hands once that Jasper could remember. High-school graduation. And their eyes had met. And Daddy had said, ‘I guess you’re a man now. Reckon you’d best start actin’ like one.’ Releasing Jasper’s hand before the words even faded. It was a firm handshake. A calloused hand.
How dare that asshole therapist insult his daddy’s memory? Jasper had answered, ‘How many times did
your
daddy jerk
you
off, Doc? How many times? Did you like it?’ and Bug Eyes had sweat real bad and squirmed and sunk down in his chair a little, and that was the last time Bug Eyes tried to assess Jasper’s mental health.
Until they’d let him out, that is.
They didn’t talk about his daddy that time.
The clock on the whitewashed office wall sounded like a ticking bomb. Though ticking down his doom or freedom, Jasper could not decide. Bug Eyes’ pencil rasped and wheezed, like strangled breaths, as it scraped against his notepad. And this time all Bug Eyes wanted to talk about was her.
Jasper could have told him how her cum smelt.
Coconut oil and sweat and saliva and canned salmon all musky and divine tangled in one sour scent. He could have mapped out and drawn the lines that marked her palms. Heart. Head. Life. He could have told him how in the mornings her breath smelt like coffee beans. Dry-roasted. But he didn’t. He sat there in silence, steering his mind from her, padlocking the doors that guarded his memories, listening to the clock tick, the pencil rasp. He sat there, not defiant, not insolent. Just there.
A tiny bead of sweat ran down Bug Eyes’ brow. He wiped it. A new bead formed. He cleared his throat. ‘Mr Curtis, do you understand that you are due to be released at six a.m. on this upcoming Tuesday, the tenth of July?’
‘Yessir.’
‘You understand that the board of directors of this here institution has granted you release due to good behaviour during time served?’
A small smirk he did not attempt to hide. ‘Yessir.’
‘Is something funny?’ The pencil stopped. Lifted off the page. Bug Eyes’ bulging eyes bored into him as if they knew him, wanted to know him, to understand.
Typical therapist psycho bullshit.
‘We both know why I’m being let out, Doc.’ His voice even. Steady.
A raised eyebrow arched way up high on that shiny bald head. Looked out of place so high with no hair above it. A fuzzy caterpillar climbing with no real place to go. No cocoon. Bug Eyes leaned back in his chair. Another bead of sweat dripped. ‘Oh? And why is that?’
The whir of a ceiling fan replaced the scratch of the pencil. Jasper wondered why he hadn’t noticed the fan
before. The shaky sound of its whir. He smiled. ‘Overcrowding. Y’all want my bunk for some new sinner.’ He laughed. ‘And I’ve served my time, Doc. Fact is, no matter how you sugar-coat it, y’all can’t keep me here no longer. I reckon this here interview is just ’bout pointless.’
Bug Eyes smiled. A tight, tiny smile that did not reach his eyes or stretch beyond his lips. Pencil back to page. Scratch. Rasp. Wheeze. ‘Is that so, Mr Curtis? I assume, then, that you know
why
you are meeting with me today.’
‘I reckon I do.’
‘And that would be?’
‘To evaluate my mental health.’
An identical tight-lipped smile. ‘That is correct, Mr Curtis, very good indeed.’ Pencil scratch, scratch, scratched on the page.
Jasper was surprised to realize he didn’t care what was written there. He knew the words were about him, but he also knew what lay inside far better than anyone else. He had never cared much what others thought. Time served did not alter that. And now, soon, he would be free.
She
cared. She always cared a bit too much what other folks thought. He could have told Bug Eyes that, but he didn’t. Held his tongue. Didn’t want to think about the way she used to be.
‘To be frank with you, Mr Curtis, I have been assigned to deem whether or not you remain a menace to society.’ The pencil stopped scratching.
How dare that asshole therapist insult his daddy’s memory? Jasper had answered, ‘How many times did
your
daddy jerk
you
off, Doc? How many times? Did you like it?’ and Bug Eyes had sweat real bad and squirmed and sunk down in his chair a little, and that was the last time Bug Eyes tried to assess Jasper’s mental health.
Until they’d let him out, that is.
They didn’t talk about his daddy that time.
The clock on the whitewashed office wall sounded like a ticking bomb. Though ticking down his doom or freedom, Jasper could not decide. Bug Eyes’ pencil rasped and wheezed, like strangled breaths, as it scraped against his notepad. And this time all Bug Eyes wanted to talk about was her.
Jasper could have told him how her cum smelt.
Coconut oil and sweat and saliva and canned salmon all musky and divine tangled in one sour scent. He could have mapped out and drawn the lines that marked her palms. Heart. Head. Life. He could have told him how in the mornings her breath smelt like coffee beans. Dry-roasted. But he didn’t. He sat there in silence, steering his mind from her, padlocking the doors that guarded his memories, listening to the clock tick, the pencil rasp. He sat there, not defiant, not insolent. Just there.
A tiny bead of sweat ran down Bug Eyes’ brow. He wiped it. A new bead formed. He cleared his throat. ‘Mr Curtis, do you understand that you are due to be released at six a.m. on this upcoming Tuesday, the tenth of July?’
‘Yessir.’
‘You understand that the board of directors of this here institution has granted you release due to good behaviour during time served?’
A small smirk he did not attempt to hide. ‘Yessir.’
‘Is something funny?’ The pencil stopped. Lifted off the page. Bug Eyes’ bulging eyes bored into him as if they knew him, wanted to know him, to understand.
Typical therapist psycho bullshit.
‘We both know why I’m being let out, Doc.’ His voice even. Steady.
A raised eyebrow arched way up high on that shiny bald head. Looked out of place so high with no hair above it. A fuzzy caterpillar climbing with no real place to go. No cocoon. Bug Eyes leaned back in his chair. Another bead of sweat dripped. ‘Oh? And why is that?’
The whir of a ceiling fan replaced the scratch of the pencil. Jasper wondered why he hadn’t noticed the fan
before. The shaky sound of its whir. He smiled. ‘Overcrowding. Y’all want my bunk for some new sinner.’ He laughed. ‘And I’ve served my time, Doc. Fact is, no matter how you sugar-coat it, y’all can’t keep me here no longer. I reckon this here interview is just ’bout pointless.’
Bug Eyes smiled. A tight, tiny smile that did not reach his eyes or stretch beyond his lips. Pencil back to page. Scratch. Rasp. Wheeze. ‘Is that so, Mr Curtis? I assume, then, that you know
why
you are meeting with me today.’
‘I reckon I do.’
‘And that would be?’
‘To evaluate my mental health.’
An identical tight-lipped smile. ‘That is correct, Mr Curtis, very good indeed.’ Pencil scratch, scratch, scratched on the page.
Jasper was surprised to realize he didn’t care what was written there. He knew the words were about him, but he also knew what lay inside far better than anyone else. He had never cared much what others thought. Time served did not alter that. And now, soon, he would be free.
She
cared. She always cared a bit too much what other folks thought. He could have told Bug Eyes that, but he didn’t. Held his tongue. Didn’t want to think about the way she used to be.
‘To be frank with you, Mr Curtis, I have been assigned to deem whether or not you remain a menace to society.’ The pencil stopped scratching.
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