The King of Child Killers

Since our common crime within the institution is indifference, falling into routine is comforting. We "appreciate" the administration of our medication at the same time each day.  Our arms hang loosely at our sides until we put them into our pockets while we yawn frequently to spread the contagion of disregard sometimes even to our custodians. We nod when spoken to as an alternative to paying attention and then we "smile". We loll minus the sweetness of a pop so we are often mistaken for suckers. If we're not careful we can slip into contempt, which is considered a sign of recovery.

We have much in common as our thoughts continually wander while we ponder time and its meaninglessness. When questioned, our default response is "uh huh."

We don't see a lot of kids around here and we don't miss 'em but we don't like it when they are murdered. Child murder was the beginning of my disenchantment with Stephen King. Horror is no problem as we rarely generate enough empathy to be frightened but when somebody kills a kid, we don't like it, even to the point of irritation which is considered to be a sign of growth here at Cazenovia.

King killed the kid in Cujo. He didn't have to do that. The kid was innocent and I assumed that King was not a child killer. I had begun to trust him and then he killed the kid in Cujo. When my custodian Kathy noticed some irritation on my part when discussing Cujo, she stated that she "had reason to suspect" that I was pissed off. I didn't let her in on the accuracy of her perception. I just said "whatever" and took my pills. I didn't even favor her with a nod.

I knew that what she suspected was true. She knew it too as she kept feeding me more King. Pet Semetary didn't help. It was the first of her King feeds that I didn't finish reading. Some people around here fake taking their medicine, I'm told. I faked reading Pet Semetary. When she asked me how I "liked it", I shrugged half-heartedly. I elevated my shoulders. I lifted my hand. I raised my palms. My body language that ached to shreik, whispered "who cares" as I stifled my dislike and made an excuse to leave the session.

I told her that I needed to write. She liked that idea. I went into the kitchen and wrote a 5000 word  descriptive essay on the kitchen sink. Since my essay contained no violence or sex, she inferred that the story was a suppression of both violence and sex with faucets and pipes and drainage being erotic, symbolic, phallic and ultra suggestive. She loved it. She took it home and shared it with her partner Rhonda who agreed on the graphic honesty of the words as their eyes sparkled.Their giggles amplified into throaty laughter as they kissed, while they stroked one another and reached a climax that I alone knew was a product of deep misunderstanding.

At least that's what Kathy told me, looking for a reaction.

I kept my face blank, while she babbled on, jabbering with good cheer.

Finally, I managed to say "I'm glad you liked it" which I admit, I was.

She was after all. my only reader and we've got to give the reader what they want as the murderous King had failed to do for me in Cujo.