Institutionalized

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Circumstantial imprisonment happens quite often. Justice is a fiction told to people desperate for a fantasy to believe in. Put the animal in a cage long enough and watch it respond to its environment.

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The interrogator with the evidence, the reports, the witnesses and the accusations is always the last to know the truth. Left with only assumptions.

The suspect without any of the evidence, any report or witness enters knowing he’s innocent from the start. A fact memory serves well.

Yet, six months training, a badge and a gun convince the interrogator his intuition is more valid than personal experience.

Biased jurors, law bound judges, money hungry attorneys with cleverly worded questions and a year worth of court visits turn a man into a monster.

Ten years in a cage with murderers and thieves corrupts even the purest of saints.
When the bars are pulled away and the sunlight is remembered awareness settles.
It was safer in the box.

In the outside world the word of truth goes ignored.

Preconceptions get twisted and morphed.

Friends and family who knew more kept silent.

Fear.

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Turn Tables

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Having tracked and cornered Arthur, the detective has the tables turned on him.

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Static charged, the manic man at large wrecks havoc as he travels far
Terror through fear, like the fuhrer from years ago, then goes steers clear and disappears
Near the sand he stands, hands in the sky, he’s mad, the detective failed his plan
Didn’t matter how hard he tried, the crazed guy got the jump, now the good’ll die
Cries and pleads for life, but the look in those evil eyes say, “nice try”
The gun fires, it’s dark like he’s tired, visions of his dead father he admires
Volume down, all goes quiet, total absence of a riot
Memories fade, euphoria fills the brain, insane malice won the day
  

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The Investigation, Part 1

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After Arthur managed to escape the asylum and ravaged a small family the state designated his recapture a priority and an investigation into his psychology was initiated.

The detective roams the house in search of clues.

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The rooms smells of burnt carpet and charred coal. You’d think the scent would have faded by now. If not for the dust and dry air it’d be easy to confuse as fresh.

Candy wrappers, crinkled up papers and broken glass crackle beneath my boots as I move through the abandoned house.

Shattered picture frames and porcelain dolls rest on the coffee table center of the living room. Yellow tape still play the roll of bedroom doors. No one’s stepped foot in the house since the tragedy occurred.

His bedroom is the only part of this godforsaken place that isn’t a complete disaster. It’s untouched. As if he’d not once been inside. As if every waking minute was of each day were wasted compulsively cleaning and organizing personal belongings.

Minus the excessive neatness, nothing seems off.

The report said the family was quiet. Private. Then the incident happened.

What could drive a man to so brutally…

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The Interests of a Sociopath

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I've decided to start sharing more about myself. Nothing too person, rather, just my thoughts and opinions instead of having a voiceless objective outlook at all times. I'm aware that true objectivity is impossible and now I'd like to give you a small taste of how my mind works so that my posts have more of a tone when you read them. I plan to do this by breaking down some of my likes and dislikes!

By Jack Thomas

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