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Yesterday, the box held the most delicious, creamy slice of cheese I’d ever had in my life. After a few minutes of gnawing, I finally figured out that I was a mouse. At least in my mind. The nibbling gave it away, plus all I could think was that smell is intoxicating.

 

Today the box held a single red crayon.

 

As soon as I put on the fingerless gloves, my palms tingled, and I knew that they had synced with my forebrain implant. That’s when my hands stopped being my own.

 

The crayon: I. Wanted. It. So I picked it up, and before long I was scribbling nonsense onto the tabletop — a few zigzags and loops, just because.

 

But this wasn’t just a crayon. There was a paper wrapper! I picked at the edges with my nails, freeing any tiny strips of paper which I could pull away.

 

Red wax built beneath my fingernails, but I didn’t care.

 

Finally, a loose end broke free. The paper cylinder unraveled leaving the bare red crayon smooth and glistening.

 

Naked, I thought. The crayon is naked, and I couldn’t stop laughing.

 

At my fingertips, the box was littered with torn up red scraps. A Rorschach of confetti. I flicked the crayon into a spin, and it made a cool hollow sound against the box. So I did it again. And again, and again, until a guard pulled me away.

 

When the exercise ended, I was back in handcuffs and sitting with the doc.

 

“Who do you think you were this time?” Dr. Wright asked me.

 

“A kid. Maybe three or four years old,” I said.

 

“That was an easy one for you, wasn’t it? Just remember it’s going to get harder.”

 

“It felt pretty real.”

 

“That’s the point,” she said, jetting her eyes between me and her touchpad. “What’s the first word that comes to mind when you think about that crayon?”

 

“Control,” I said. “No. Relaxed.”

 

“Good. You have just experienced the mind of a toddler. Haven’t you ever wondered why they always seem to pick off the paper from crayons?” She raised an eyebrow.

 

I never had kids, but I understood.

 

“Well.” Dr. Wright motioned to the guards. “We’ll pick up again tomorrow.”

 

“Wait,” I said. “One more thing.”

 

She halted the guard with her palm.

 

“I was on laundry duty yesterday and I saw a mouse. I wondered whether it was hungry and wished that I had some cheese to feed to it.”

 

Dr. Wright smiled. “No, you didn’t,” she said patiently. Her voice had a resonant hum that made her likeable even when she was shutting you down. “I know you’re eager to prove you’re better, Alex, but it has to be real to mean something.”

 

I knew I lied but was still pissed I didn’t get away with it.

 

* * *

 

“Where’s the box?” I asked at our next session.

 

“I want us to talk a little first. A little preparation. What do you think Mr. Ritchie is thinking right now?”

 

“How the hell am I supposed to know? The guy hired me to finish his basement. I wasn’t his therapist.”

 

“Just try,” said Dr. Wright.

 

My hands tingled. They were conditioned to when my chip was being activated. Gloves or no gloves, it happened when I tried to empathize.

 

“He misses her,” I said quietly.

 

“Who?”

 

“Anna. Sweet little Anna.”

 

“What about you?” Dr. Wright asked. “Do you miss her?”

 

I nodded.

 

“She meant a lot to you, didn’t she?”

 

My eyes pooled. “I loved her.”

 

“Why did you do it then, Alex? Why did you kill her?”

 

“If she couldn’t be mine, she couldn’t be anyone’s.”

 

My answer seemed to satisfy Dr. Wright. She knew all about me. She'd even drilled down to an old charge from middle school for slapping my history teacher. She had given me a C+, so yeah, she got what she deserved. Dr. Wright told me once that I’m a psychopath. I explained I’m just a man who gets what he wants.

 

She reached into the cabinet and set up the next box. She gestured to the gloves.

 

Yesterday’s puddle of torn red paper was still in the box. Exactly how I’d left it. I hesitated to touch it. I didn’t want to disturb a single piece. No. Not a single piece. My lips were shaking; I started sobbing like a kid. The red, pitiful mess was sacred, and I thought to myself that there would never be another one just like it again. I spent the next 10 minutes in a cavern of sadness.

 

“Anna,” I told Dr. Wright when we debriefed after the exercise. “It felt like a shrine, like a piece of her she left behind before she died.”

 

“Before you killed her,” Dr. Wright clarified.

 

I remembered Anna’s bedroom. The pink ruffled curtains flapping in the breeze against her open window.

 

“Mr. Ritchie. That’s who I was today. Her father.” The gloves were off, but I was still trembling.

 

“It’s a reasonable guess, Alex, and a sign you’re making progress. But that’s not it.”

 

I took another breath, just like they taught me to. “Then who?”

 

“This is one we’re going to revisit every so often, Alex. With time.”

 

* * *

 

After Alex left, Dr. Wright slid the box back among many others, each filled with a flea market’s worth of prompts: underwear, a beer bottle, and a miniature American flag all piled together. Each reserved for the right occasion, and the right prisoner.

 

Alex’s guard stopped back later to see her. “Who was he supposed to be today? I have to know.”

 

She smiled, adjusting her thick-rimmed glasses.

 

“Empathy isn’t enough,” she said. “He has to learn deep introspection, to recognize the complexity of his own mind as well. Today, he was simply himself.”

Copyright 2024 - SFS Publishing LLC

Torn Red Paper

Who was Alex supposed to be today?

Jonathan H. Smith

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