A narrative of strings and limbs [Mylee/Rudyard]

The foolish ones are the those who search for escape routes through dead ends.

It turns out that most of the people who pass through here tend to be the foolish ones looking for escape routes in dead ends. No room for sugar coating or excuses, I'm not bothered to hear their stories even no matter how 'tragic' they may be. I've never felt the weight of tragedy hang above my head anyway. Whether they lost parents, brothers or sisters, whether they're going through some kind of divorce or they've lost everything, I really don't care; I tell them how it is. 'You're a fucking mess, waste of fucking space.' It's always said blankly with a frozen sneer of disgust - sympathy's foreign to me anyway.

Junkies, draining our resources drier than the deep split ground of an orange desert. The biological clock ticks faster for them than anyone else but mother and father insist we help them. 'They're still people, have some compassion.' Mother would tell me, as if scolding me for my suggestion to turn them away. I would simply scoff - compassion's difficult to mimic even for me. Masks are rarely sturdy enough to hold the tone of compassion for an extended period at a time without a break. Even I, who's lived a masquerade his entire life, have yet to perfect the art. Puppet masters still need their practice after all.

"Waste of space." The sentence falls heavy from my lips and I don't take it back - after all, the weight of the truth is heavier than anything else. The junkies are scrambling for escape routes when we're all faced with dead ends in one way or another. I've seen men and women ranging from their late forty's to late teens but they're all still deluded children in my eyes. Deluded themselves into thinking a pure temple such as their bodies are worth polluting with chemicals, deluded themselves into thinking every needle that violates skin will provide them with rocket fuel to smash through dead ends and vanquish their issues.

I shake my head, pulling off my rubber gloves and setting them on the table in front of my father. "I'm done here." It's not a request to leave, it's a statement that I'm leaving. I volunteered here to gain knowledge of how people tick, not to hear the sob stories of the foolish. They definitely are foolish. Only foolish people look for escape routes through dead ends.

I never expected glory or even thank yous, but I will never stoop to be so low as to offer false hope to the foolish who continue to bash their heads against dead ends in hope the dead end will crumble and they can crawl through. Whoever would have thought to stoop so low would be to stoop low enough to offer false sympathies to the deluded masses?

He doesn't protest, just sighs and reaches over to grab the rubber gloves and he throws them in the tiny metal bin. He understands. Hours of examining their rotting teeth, glass bones and twig limbs and even I can't resist the urge to recoil in disgust. And when my nose wrinkles and my eyes narrow it's not because I'm worried, it's not because I even care, it's because I don't understand. I wrack my brain, bite my lip, scratch my head and even now I cannot understand how an escape route can twist someone to the point where they'd transform themselves into something so grotesque they barely recognise themselves in the mirror. I came here to observe the mindset of the vulnerable - I find it hard to belief the relief of an escape route can be worth the cost.

It's instinctive, upon seeing him toss the rubber gloves into the bin can I turn, stuffing my hands into my pocket I almost storm out of the clinic. I suppose even I'm at a dead end - but I'm not foolish enough to smash my head against the wall and hope it'll crumble to reveal an escape route.

Upon exposing myself to the outside world, I wear the mask of indifference. I've been hiding behind masks for years, playing with strings of anyone in my way - this is nothing. The drug of exhaustion courses through my veins like a river and I feel the manacles of what I witnessed drag behind me with every footstep across the street.

The promise of summer is a clear mockery, hanging above the sky, tempting everyone like a child and a toy. However, even for me, it's all eclipsed. I don't even look up to the sky, just keep my eyes fixed on the ground moving under me with every heavy footstep that sounds against the ground. I inhale deeply, steadying myself underneath the mask of indifference. The mask shatters if there's a hint of an external factor.

My movement is automatic like a machine, every turn and curve natural and rehearsed from years of routine and technique. My head knows where I'm going before I fully do. I'm more focused on the shackles dragging beneath my feet than my destination - the end never really mattered to me anyway, it's mostly about the here and now. Criticise, I'm not a long term thinker but even I know dead ends have no escape routes. No amount of chemicals can fix what's impossible to achieve.

Stop - push it to the back of my mind. It's all behind me now and dwelling risks breaking the mask of indifference subtly worn.

I let out a sigh when I look up. The park's like my natural habitat, relax, strip my mind from whatever and focus on strategy. Even a puppet master needs a way to acquire the puppets for his show; they don't just appear from thin air - that would be too boring. I recognise it all even though I've barely looked at it. The tall tree and it's long branches hanging in the distance, green grass crushed beneath my foot, the bench standing proudly right behind me. I allow myself to collapse onto it as expected.

"Fuck this." I scoff at the ground and let out a dry chuckle of amusement. I can hear footsteps approaching me but they remain ignored. After all, the end never mattered to me, it was always about the here and now. Still, forget my damned life policy, even I know that trying to discover an escape route through a dead end is fruitless.