The Reality™ Institute

DO THE DEMISE – Part 2 of a 4 part serial.

For an 11 year-old, Marky had an extreme amount of self control. Sure he made problems for his mother, but on long car rides when his mother told him to shush, and he was in the right mood, he was able to silence himself completely without any need for mood stabilizers. It all depended on what he wanted for himself, of course, but if he knew what he wanted, he could fulfill his goals with tremendous urgency. His desire could be fickle, but once concentrated, he was set in his ways.

One time he decided he didn’t want to poop, so he refused to shit for a whole two weeks before his parents realized there was a problem. Before his parents realized there was a “problem” he had gotten so sluggish that he could barely nudge himself out of bed. Physically he only weighed around a pound or two more than usual, but the mental and emotional toll of carrying all that shit around was far greater. His mother could not figure out what was wrong with him. It became another neurosis that his parents said Marky had, but when he finally took a shit and started feeling better they did not claim it as a triumph of Marky’s tremendous will, but just an indication that they were good parents.

Marky thought absolute control of his body and mind was a cute thing to do. He did it whenever he could. He knew that since his mother would soon start giving him medication again that might alter his mental space he should figure out a way to dodge the effects of the psychotropic medication. He did not want his brain to change, at least for now.

His plan was that he would look up the information for whatever drug Doctor Curlitsky prescribed online, determine the effects, and then–through the force of his tremendous will–act oppositely to counterbalance any effect it might have on him. If the drug was supposed to make him mellower, he would become extra spastic. He had done this before when he was nine years old and his parents gave him ADD medication. He asked around on the playground and was able to determine the effects of the medication on his peers who had also been prescribed the same pills, and then acted knowingly in opposition to the desired effect of the treatment. Marky’s parents decided that it was no use, and simply gave up on treating him for a period of time.

His mom got home from the pharmacist that evening after work. The drug name on the little plastic bottle in her hand read, “Prescription Strength Zankflrggx B.”

“I guess we’ll start you on this stuff in the morning, baby,” Elizabeth said to her child. She walked out of the living room and Marky immediately got on the family computer and searched the name of the drug. Nothing was found–not even on Wikipedia, not even on Google! Might this be some new drug, never yet experienced by mortal children! He was somewhat excited, but at the same time not a little alarmed.

Not long after Marky got out of bed the next morning, Elizabeth cut the tablet in half just as Doctor Curlitsky had advised, and gave it to Marky with a glass of apple juice. Marky downed the pill and was off to school. Elizabeth had the house to herself, finally.

With newfound peace of mind, Marky’s mother was finally able to practice her harpsichord again. The notes rang out, sustained and melodious. She practiced all day on her beloved harpsichord–a facsimile instrument of the sort of harpsichord that had been played during Immanuel Kant’s time–pausing only for lunch and an early afternoon cup of tea. She felt that she might reach the peak of her harpsichordic powers when Marky sloshed in, returning home from school. He looked utterly dismal, rubbing his head with his hand, a depressed grimace plastered across his half-covered face. Something must have gone unspeakably wrong, Elizabeth thought. But she didn’t know if she could calm little Marky, if there was anything she could do to change his mood. With nary a moment’s passing, Marky broke down into tears and crawled into his mother’s arm, her face filled with worry.