Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

The three of them are silent for a moment, shifting uncomfortably as I
struggle to compose myself. “I just want to go home. I just want to go
home and go to bed.”
“Okay, I’ve got it,” Agent 506 chuckles suddenly. “I know how to get
you home. But first I need some information.”
The two in the front swivel to face us as I reply. “Anything.”
“If I give you a pen, can you draw a map of the hospital grounds, with
their rooms marked? I will also need to know everything you can tell me
about their security measures. Daily routines. That kind of thing.”
“Yes, of course. How are you going to get me home?”
“I’m not, Doc. You are. Now get writing.” He hands me a pad and a
stubby pencil, and I bend to work in the dim light.
I replace the pig and straighten my tie. The coffee is abysmal, so I
leave it there on the desk, in the precise center. And I walk away. Glide, I
positively glide away. Nurses look down to re-inspect charts, orderlies
glance at the caged clock on the wall. I am invisible. I pass Jesus on my
way to the elevator, lying catatonic in dreams of Meredith, and slip
away.
I am wearing a sweatshirt, a rumpled sweatshirt. And jeans. Boots. I
am waiting in the bushes for the gate to open.
I am returning to my office. I stand and stare at the centered cup in
befuddled interest, then pick it up and drink it. The coffee is abysmal.
The gate attendant waves in a man driving a Durango, and I am away.
The next patient enters my office, flanked by orderlies.
I choose them all and sail off, a fleet of shards.
The jeering crowds pass them by. They rock back and forth and hold
each other close, waiting for the curtain to draw. As they close, their
clear blue eyes gaze upwards, and the disabilities of physicality are no
more, the separation of male from female, and indeed of all the passions
from existence, are lost in the light beyond darkness…
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