(This is a short story, based on real events.)

It wasn't the first time it happened, the first time a thought popped into my head that seemed strange to me. A thought that felt foreign in my brain, something unlike anything I normally might think-- so what provoked it? It was a question that haunted me and tied up my mind for some time, until she spoke the words outloud.

"I thought he said, 'I get to torture the bipolar,' haha." She mused, but we both knew that wasn't what he said, and I was right-- a truth that was set aside as I realized I had that same thought, but knew it was inaccurate, and too, felt that familiar strangeness of the idea in my mind. There it was, the answer to my question.

Well, two obvious possibilities anyway.

One, the impulsively whimsical notion I was actually picking up on someone elses thoughts... as a relative nobody, insignificant in society and big on finding ways to bring peace-- the idea of being telepathic, even to a small degree is appealing.

I digress, Two, the more rational and logical of them, I simply knew her well enough to subconsciously anticipate how she'd hear the sarcastic mumblings of a character on a TV show. Perhaps thinking it, also knowing, that she would comment as I, too, often do.

Both were points she laughed about out loud, leaving us both in amused quiet wonderment of those possibilities.

|| another-proser ||

A kid was thrown in, and he sat by the toilet, which was in open view. The kid was insane, sores on his face, a tic that made both eyes jump. But after the spasms, a look of pure psychosis took him over, extended his frontal lobe and made his stare sickening. One of the inmates looked at him, at his hair high and scattered, at his facial hair just beginning to sprout, and the inmate laughed.

“Looking pretty on top of your game, homie.”

The kid sat there and stared at him, and the stare became worse, Helena. The kid’s eyes were killing him, and a half-smile crossed the kid’s face. The stare began to eat him alive. The inmate, a big, black guy with short dreads, cocked his head at him:

“You lookin’ at somethin’ motherfucker?”

The kid stared harder, the smile became worse, and the black guy got up off his chair and threw his arms out.

“What, motherfucker? No, you ain’t fuckin’ clownin’ me, dawg. I’ll clean the floor with your goddamn peckerwood ass!”

The door opened and two deputies came in holding their pepper spray. The black guy ran back to his chair and put his hands up, but the deputies only glanced at him. They stood over the kid. One of the deputies looked at the other.

“They fucked up. He was supposed to go into a single cell.”

They took a step back.

“Alright, Rodney, you’re going to have to stand for us, do you understand? We don’t want to have to spray you again, and we know you don’t want us to.”

The kid looked at me, but it wasn’t a look of madness, it wasn’t a look like he’d given the other guy. It was a look for help behind the calm psychosis. I raised an eyebrow at him, tried to think to him: stand up, kid, don’t let these fuckers take you by force, it’ll only hurt you down the road. He stared at me, and I nodded to him. He looked back up to them then stood, turned, and they cuffed him. The black guy nodded at him, “Yeah, bitch. Best to get your punk ass out-my cell before I kick your little bitch ass back to the suburbs.”

One of the deputies turned around.

“You’re lucky we didn’t let him rip your fucking head off, player.”

They walked him out and put him in a cell across the hall. The black guy leaned back.

“They just did that motherfucker a favor.” He looked at me. I walked over to the toilet and pissed, flushed, washed my hands and sat. A group was called out, four of them, chained and walked down the hall to a courtroom. The black guy stared across. It was the two of us.

“What you in on, man? You look like a smart motherfucker. I know you ain’t done no real time, because you got some real color in your ink.”

“Don’t talk to me, man.”

He leaned back and laughed.

“Oh, one of them strong, silent woods. How about I come over there and slap the shit outta you, boy?”

“I’m not a wood, motherfucker. But be my guest. Catch a new charge. I’ll let you hit me right in the face.”

“Chickenshit.”

“Yeah. I’m going to trial. What are you pleading out to?”

“Man, fuck you.”

“You’re not my type.”

He rested his elbows on his knees and looked at me, then broke up laughing. I stared at him while he laughed, and I looked around the cell. Bars, concrete, a bare toilet, and screams from the cells across the halls. I smiled at him and had a laugh. It was all that was left.