“She asked me if I know anyone good for her. Can you believe that? No, I don’t know any normal people, I live in the margins. Sparknotes tell of a different score. If you know me the detail, let it roar.

I’m done living out the stoplight, canyon caress me, hit by the door
The fears coming out to the limelight, cannons confessing a Europe tour

Who’s left for a get-together, drop to the floor, dodge a boomerang
Nothing is golden, nothing is great, everyone heard how the fat one sang

If anything is learned like we like
Then surely we can live like we’d suppose
But we’ve been rolling easy like a tyke on a trike
Pretending it’s been lovely, soft as a rose

We’ve got to get up, face the music, sooner or later we’re gonna lose it
No, I don’t know any normal people– oof!”

A mop-headed man in bandages and a tight jacket opens his eyes for the first time.

“Alice! Are you there? I seem to have fallen during my constitutional.”

Silence hits the padded room. His head full of saxophones plops back down and the smile rolls of his face like a forgotten cymbal, chasing whatever music remained.

“It was all I had. Two hands and a rope,” the man inches toward the closest wall. “I kept pulling them to just have faith, that one day I’d make it big. I saw the audience. It’s not my fault that, that, why am I so itchy!”

He rubs his bandaged face against the floor, before recoiling.

“Augh! That smarts! Hoo boy, that’s… okay. Things aren’t what they seem, and that’s fine. I’m fine, I’ll be fine.”

Translucent figures dance on the walls. Slight reds, dim browns, smoked-out blacks, all wrapped in polyester. Surely they could hear the instruments. Ah, the instruments. How they eluded the common ear. The mop-headed puppet of a man could but squeal and chirp in imitation, struggling to share a mansion of music, when all he had… were these halls.

“The halls, the halls, these blasted halls. What good could escape from within these walls? Alice, where are you, my Alice?”

A frilled maid strolls toward the veiled entrance, whistling a low, haunting tune. Not wasting a second in her stride, she practically spits the words, that they may reach him before she does.

“Would you like a turn on the throne, Dismal Derek?”

He thought quietly, in suspicion that she might hear. Derek didn’t know what to think about an invitation to a throne room, but he wouldn’t waste an opportunity to meet the king.

“I didn’t know we had a king,” Derek stammered. He didn’t know any normal people, living in the margins; but neither had he met a king! Entering a secluded, tiny box of a room, she sat him down, and fastened fashionable leather bracers to his wrists.

“Wait here, while I fetch him.”

Peeking around from his seat, he hoped it wouldn’t take too long.

Hearing a brief buzzing, Derek sat at attention.

Oh, the spotlight! He must be here!

FLASH

The lights dim. Exit Derek, stage left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Afterword

It’s a wild history, that of the psychological field. As far as sciences go, it’s a wild teenager. From trepanning holes through skulls for headaches, to the shock therapy that’s only in our recent past, sometimes it makes me wish we were much further ahead than we currently are.

I’m glad to live in a country where therapy is regarded as a legitimate profession, with all the ill-treated patients living throughout our spotty globe. Honestly, it’s a mess no matter where you go. The best we can do, is be our best selves for those around us. Who knows how they see the world!

And wilder still, is the treatment of inmates and the mentally unwell. We keep them in intense correctional facilities, yet thanks to their pride that makes them human, they end up getting even wilder just to keep up with their shifting environments.

It’s a harsh reality that waits for us when we leave stray from the path. Stay healthy, stay dry, and take care.