ParanoidPrank

     “I want to show you something,” the twelve year-old girl said.
     Lizzie was smiling, but it was more of a smirk. There was no warmth behind it, only a mischievous undertone. She had a secret, and I was the benefactor. Lizzie’s grins always seemed half-frown to me, as if the disapproving lines were carved into her skin and she had to put all her effort into rearranging them. Her eyes betrayed her true feelings, always gleaming with some dark, primal deception.
     It hadn’t been a good day for me. I was starting to hear schizophrenic voices whispering on the periphery, demanding my attention. When I tried to listen, they either receded into the background or shouted something unintelligible. Most of the messages revolved around my co-workers talking behind my back. I knew this was nonsense, but when you hear a lie enough times, you start to believe it.
     Lizzie tugged at my hand. She had straight, honey-blonde hair that hung down to her shoulders. Her cheeks were ruddy, as if basted with fever. Her smile was stiff, insincere; wooden. A smile chiseled into a totem pole.
     “Come on,” she urged.
     “Where are you taking me?”
     “Into the bathroom.”
     I immediately grew suspicious. Kids could lure you into a private place, then claim that you had touched them inappropriately. “Why?”
     “There’s a bug in the shower. I want you to get it out.”
     “Tell Julie. She’ll help you.”
     “No! She’s afraid of bugs.”
     I didn’t feel like arguing. “Okay. But let’s make it quick. And I want you to stay by your bed.”
     She nodded, still grinning.
     Lizzie led me into her bathroom. I could feel my gut grow queasy when she pointed at a cockroach scuttling in the shower stall. The strange thing was, Lizzie showed no fear of the scavenger. She pointed at it with no change in expression. I wondered why she hadn’t stomped it already. She would probably take a perverse joy in crushing the filthy pest.
     I was about to approach the shower when the lights went out. I was surrounded by utter blackness. My chest constricted and my heart pounded. Lizzie had flicked off the light switch, playing a joke on me. She still held my hand, and I could feel her grip tightening. Slowly her fingers curled inward until her sharp nails gouged my palm. They felt like miniature talons.
     I had always been afraid of the dark. Now the bathroom was a fathomless abyss. Childhood fears clawed their way into my mind, hissing that there were monsters lurking in the shadows. Disembodied voices snarled that a demon stood beside me now, and would hurt me if I didn’t defend myself. Before I could even think, I tore myself loose of Lizzie’s grip. I rammed her away and groped across the wall. When I found the switch, I wrenched it up. Yellow light exploded in the bathroom, blinding me.
     Lizzie crouched in a corner, her smile gone. She was used to being the predator, but now she was the prey. She clutched her shoulder, which throbbed from the intensity of my attack. Her face was twisted with fear. This young girl, who terrorized the other kids on the unit and was unaffected by large doses of Haldol (a major tranquilizer), gazed at me as if I would dismember her with my hands.
     I moved forward slowly. The voices were still muttering, but I could push them away.
     For now.
     “Lizzie,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
     She edged away from me.
     “It was an accident. I don’t know what happened.”
     “You hurt me.”
     “Not on purpose.”
     “It doesn’t matter. My arm HURTS!”
     I held up my bleeding hand. “What about this? All fun and games?”
     Lizzie scowled. “You’re a psycho.”
     Something inside snapped. “You know what? It takes one to know one. And you can run out and tell every staff member that I pushed you, but no one will believe it because you're a chronic liar who cries wolf three times a day.”
     She bolted from the room. I could hear her yelling for Mrs. Comston, and I knew I would be reprimanded later. Not for shoving Lizzie, but for being in the bathroom alone with her. That story I could alter to suit my needs. All I cared about now was hushing the voices that were slowly turning me against myself.
     I wasn’t a violent person, but the relentless, accusatory voices were making me see dangerous, conspiring imps when I looked at the children.
     It wouldn’t be long before I injured one of them badly.

SlinkySidewinder

     Julio’s homelife was a mystery.
     It was rumored his mother was a prostitute, and that’s why he ran away from home and sought refuge with strange men in downtown Sacramento. Maybe she pimped him; I’m not sure. It absolutely blew my mind to discover that an eleven year-old boy spent most of the day looking after his four year-old brother (Manuel), acting as his surrogate parent while his mother disappeared for days at a time. Then, at night, when Manuel was asleep, Julio would lock the apartment and pull on his hoodie, wandering the city streets in search of adult male company.
     How did he learn this behavior? Was his mother an inadvertent tutor, schooling him in the dubious art of seduction? Did he watch her every night, selling herself inside a cramped bedroom, trading integrity for cash? After a few weeks did he strike out on his own, soliciting dirtbags for physical attention, his innocence chiseled away by father-figures whose intentions were corrupt?
     Julio was a lean kid with close-cropped black hair, a mischievous smile, and intense brown eyes. In the psychiatric center, he either wore a Raiders jersey or a plaid shirt that he kept unbuttoned to his stomach, showing off his gold chain and six-pack. He did crunches every night, saying that he had to stay “strong and smooth”. When I asked him what he wanted to be for a living, he said, “A pimp. With a crib full of hos. And when they act up, I can bitch-slap them.”
     I replied that he was too intelligent for that profession. He smiled slyly and said he was kidding, he really wanted to be a pro football player. But something in his tone made me realize that being a teenage gigolo was a much more realistic goal for him. He knew nothing about sports, except that staying muscular and athletic (and acting like an All-American kid) made him more attractive to predators.
     Julio vacillated between childish innocence and wanton maturity. One morning a phlebotomist had to draw his blood and he refused. I coaxed him into cooperating, and when the needle entered his vein, he let out a heavy sigh and rested his head on my shoulder, as if a lifetime of stress was being sucked out of him with his blood sample.
     My saddest memory of Julio came one night when three kids were in the dayroom, watching a movie. It was 8 p.m., and we were watching Spy Kids. Julio frowned when the young sister and brother argued with each other. “She wants to screw him,” he said matter-of-factly. “Everyone wants to do it. So they should just get in bed.”
     Mark, a totally humorless, militant staff worker told him to watch his mouth or he would go to the Quiet Room.
     Julio shrugged. “I’m just sayin’. They want to have sex, so why are they hiding it?” A faint smile touched his lips.
     Mark tried to distract him. “Button your shirt, Julio.”
     “Why? You afraid you might see something you like?”
     Mark’s face turned purple. “Just do it. No one wants to see your skinny body.”
     “Plenty people like my body. Like you. I seen you looking at it.”
     “That’s it.” Mark got up, towering over Julio. He was a beanpole, but stood 6’5”. “Get up. You’re taking a time-out.”
     Julio smiled at him. “Make me, stud guy.”
     “If you don’t get up on your own, we’ll escort you into the Quiet Room by the arms.”
     “You wanna touch me, huh? Feel if my skin is silky muscles.”
     “Five seconds, Julio. One…two…three…”
     Julio lunged at Mark’s leg. He wrapped his arms around Mark’s thigh, giving it a passionate embrace.
     “Get off, Julio.”
     “Ten dollars, Mark. That’s how much I charge. You get full night of pleasure, I get two boxes of cereal.”
     Mark tried to wrestle him away. Julio grappled tighter, his smile provocative, his torso squeezed against Mark’s leg.
     Mark pried him loose and Julio bit his hand. Mark recoiled, then shoved Julio flat. He climbed on top of him, giving in to his anger, performing a function that Julio craved. He flipped Julio onto his back and tried to pin his arms down. Julio flailed about, brushing his wrists and forearms against Mark’s mouth, yelling, “See? I knew you wanted to kiss me.”
     Even as Mark pinned Julio’s limbs to the floor, Julio heaved his waist upward, grinding his buttocks against Mark’s groin, simulating something dark and terrible. When a worker appeared in the doorway, Julio bucked for a few more seconds; then his defenses crumbled and he began crying, sobbing that Mark was violating him and “didn’t have the right kind of love”.
     Mark straightened up, shell-shocked. His expression was both appalled and somehow guilty. When Julio saw the fear inscribed on his face, his tears gave way to anger and he scowled as if Mark had delivered an insult that could never be forgiven.