means nothing to you… I dare you.”
Aaron looked at the pencil necked bastard a bit longer. He dreamed of taking his fists and pummeling the jerk, breaking his damn nose and every bone in his face, making the fucker choke on his own blood and swallow his goddamn tongue for dessert.
…You’re so lucky a guard is sitting outside your office door and I don’t want my sentence extended any longer than it is due to the likes of you.
“I was born in Frisco City, Alabama,” he began upon a sigh. “My mother, the vulgar bitch that birthed me, her name is Mabel Gregory and my father, the loser that donated sperm and spent most of his waking hours being a king-sized loser, his name was Arnold Pike.” He cleared his throat and leaned back in his seat. “I have a sister and brother; they’re fraternal twins, two years younger than me. When I was in my teens though, I didn’t get to spend as much time with them. Anyway, I went to Frisco City Elementary School and—”
“Wait…” Dr. Owens leaned forward and casually opened his notebook, jotting down notes. “Why didn’t you spend a lot of time with your siblings?”
Aaron’s jaws tightened as he swallowed down another ball of hearty phlegm. “Because we were in foster care and not everyone was willing to take on three kids at once. That’s why.”
“I see. Why were you in foster care?”
Aaron sighed, and looked back up at the painting of the little boy holding the rifle… How sad he must’ve been, afraid… all alone in the wilderness at night. Did he get lost? Was he out hunting with his father and they’d become separated? Maybe he ha
d something to prove, wanted to show his old man he could bring home a deer but then he’d gotten lost and the miserable darkness fell…
“Aaron?” Dr. Owens called out, shaking him loose from his wayward deliberations.
“Yes… uh.” He ran his fingers up and down the arm of the chair, feeling trapped in the place, desperately wishing to burst free and escape his own knotted up muscles. “I was in foster care because my mother would hit us.”
“I see… and your father?”
“My father had a gambling problem, and was emotionally abusive more than anything else. He liked to get into it wit’ ’er. He had some issues. I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.”
The two men just looked at each other for a moment or two, and without a need to be urged or budged once more, Aaron continued.
“My mother was only sixteen when she had me, eighteen when she had Joe-Joe and Amy…just a kid herself.”
“Aaron, describe your mother to me in five words,” the man asked, his eyes still focused on the paper he was writing on.
“What is this, a game? Why five? Is five a magic number?” He smirked.
Dr. Owens smiled ever so slightly, “No. I chose five because it forces you to think about all of her characteristics, but not become bogged down by the request. If you can’t come up with five, then try four.”
“Nah, that’s not the problem.” He waved the man off. “I just wanted to know.”
“…You needed it to make sense?”
“No. I needed to know the motivation behind it.”
“But isn’t that trivial? Especially since you are more than likely well aware of where I’m going with this.”
“No, because I need to understand how many rabbits out of hats you want me to unleash…”
“Aaron.” He said his name as if slightly exasperated. “I don’t want manipulative tricks and mind games from you. I have no doubt that you could, at the very least, confuse me, if you wished. We both know what you are capable of but that would only be a detriment to yourself at this point, to keep up that farce. My life would go on unaffected, but so would yours, and that is where the true tragedy lies.”
He turned away, broke their eye contact with a lowered gaze.
“I believe you want to understand yourself, Aaron. I believe you have real concerns and you want them addressed; you are ready. You know something is wrong and you’re tired!”
Aaron got ready to protest, but then, he swallowed his defense, allowed the situation to keep playing out, growing exhausted of the self-imposed masquerade.
“I’m begging you to let me help you, Mr. Pike. I need you to believe you’re worth it, though.” The man’s eyes glistened with sincerity. Aaron cleared his throat, looked the guy square in the eye.
Defenses. Finally. DOWN.
“My childhood was like Halloween night on repeat.” He rocked a bit in his chair as he spoke his heart. “Sun up to sun down… nothin’ but demons, Dr. Owens…but you already knew that. You got what you came for, a confession.” The words slipped out, the truth in all of its sludge-covered glory. The admittance burst from a heart that promised to never reveal his secrets. But it was too late, for he’d fought himself and lost. Something inside him pushed him forward, corralled the veracity of his fractured life and demanded that the truth be told! He hated himself for it and looked away, realizing that Dr. Owens was getting to him. Hell… it was already accomplished, the deed done… He’d gotten to him, took up shop in a private dwelling barely privy to Aaron himself.
“You… you got me.” He chortled, feeling a bit defeated, but relieved, too.
The mind fucker had broken him down like sentence structure diagrams. Daily interrogations, self-analysis assignments, and the man saying just the right thing at the wrong damn time had done him in. He’d already been softened to the texture of a soft boiled egg thanks to a pen pal that played hard to get, making him ripe for the kill. The man was an evil genius, biding his time with the patience of a sly saint.
“Aaron, help me help you make Halloween trick-or-treaters stop knocking on your door, demanding things from you that no longer serve you well.” He clapped his hands loudly, sounding the alarm. “Time to put the candy away, Mr. Pike. Time to turn off the porch light, and end this once and for all. You are moving forward, not because I won or wore you down. You are conceding because you want the hurt to go away. You have no more to give, and the night has drawn to a close. Let the sunlight in… let it in, Aaron. It’s time…”
Chapter Eight
“COME HERE, GIVE me your hands.”
The little boy looked up at her with those eyes made of pure fire, his body shaking and a trace of saliva forming in the corner of his mouth. His pink hued eyes told the story of an hour’s worth of tears that seemed to never cease falling. Finally, Zion placed his tiny hands in her own, trusting her, giving up the gauntlet.
“Zion, you’re safe.”
“I’m safe,” he repeated.
“You’re well.”
“I’m well.”
“You’re one of the brightest children I know!”
“I’m bright!” He smiled weakly.
“Tell me what’s troubling you today?” she questioned the seven-year-old, looking him squarely in the eye.
“You don’t like me, Ms. Armstrong.”
“Zion, that’s not true. Why would you think that?”
“You were late!” And like that, within a fraction of a second, she understood. It all made sense… She took the boy by his hand and led him to the other side of the classroom, where it was a bit quieter.
“Have a seat in that chair.” She pointed to the shiny, red painted thing. He did as instructed, swiped the back of his hand across his snotty nose and looked at her. Such a sad, sad face he wore…
“You said I was late today. Yes, I had a meeting this morning and Mrs. Byrd had to begin class. That’s not typical.”
“You were late,” the boy repeated, this time with a trace of anger in his tone.
“Yes.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “I was. I’m sorry. Hey.” She glanced over at the other children building things out of Legos while others read quietly to themselves. “Do you want to play with the keyboard? You love the keyboard.” She rose to her feet.
“Yes!” he said excitedly, jumping up and about as if on fire.
“Okay, great. Let’s…”
“One, two, three, late… three, two, one… on time. One, two, three, late…three, two, one… on time.”
And then… she paused. Zion kept repeating the little diddy as they drew closer to the cubby, chock full of instruments. A smile creased her face as she took him by the shoulders and made him face her.
“Zion, pick out the keyboard and I will be right back!”
“When?” he called out, his brows furrowed.
“In five minutes, six tops.”
He hesitated, looked at the clock, then nodded in agreement.
Mia skirted away down the hall with her cell phone in hand.
“Yes, hello, this is Ms. Armstrong from Compass School. I’m calling to speak to Zion Fox’s therapist, Mr. Cambridge. I would like to meet with him sometime today if he has time. It’s important…very important…”
…Several hours later
AARON HAD STARED at the doctor for quite a while after the man spoke those words to him, and he slid into a daydream towards the final seconds, one that consisted of stealing glances at the little boy who drifted further into the forest…
Soon, he’d stood on his feet, refusing to disclose another damn word to Dr. Owens. He shut down when something inside screamed, ‘Time out’… Things were moving too fast. Regardless of all the psychological pitfalls, he realized in that session that the man was right; his time was running out, but he was the one that held the clock and said so…
In that moment, he’d tiptoed between giving in, bailing, and tearing the bastard’s resolve apart. He could do it for he enjoyed making grown men cry, pinching
their pain in a very specific way, getting to them where it hurt. He knew how to push Dr. Owens, and despite what the man thought, he hadn’t even scratched the goddamn surface. Calling him a hippie faggot were almost terms of endearment. He had no real intention of trying to hurt the bastard, despite what the good doctor believed.
No, he kept his big weapons to himself for he realized soon after meeting the fucker that despite his resistance, the man was only trying to help.
Was he a guide in the forest? Perhaps an evening star shining down in the blood red sky? Blood… he had blood on his hands, plenty of it, but that was another matter altogether. Maybe the little boy in the picture was hunting after all and in full control. Maybe the child only pretended to be afraid… Isn’t that how wolves in sheep clothing were? Playing a role? Making a believer out of the true sheep?
The harmful can’t do much, for the ones shouting and stomping often fall onto their empty threats like swords. But the quiet ones, the ones that slink against the backdrop of the enigmatic night, disappearing into almost obscurity are the ones to keep a keen eye on…
“Aaron, answer me, damn it!” The warden’s words shook him out of his deliberations as he played back that morning’s therapy session.
“I’m telling you that I didn’t do it.” He cracked his knuckles, falling again into a forced state of calm.
“Sure you didn’t!” Warden Huckleberry scoffed and rolled his eyes. “There was another flare up and one of our officers was hurt. I strongly suggest you make sure this never happens again. I’ve had it with you! Do you think this a game, huh? You think this is gonna work out in your favor? It won’t, you piece of shit! This is your last damn chance!” He stood slowly from his seat, his eyes disappearing into his damn skull, brandishing only the mere remains of dark blue slits.
