We Are Monsters by Brian Kirk Page B

friends, had grown distant from his family, had never had a girlfriend, although he had fallen deeply in love with a girl he hardly knew, a freckled redhead who played a central role in his lyrical prose, always smiling, always batting her emerald eyes.
    But the only thing he longed for outside the asylum walls was to attend a concert. To stand front row, eyes closed, sweaty head bobbing, basking in the magic of live music, the symbiotic connection occurring between souls melding with the mass of humanity writhing around him. To be fueled by raw, primal energy. To be moved by the ecstatic expression of art.
    Dr. Alpert had bought a guitar for Randall to play. An acoustic guitar, but that’s what he preferred to play anyway. It had a blonde body blending into an amber frame and he called it Doreen, named after his secret love. Her voice had been just as sweet.
    Sometimes Eli would bring it by and ask Randall to play for him, and he’d conjure up the songs from his old lo-fi albums, written in the dank basement of his parents’ house. Songs written during the highs and lows of his manic episodes. Some happy, some sad—all the honest feelings of an unvarnished soul.
    Once Eli had cried. It was a silly song about the harrowing courtship between two frogs that had caused him to weep. He had seemed happy, though. He had been smiling, at least. And had thanked him when he left.
    This time Eli had decided to return the favor. He walked up and placed an iPod with a docking station on the table in front of Randall. “How about some Nirvana from the Unplugged show in ’94?” he said. He pressed a button and Kurt Cobain began strumming the guitar, a melancholy ghost risen from the grave.
    â€œAhh,” Randall garbled. He clapped his palsied hands together and smiled around his crooked dentures. His right knee began to jitter, but not in time to the beat. He sang along, his voice mild and melodic.
    Eli sat down across from him. He was unfamiliar with Nirvana’s music, but knew it was Randall’s favorite band. Or had been. He could see why. There was the same plain, unaffected angst in the singer’s voice that he heard in Randall’s. It was the voice of suffering.
    The song ended and Eli hit Pause.
    â€œI thought you’d like that,” Eli said, which was only half-true. He also knew that the singer’s suicide had marked a turning point in the progression of Randall’s psychosis. It’s when he had begun to see the demons.
    Randall hugged himself. His smile made him look ten years younger, even with the top denture hanging ajar. It reminded Eli of the teenager who had first been committed many years ago. “It’s…it’s…awesome,” Randall said, drawing out the last word into a droning om .
    â€œWhat’s your favorite song?”
    â€œOn this album?” Randall opened his eyes and leaned forward. “It’s a cover of “Oh, Me” by the Meat Puppets. Track eleven.”
    Eli found the song and pressed Play.
    It was slow, melodic, moody, dark. Randall fell into a type of trance listening to it. He dropped his head and rocked back and forth, his shaggy hair hanging over his eyes. One particular lyric stood out to Eli as he listened, something about infinity stored deep inside oneself.
    It brought back memories of Rajamadja, the enigmatic monk whom he had met in India. His guru. His savior. Rajamadja’s death, in many ways, had made the same impact on Eli as the singer’s suicide had on Randall. It was as if his guardian angel had left him to grovel alone among the demons. The ones from his past, adding an eerie ground mist to the graveyard of his mind.
    After returning from Vietnam, Eli decided to pursue a career in psychiatry, initially helping treat returning veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. A disorder he himself had suffered, even if he’d been unwilling to admit it at the time.
    Every so often