Claustrophobia

For twenty years, the roller coaster rode non-stop,

squealing sagas of wives who cheated on spouses.

Hissing horror stories of husbands whose fists

possessed no self-control. Spinning loop-laden

tales of crooks who snatched files from companies

or cash from 7-Elevens. Whipping up wind-snarled

wails of hookers who hungered for normality, if only

they could squirm free from their pimp's harness.

Rattling tattles of teens who bullied classmates who

later swallowed sleep-inducing pills. Screeching

declarations of dads who played with daughters who

were afraid to play with them anymore. Vomiting

admissions of stabbings, shootings, strangulations,

and frat-boy date rapes. But it was all an accident.

It wasn't premeditated, any of it. The sinners were

Eves, unwitting victims of unnamed serpents. He is

kneeling in the rectangular room, shouldered by red

velvet words and ghosts of wooden reveries as he

wonders whether the funhouse mirrors will ever

disappear. He summons his nonexistent mental

telepathy to seal up the mini squares in the screen,

a fitting revenge -- for what, he cannot remember.

Perspiration pops as thick as pus and feasts on his

flesh like a freakshow of drug-addled roaches.

His nail-gnawed fingers tremble as he lifts the 

metal-encased magic potion to his lips, preparing

to wave his wand for the six or seven-hundredth

time. The world is sinking into a quicksand 

concoction of satin and slime, but he has the

antidote -- or so someone promised him years ago.

Someone whose face is a chalk outline in his 

memory now. Half of these souls will return in a 

month and cough up the same vices. He recognizes

their voices, but maybe they recognize things, too.

No mind. He will continue to play the game of 

who's fooling who. He winces, for he entered this

profession to heal, not harm, and who is he to judge

them? The elixir's sweetness has waned over the 

years, a calamity or blessing that he will face when

time permits. For now, he must keep himself in 

check, lest he drop what he dare not drop. Someone

may hear. Someone may tell. The next confessor

will be a hypocrite, for he too is a repeat offender.

But it was all an accident. He can conjure up neither

Eve nor serpent to blame. It wasn't premeditated.

Any of it.