The following is a short narrative, dear reader.

One that involves a youth, that I have

recently taken an interest in, because, as we all know, young people make up much of the
world that involves unexpected and riveting folly, to such a degree that, in turn, as law-
abiding model citizens, we turn our backs on anything crazy they might do, which might,
at the time, seem out of the ordinary, because…we fear, yes we fear, anything which
might make us leave the comfort of our own safe existences. It is this fear that we must
eradicate, and leave for dead, and in unison, make an effort to truly consider that which is
disagreeable, and strive to make it agreeable, and to try and look at what is thought of as
“crazy, unruly and insane” as maybe a misunderstood form of uniqueness. A misread
value, which in time, I hope, we will all appreciate and come to love.

Regarding this youth’s case, and what came from it, I find myself with the need to write
down a warning, for it is this same case, that not only intrigued me – but held me in a
very steadfast manner, under the imaginative hospice that I would call “care for another”,
when in fact what I should have been considering ought to have been the “concern for the
safety of another”, and the warning that comes from all of this is embodied in the
following statement: do not be fooled by appearances, but all the same, refrain from
passing judgment on first appearances – second chances are golden.

Reader, it is important for you, and for all of us to love the differences between us that
make us strike out from the blankness that is the multitude, and then, if strength is left in
us yet, strain to leave said proverbial crowd, and come forth and appear as a single
solitary radiant light, shining brightly amidst an ocean of sameness. It is this light that
manifests among the darkness, from the courageous efforts of the few who dare to be
different.

However, coming back to my initial warning, one must pay heed, and be careful, for not
all light is pure and white, some light, in fact, is composed of harmful elements, which
burn and scathe on contact. Pay close attention to whatever comes your way in life, for it
is the small nuances that shout out the loudest of messages. It is also the unmitigated
biased blindness that makes way for the most tragic occurrences, so, attempt to be as
unbiased as possible at all times, trying to see things for what they are, and not for what
you might want them to be.

With this in mind, I will let things unfold as they will, and now, take pen to paper, and
start my story:

It was a very peculiar thing. Anton had not brushed his teeth for a week now. It had been
a whole seven days, since this small, five foot man, decided that someone poisoned his
toothbrush.

The logical thing would have been to replace the toothbrush. Throw it out, and get a new
one.
“But the toothbrush man is just going to poison it again,” Anton explained to Dr. Jonas
Arthur, while reclining comfortably in a green leather chair.

“He probably laced it with cyanide,” he continued.

Anton’s tone was one of seriousness. There was no escaping his dilemma, for he made it
extremely difficult for one to not be interested in such a fantastic plight.

Dr. Jonas Arthur, who was hearing his patient’s whole explanation, was keen on
dissecting the young man’s creativity and originality. In telling his story, Anton first made
sure to give a detailed description of the alleged perpetrator that, during that ugly night,
stormed into his bathroom (while Anton was asleep, mind you) and of how the perp
carefully laced his toothbrush with an invisible sort of cyanide mix.

Why cyanide, why make the perpetrator a man and not a woman? Why anyone at all?
Why would this young man think these things?

Fascinating.

Then, Anton concluded his interesting story (again, in a very serious tone), by saying that
the would-be murderer left, very carefully, through his small bathroom window. It was
the most logical procession, and one that irrevocably led to his poisoned toothbrush,
according to Anton’s own twisted logic.

“After all, it does make sense, doesn’t it, Dr. Arthur?”

“I suppose this could be true,” replied a very compliant Dr. Arthur.

Dr. Jonas Arthur was sitting behind Anton, in his own green leather chair. The room they
were both in was full of plastic plants. The miserable plants had their leaves crouching
onto the floor, ugly and ill-looking, contemplating plant suicide in their over-sized pots.

These plants made Anton nervous.

“Are these plants real?” he asked.

“No, Anton, they’re plastic.”

“Toxic plastic?”

“Non-toxic”

“Have you eaten one?”

“No”
“Then how do you know they’re non-toxic…I mean…if you’ve never eaten one?”

Dr. Arthur moved around in place, and then tugged at his polka-dot bow tie.

“Let’s get back to the toothbrush, Anton”

Anton frowned.

“Anton, why do you think someone poisoned your toothbrush?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Well, because it’s brown.”

“Wasn’t it a cyanide mix?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t this an invisible cyanide mix?”

“Yes.”

“And why do you think it’s brown, then?”

“Well, because someone poisoned it”

Dr. Arthur felt stupid. Here he was, circling round and round, in the most flawed of all
arguments, one which was leading to nowhere.

“Right. Anton, could you please tell me why brown means poison?”

“Well, White sure as hell doesn’t doc,” said Anton, snorting through his nose, a small
stream of laughter.

Snort. Snort. Wheeze.

“Right,” said Dr. Arthur.

Anton turned from his chair and jerked his head around, bending his neck in an eerie way,
much like an angry ostrich. From Dr. Arthur’s view, only Anton’s head was visible, and
this…this young man-who-was-almost-poisoned (according to him, of course) had a
nasty, mean grin on his face.

Dr. Arthur smiled back. Pissed you off, did I?

“Anything wrong, Anton?” said Dr. Arthur.

Anton kept smiling, his evil Cheshire cat grin. He turned back, sat once more, looking
straight ahead, then stood up and turned around. Now he faced Dr. Anton.

“No, nothing particularly wrong, doc…just wondering what you’re writing there.”

Anton took a few prissy steps towards the doctor.

“Oh?” replied Dr. Arthur, not knowing exactly what to respond.

“Oh??” snapped back a sarcastic Anton.

Anton’s hands were now on his hips.

“Yes…‘oh’, old man…would you tell me what you’re writing down there.”

Dr. Arthur held his notepad tightly. Anton cocked his head and chuckled. As soon as this
happened, Dr. Arthur checked his notepad, to see if it was gone. Maybe Anton took it.
But no, it was there. Only now, there were thumbprints on it. One of the thumbprints was
decorated with a sliding drop of sweat.

“Making you nervous, am I?” asked Anton.

This sort of threatening action was something that just didn’t happen to people like Dr.
Arthur. But, this odd situation might not exactly be “what happened to other
psychologists”, would it? Maybe Dr. Arthur was exaggerating…the boy would never
harm him…would he? Harm? Maybe. Well not really. All Anton was…all he was, was a
confused eighteen year old high school graduate, with magnificent grades and a
scholarship to Yale. Well, what could go wrong, right? All he was doing was asking if the
poor old doctor was nervous.

Dr. Arthur’s head began to spin from such a flurry of random thoughts. It was this and
that, this or the other…get a grip old man, it’s just a patient, and he’s not a loony, he’s
just faking…remember what his mother said: “He refuses to speak to anyone but you…
remember Doctor, he just “acts” crazy, but he’s really not”.

Is he sane, then? Yale wouldn’t give scholarships to crazy people, would they?

Then, why, dear God…why is this young man so intent on acting crazy? Is he having a
laugh?

Enough for today.

“I think our time is up, Anton,” said a calm and poised Dr. Arthur.
“Sure, doc” Anton reached for the door.

As he did, Dr. Arthur stood and parted from his chair, and then realized his pants were
sticking to his legs. As he separated the black cloth from his humid legs, he heard a bolt,
a click and a crack. The almost instantly with the crack he heard a strong thudding crash
on his office’s wooden floor.

On the floor was a brass doorknob, and with a swift kick from nowhere, the doorknob
made its way to his right foot.

“We’re here for a little while longer, Jonas,” said Anton, “I want to speak to you.”

Jonas?

“Sure, Anton,” said Dr. Arthur. Sure. Steady…

“Sure Anton,” mimicked Anton, “Don’t give me that crap. I know you’re scared. Don’t
worry, I’m not going to pull some crazy stunt, or hurt you or anything like that.”

Anton snapped his fingers.

“All I need, Dr. Arthur…are my files, all right?”

Dr. Arthur remained still.

“That’s all I need. Give me my files, please. My patient history – and that includes your
notes, sir.”

“Why, Anton?” asked Dr. Arthur.

Anton was visibly shaken by the doctor’s catatonic attitude. It was painful enough to take
his parent’s coldness, but now, having to take this snob’s condescending attitude, was just
insulting. It was unnecessary, and Anton thought it was cruel and unfair. Such treatment
was unfair to him and unfair to everyone subjected to such ‘protective’ measures, those
taken forcibly by over-protective parents, and by their cronies – like this overpaid shrink.

Over-protection, yes, this had to be it. All this over-protective nonsense was getting to
Anton’s head now, and this incessant tirade, on behalf of his parents, of making him do
these odd mind-boggling dances around life, forcing him to tip-toe around every place
where a watchful eye might be, observing readily, or where a ne’er do-well might be
lurking about, waiting to snatch him from his mother’s protective bosom, and onto some
God-forbid nest of darkness, with one, two, three or four bad influences from that
wretched school of his…was unnecessary, yet all in all, rooted in excessive over-
protectiveness. All the evil and danger in the world must be avoided at all costs, to
corrupt no one, least of all Anton. Everything that Anton’s mother tried to avoid from day
one was tied up in such suffocating actions and desperate measures.

She just wanted to keep her boy “safe and sound, and childless – no getting some damn
girl pregnant!”

That piece of verbatim was repeated every time Anton’s mother was feeling tired, which
usually meant she was angry, emotion which, in turn, unleashed her rhetoric fury, and
along with it, said verbatim.

Anton came close to hearing the line again that dreadful night, the night his mother
cracked. The breaking point, the point where Anton’s mother, Shirley Gunner, had
decided, that she as a mother was unfit and unprepared to take care of her unruly child,
came when Anton refused to say grace at his family’s daily dinner. Everyone said grace at
the Gunner house. But Anton Gunner never wanted to. And this was the last straw.

“I refuse to say Grace, all right?” shrieked Anton.

“I refuse to say Grace, because I think it is damn nonsense, and I’m tired of it.”

“Nonsense!?” screamed Shirley.

The very next day, Shirley Gunner called Dr. Jonas Arthur, and that was that. Coaxing
Anton was not a problem. It was either go to the shrink, or be shipped off to an Alaskan
Military Camp. So, shrink it was.

And the months passed, and the sessions accumulated, and there was never any clear
progress. Anton was not fully participating in the first sessions, but later turned out to be
a very cooperative patient. This cooperation though, was useless, it led nowhere.
Cooperation actually, was not what it was. It was compliancy. Anton was just less
difficult in some sessions than in others. The whole time Anton and Arthur were seeing
each other, Dr. Arthur noticed an odd trend, which developed and became clearer each
time Anton came in for a consult. By the second or third month that Anton was coming
in, it was completely clear to Dr. Arthur that there was a strong correlation between
Anton’s erratic behavior, and the boy’s mother. I think I might be confusing you, dear
reader. Let me be more precise about this: Anton’s behavior was based on what he went
through with his mother on those days he had sessions.

Because every time Shirley Gunner made a call to Dr. Arthur, to make sure that his son,
did arrive to his consult…was also, coincidentally, the day that Anton behaved the most
out of character. Anton’s character, after all, was one that resembled an ordinary boy’s, at
least in Dr. Arthur’s eyes. The conclusion from their many sessions was then, that the boy
was a frustrated son. But Dr. Arthur was not fully aware of what, exactly, was going on at
home. Anton said nothing, his mother was hypocritical about it, and Anton’s father was
dead.
Dr. Arthur, was therefore, according to his own deduction, lacking the credentials that
made a man a real psychologists. How on earth could it be, that he could not decipher
this young devil’s traumas?

What made poor Anton act in such an unorthodox manner?

It was clear that this eighteen year old teenager, who was technically (and legally!), now
a man, was an exemplary person. Anton was on his high school’s varsity basketball team,
he was the debate club president, and for the last two years – the student council
president. It was all there, all the normal, laborious characteristics that came to fruition, in
a young man’s exemplary life.

So what was wrong?

And what’s wrong now? thought Dr. Arthur, not the psychologist anymore, but the
hostage.

What’s wrong now? What in God’s name is he doing?

“Will you give me my files, Jonas?” said Anton, “I have no time to answer your
questions; I know your next patient is coming soon, and I really want to just take my
files, so please…”

There was a sense of humility in the way Anton asked for his files. It made Dr. Arthur
feel sorry for him, in a very disturbing way, much like when one feels sorry for road kill,
splattered across a busy highway.

“Anton, I understand you’re upset,” said Dr. Arthur.

“Upset?” interrupted Anton.

Anton scoffed.

“I am beyond upset, Doctor. I am beyond all of this now. Do you understand that right
now, what I am feeling is not upset – but wronged? Damaged? I feel like you people
gutted me alive. I feel like this is not worth my time, or yours, or anyone’s, and all I want
at this moment…are my files, do you understand that? I need my files, because I need to
satisfy my morbid curiosity as to where all this is going, because right now I am so tired
and drawn out from this head-shrinking that I have no one to resort to but myself. That’s
right! You know I’ve lost my friends, right? No one left. No one! Not one solitary person
to speak normally with. My bitch mother made sure of that, just like she made sure that I
would see you, once a week, and it’s been a year now. But now it’s over. It’s done. So
give me my files, and I’ll be on my way.”

Anton stopped. He was surprised with himself. He certainly gave a well thought, well put
discourse.
Dr. Arthur was not surprised with Anton’s sudden outburst. He was relieved. Finally, the
real Anton had come forth, and said what he genuinely felt. This was a breakthrough, if
anything. Now all there was to do was to keep the boy lucid. Things felt safer now.

Not completely safer, though.

Dr. Arthur suddenly remembered: Anton’s mother, did in fact, make a call that day to ask
if her son arrived safely to his consult, just like she did every time something went wrong
at home. Dr. Arthur told her he was there with Anton, things were fine, not to worry, and
once Dr. Arthur hung up, it was obvious that Anton heard all this. His face bore his
trademark evil grin. The whole checking up was, after all, a precursor for bad behavior.
But what was happening now wasn’t bad, or impolite. Right now, Anton was behaving
threatening and potentially dangerous. Never mind that, thought the doctor, he’ll
probably snap out of it soon, he’s a good person.

Dr. Arthur quickly felt uneasy. Not scared anymore, but very anxious. He wasn’t a
psychiatrist; after all, he was a psychologist. And even though his patient was taking
medication, there was never any clear indicator that Anton would resort to any unsafe
actions, in getting what he wanted. Anton was certainly prone to tantrums, but never laid
claim to hurt anyone and threaten to do so, if his demands were not met. Nothing like
this, basically.

About his mother, and her troublesome calls (Is my son there? Is he? Have you double-
checked?)…those calls were first ignored, but now they became the revolving matter at
hand, one needed to get to the root of this whole, sordid matter.

Have to find out what’s troubling Anton.

“Anton, what happened at home today?” asked Dr. Arthur.

“Did you or did you not just hear me?” replied Anton.

Anton twisted his shirt in his hands. He let go and the wrinkling mass of cloth bent in on
itself like a maladjusted accordion.

“Give me my files old man, or I swear I’ll beat you.”

“There’s no need for that, Anton,” said Dr. Arthur, “I’m trying to help you. I need for you
to tell me what happened today.”

“NOTHING HAPPENED!!!” screamed Anton.

Dr. Arthur was taken aback by Anton’s flare-up, and immediately felt threatened. Anton’s
eyes were growing in size, and causing an unremitting sense of intimidation. It would be
wise, to now give the files to Anton, since there would be no harm in having him look at
them. After all, the historic files, the one with the gravest descriptions of the causes for
the supposed maladies Anton was getting treatment for, were all boxed up in Dr. Arthur’s
office at the University. But Anton did not know this. This was good news.

“I’ll give you the files, Anton, no problem,” said Dr. Arthur.

Dr. Arthur turned his back to Anton, and headed to his desk. With him, he took his yellow
pad, and soon enough, arrived to his mahogany desk. It seemed like a long trip from
when he left Anton, to his desk. His office was a large one, with the ceiling three to four
meters from the floor, and as the doctor observed his high ceiling, he suspected that
maybe this unremitted grandeur (oh, because it felt like that, it certainly did), was the root
of his perceived time-warp. Now, as he rummaged through his filing cabinets, he
trembled and tried to hide it as best he could from his captor, making sure to show
complete and utter calmness.

Grace under fire. Breathe.

The papers, where were the papers?

The paperclips and thumbtacks fell on the desk. Dr. Arthur smiled a quick smile, as if the
accident was on purpose, and then went back to work. Searching for the papers, it was
obvious that the doctor was stalling, but he was not. Dr. Arthur had not looked at Anton’s
papers in a long time. Soon enough, it became too difficult to determine whether Anton’s
papers were at the very back of the top drawer, or horizontally placed at the bottom.

Beads of sweat slowly fell from Dr. Arthur’s temple, and rolled down his stubble-filled
cheeks, then all his sweat, as if by magnetism, collected all through his face onto the peak
of his chin, holding on to its edge, like liquid stalactites, until drop, drop, drop…they
splattered onto the desk below him.

“Do you have the papers, or not?” asked Anton.

“Anton, I don’t know where they are right now, but I’m trying to find them,” said Dr.
Arthur.

“What kind of shrink are you? Am I that unimportant that you misplaced my files?”

“No, Anton, you’re not unimportant, I’ve just haven’t had the time to look at them lately,
and I…”

Then, a knock at the door.

“Dr. Arthur, Kimberly is here,” said a muffled female voice.

The door’s bolt began to shake in place.

“Dr. Anton?” said the voice.

Both men froze. Anton motioned to the doctor, waving his right hand, with no attempt to
communicate any sort of clear meaning as to what he wanted.

Confused, Dr. Arthur said: “Lily, give me five minutes please, I’m still with Anton.”

Back to work.

The papers had to be somewhere in that damn drawer.

Dr. Arthur emptied the whole drawer on the desk. A cascade of useless knick-knacks,
papers, stamps, pens and other heavy objects fell on the desk, and at once, an orchestra of
impact-led harmonies, surfaced, booming through the vast room. The sound was
liberating, as if saying to Dr. Arthur: its fine, it’s all here…you’ll get through this.

Dr. Arthur was left enchanted by the melody, whose sound was reverberating through the
room’s walls, and even though it was long over, the doctor still heard its resounding
boom in his mind. He cocked his head down, and resumed his searching efforts. As he
did, his hand moved over two crumpled pieces of paper, only to reveal a small clay heart.

The warm surge of smoothness running through his body, with blood vessels opening
wide and pumping glands releasing God knows what chemicals, made Dr. Arthur feel so
relieved he stumbled back onto the chair at his desk, brimming to the point of exhaustion.
It was a euphoric fatigue, and a debilitating one. All this physical anguish, though
pleasant, but completely heavy on his body, came forth because he had caught a glimpse
of the small clay heart that he had lost such a long, long time ago.

Then, finding Anton’s papers, just didn’t matter. It was not relevant. The fear was gone.
The good feelings were now everywhere. There was no need to fear what did not need to
be feared.

Anton detected the old man’s relief and felt puzzled.

“Get my papers!”

Dr. Arthur’s childish grin, and distant gaze angered Anton even more.

“GET MY PAPERS!!! GET THEM NOW!!!”

Anton was livid. His nostrils were flaring, and he breathed in and out like a bull in hot
pursuit of a Spanish matador. At once he reached into his backpack, which was by the
room. He grabbed it and brought it with him, as he stormed through the room, passing the
lovely office furniture, and towards Dr. Arthur’s antique mahogany desk.

“Hello?” said the voice near the door.

“Hello, is everything all right?” it repeated.

“Get the damn papers, get them NOW!!” screamed Anton.

Anton was with both his hands on the desk, looking straight at Dr. Arthur, who was
sitting down, with tears down his face. Dr. Arthur was holding the small clay heart in his
right hand.

“I can’t, Anton, I can’t find them…”

“What do you mean, you can’t find them?”

“That’s exactly what I mean…I…can’t…find…them.”

“Hello?! Doctor Arthur!! Hello?!” the muffled female voice by the door shouted.

“Tell her everything is fine, now.” said Anton.

Dr. Arthur nodded calmly.

“No worries, Lily. Everything is fine,” said Dr. Arthur, “Five more minutes, please, just
five more minutes.”

As Dr. Arthur finished his last word to his secretary, Anton turned back and looked at the
calm psychiatrist menacingly, and once again, became agitated at the doctor’s calm
demeanor.

Anton waited for the doctor to say something, but he said nothing.

Then Anton reached in for his backpack, and half his body disappeared under the desk, as
he bumped things inside the backpack, clacking here and there whatever he had in there.

Dr. Arthur was surprised when he saw the gun. Anton cocked it and pointed it straight at
him.

“Give me the papers, old man.”

Dr. Arthur closed his fist on the small clay heart.

“Anton,” he said calmly, “I cannot find them, and the rest are in my office at the
university. Please lower the gun.”

“No,” said Anton, “I don’t believe you. They’re here. Somewhere. All of you lie to me.
All of you. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Just give them to me.”

Dr. Arthur open and closed his fist on the small clay heart once more. Anton caught this.

“Give me the heart,” he said.

“What?”

“Give me the heart.”

“No.”

“Give me the heart, or the papers, you choose.”

“I’d gladly give you the papers, Anton, but I’ve told you where they are.”

Anton reached for his backpack and grabbed a long black cylinder. He screwed it on the
end of the barrel of the pistol and then aimed the gun once more, at the calm doctor.

“Give me the heart, or I’ll shoot you,” said Anton.

“I won’t,” said the doctor.

Anton reached for the doctor’s hand and pried open his fingers, to which the Doctor
reacted by gasping for air. In a quick reaction, Dr. Arthur stood up, waving his left arm,
and jerking his right fist, already tied in with Anton’s left, flailing it every which way.
Anton furiously burrowed his nails onto the man’s skin, and pointed the gun straight
towards his head, hitting him on his forehead. Dr. Arthur pushed away then pulled back,
still moving about in very rapid movements his right hand, which held the small heart.

Then in a sudden movement, the two jerked away from each other, and a small whoosh
sound was heard in reception.

Lily turned towards Dr. Arthur’s door, and then turned back to her nails. The receptionist
was waiting patiently for Anton’s session to finish. So was Kimberly, who was reading a
magazine.

A screech, and a thud, the sound of a closing door was heard.

Anton came out and went up to Lily.

“Same time next, week, Anton?”

“Yes…”
As Anton was about to leave, he came back and Lily motioned Kimberly that “it was
almost time to see the Doctor.”

“Yes, Anton?” asked Lily.

“Lily, who’s Gloria?”

“Gloria is Dr. Arthur’s wife.”

“Ok. Where is she?”

“Oh. She died ten years ago, sweetie.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

As Anton left, he opened his fist and looked at the small clay heart in his hand. He turned
it round, and inscribed in fancy lettering were the six letters: G L O R I A.