smell of disinfectant on the yellowed tiled floor, dances with the
stink of pee and heralds my attendance to the room, once more.
I can hear the crack and zap of the electrical rods that will rightly let me see the world as it should be, once again.
only here to help: they’ve told me that enough, for goodness sake
mister smith it’s nineteen fifty three. This is a modern world.
teach mathematics at the local college where the students can call me
prof. Some do, some don’t, you can’t enforce these things.It isn’t that I
am ashamed of anything I’ve done; I’ve tried to be a man of tolerance,
I love my wife and my two upright, all American children - they will make us all proud, one day.
as they strap the rods to the side of my head, I remember all the pain
that’s to come and how it’s for my best, I mean, they’ve told me so.
was only a photo, that’s what I told my wife. That’s what I told the
cops. That’s what I told the judge. That’s what I told the doctors.
can hear the hum of the machine, getting ready to burn that dark devil
inside my head. I’ll be a better man for it. I know that now.
A professor of Mathematics shouldn’t have a photo like that in his desk. bobby stevenson 2016