Triadic Tales - Recovery - Short Story (Part Two)

Triadic Tales - Recovery - Short Story (Part Two)


I almost think he smiled at me. It chills me still. I don't know why I touched him. I guess I do. I couldn't believe he could do such a thing and I felt -- I don't know what I felt. 

Someone here is always watching. Security's intense. I am here because this is my job. 

The man sitting there doesn't move. The boy can't move. The whole thing is weird.

I am like that song. 

When I got married, young, and watched it all unravel, and ended up back home with two kids, I lost my religion.  Like the song. Except I was not in the spotlight. Until now. 

Will I go down in history as the nurse who attended him?  Will I have to explain?  Who knows? 

These days everything is  reality. 

Anyway, here is this boy they say is the devil incarnate, heaping language on him to separate him from them. And yes, he can charm the socks off anyone.

I think we could all be mass murderers underneath. And saints underneath. We have everything right here inside us. Meanness and violence. Reason and tenderness. Who's to judge? 

Can a nice person under the right circumstances become a mass murderer? Then go back to being nice? Like it never happened? 

What are the right circumstances for something like this? Is whatever it is understandable? There but for the grace of god, sort of? Why not?

I don't know.

All I know is when I reached out. it was not voluntary.


I saw her.

She actually touched the son of a bitch. They must have seen it. I'll report it anyway.

Now we'll have to check her out. Does she know the guy? 

Jesus. I don't believe this. 

Here I am, redeemed from the purgatory of pushing paper out in Worcester. Moved in a nanosecond. Here. At the frigging epicenter.

I guess this is the kind of thing that juices reporters. Being there. 

Well right now, no one more there than me.

Stephen's Remarkable Kindle Store 

Follow Me on Pinterest


Get Triadic

The Slow as Molasses Press