Brian Mule Writes

A roar fills her ears as visions of roiling flames flash before her eyes.  The fire dances like countless rubies shimmering seductively.  She feels tingly ecstasy stretching its sensual fingers across her body, followed by a growing heat and burning pain.  Uproarious laughter suddenly cuts in from all directions as shouts of pain simmer in the distance until they grow to a rolling boil.  The panicked whinnying of horses and hoofed kicking against barn doors fills the night air.  Violent electric bolts crack the dark blue skies and pierce the earth with a crash.  The thick soot of charred remains fills her lungs, and a voice begins to break through the cacophony, calling her name from a distance and growing louder.

            “Agni!”

            “Agni!”

            A sharp banging begins to echo alongside the calls, like the banging of a gavel getting closer and closer.

            “Agni!”

            “AGNUS!”

            Black eyes shoot open as the screams ringing in her ears begin to fade.  Agnus blinks a few times, and the fog of her vision gradually clears and is replaced by an eggshell white padded ceiling.  A single spherical protrusion hangs from the middle of the ceiling.  The dark eye of the lens stares down at her.  Is that a camera?  A small red light next to the lens blinks on.

            “wugh” she mutters and tastes blood in her mouth.

            She realizes she’s laying on her back and stiffly positions herself up onto her elbows, looking around the room to observe the snow-white padding of the walls surrounding her.  Even the floors were padded, without a single blemish to disrupt the continuity of its perfection.   

            She painfully pushes herself up, her sore muscles protesting loudly.  Agnus spots a single padded door with a small glass portal.  She shuffles toward the door and presses her face against the glass portal.  It’s dark, with only a small island of lamp light illuminating the space on the other side.  A set of polished brown dress shoes stands at the edge of the light.  

            “Hey!” She calls, banging her hands on the soft material of the door.

            Nonchalantly, the pair of shoes turn away and saunter into the dark.  As the clacking sound of each step fades, she bangs on the door with greater fervor until they can no longer be heard.  She turns around abruptly and shouts.

            “Where the fuck am I?!”

            “Hello Agnus,” states a cool and even female voice.  Agnus looks up to see the black eye of the camera pinned on her.

            “What’s going on,” Agnus mutters weakly at it.

            “You’re in a therapeutic facility specializing in the treatment of extreme cases.” Said the voice with cold and clinical precision, “We have enrolled you in a promising new program that leverages cutting edge techniques on the frontiers of therapeutic science.  Many struggling patients before you have undergone our treatment to find themselves virtually cured of their neuroses.  Now it is your turn.  You are subject 629 and are here to receive this treatment for your healing.”

            Agnus blinks and stares up at the all-seeing eye without a word.

            “Look at your hands, Agnus.”

            Reluctantly, Agnus lifts her hands to see the red angry burn scars covering her arms completely.  A whimper escapes her mouth.  

            “You have a problematic relationship with fire,” continued the voice “and it has created significant disruption in the functioning of your life.  To ensure you return to society without disruption in your ability to operate each day, this program will guide you in releasing these psychological traumas.  You will be challenged to confront your own subconscious phobia.  Your program will begin now.”

            A shrill buzzing noise shatters Agnus’s stupor, sending her hands to her ears and her mind spinning with visions of roiling flames and electricity.  She squeezes her eyes shut until the shrill noise subsides a moment later.

            “I’m not doing whatever this is and if you don’t get me out of here right now, I’m…” Agnus begins protesting but her voice trails off as she considers her options.  She’d do what?  Bang on the door some more?

            “You can’t hold me in here!” She cries out “I refuse to play along with whatever the hell you’re doing here!”

            “Agnus,” The voice begins more sympathetically, “All patients struggle against their treatment at first.  This is perfectly normal.  But if you refuse, you will only have the pain of your previous life to return to.  In order for us to help you release that pain and heal your trauma, we need you to cooperate.  Don’t you want to be free of this pain, Agnus?  You’re here for a reason, and we’re here to help you.”

            Agnus’s struggles to steady her breathing.  Her shoulders lower slowly as her body releases its tension, and she gives a small nod to the black eye of the camera above. 

            “Now, look to the corner of this room,” the voice commands.

            Agnus blinks, processing the words, and allows her gaze to drift to the corner of the room where three blue lockers stand.  They are numbered one to three, and they immediately send shocks of panic through her heart.

            “Subject 629, this is the first stage of your treatment.  You will walk to the lockers and open the first door, the one demarcated by the numeral one.  Please begin now.”

            With her hands clutching her breast and her breathing quickening, Agnus shuffles small steps toward the locker.  As she makes it closer to the three identical lockers, she begins to notice what look like long scratch marks scarring the blue paint. 

            “Agnus,” the voice interrupts, “please proceed to open locker number one.”

            Agnus breathes deeply and despite the fear bubbling inside her, she resolves to face this phobia.  She reaches a trembling hand to the locker door and opens it slowly with a whining creak.  

            “Describe what you see, Agnus,” the voice commands.

            Agnus tilts her head to the side slightly and furrows her brow.  She reaches for the object, fingers tightening gently on the soft fabric, and pulls it out of the locker.

            “It’s a plushy horse toy,” she mutters, before turning it over and seeing black burn marks around the eye of the horse.  Agnus lets out a sharp gasp as she is plunged into a vision of a burning barn in the stark winter night with the screams of trapped horses coming from inside.  Agnus is nine years old and stands mystified before the roaring flames reaching high into the black of night.  The heat of the inferno presses against her but she stands before it, drinking in the dancing fire with wide eyes.  She recalls the bolt of lightning that split the sky and struck the hay pile that sat against the barn walls.  The air had been electric and sent shocks through her muscles before the deafening crack erupted before her.  The fire licked at the sky as embers flew upward like hellish snow.  Her heart was pounding against her chest so hard she could hear it, but was she feeling terror, or elation?  Gradually another rhythmic thumping began to grow as if from all around her. 

            “Agni,” came the rhythmic call far from the ether.

            “Agni,” The call came closer.   

            “Agnus!” came the shout.  Agnus turns her head slowly toward the call to see her terrified father sprinting toward her, and her mother standing by the farm house door with her hands over her mouth.

            “Agnus!”  Her body jolts and she blinks several times as her eyes adjust to the eggshell white of the padded room.  Her fingers dig deeply into the plushy flesh of the toy horse.  

            “Subject 629, are you OK?  We need you to focus.” States the unseen clinician, “If we are to help you resolve the roots of your trauma you must cooperate with us.”

            Agnus shakes her head roughly, as if trying to shake off the assault of memories that overtook her.  She stumbles slightly as the room seems to tilt back and forth.

            “This is making me sick,” Agnus’s voice cracks.

            “Good medicine often leaves a bitter taste,” the clinician explains, “especially in the cases that require the most potent of curatives.  But don’t fret.  This treatment is quick and effective, despite the momentary bitterness.  It will become easier as you open locker number two.”

            Agnus feels her stomach lurch as the words of the clinician slowly make their way through the spin of her mind.  She needs to open the next locker.  

            “Why do I feel so dizzy,” mumbles Agnus.

            “You are experiencing an opening of your psyche to years of suppressed memories.  The key to our breakthrough psychiatric technique is to surface these memories in order to change them and thus change the nature of your condition.  What you are experiencing are the first steps in changing those memories.  Patient 629, it will become easier as you open the second locker.  Proceed now.”

            Agnus sways in place momentarily as if her body is fighting the command to move to the second locker.  Her hand appears in her field of vision, reaching for the locker.  It finds the handle and pulls open the door with a creak.  Her hand reaches in and pulls out a half melted red solo cup.  Immediately, her jaw and neck muscles lock as she is thrust into a vision of a raucous house party.  She peers at a packed crowd of teenagers as they laugh and socialize in a suburban living room.  A loud bang cuts through the noise followed by the shrill scream of an unseen woman.  A thick plume of black smoke creeps in from the connecting room, where she’d seen a pile of old newspapers.  The shock begins to send the crowd scattering like flies.  Agnus watches in stunned silence as the smoke fills the room and the crowd grows into a screaming panic.  The doors are locked.  Her heart quickens again and her stomach turns into knots as the orange glow flickers from the doorway to the other room and grows and grows and grows.  The same sick feeling overtakes Agnus as she watches helplessly.  She is overcome with dread, with the sensation of electricity attacking her body, and… butterflies in her stomach?

            A fear-stricken partygoer grips her roughly by her arms and jolts her out of her trance, mouthing words at her soundlessly at first, but the shouting creeps into her daze as if from afar.

            “Agni”

            “Agni”

            “Agnus!”

            The clinician’s voice pulls Agnus out of the visions.  Cold sweat saturates her gown.  

            “You said it would be easier!” shouts Agnus.

            “The course of your treatment is almost complete.” The voice intones coldly, “If you are to conclude this program and return to the general public you must open the third.  Do you want to leave this room, patient 629?  I think you do.  Proceed to the third locker and you will be free.”

            Agnus shudders violently.  Her chest begins heaving in muffled sobs as she shuffles timidly to the third locker.  With tears streaming down her cheeks, she reaches the third locker and opens it.  To her surprise, a single page faces her, perfectly hanging at face level.  The drawing before her depicts a two headed man on a horse, crowned and adorned lavishly with jewelry, and both heads aflame.  Agnus squints, and shock rips through her again as the chanting of distant voices pulls her out of herself.

            “AGNI” the chant thrums loudly within her chest.

            “AGNI” the chant grows.

            “Agnus,” the judge intones blandly from his bench, “upon reviewing the evidence in your trial in support and against multiple counts of arson in the first degree, the jury will apply the relevant laws to the facts of the case and after deliberation will return to deliver their verdict.  Before the closure of proceedings, do you have any statements to be shared with the court?”

            Agnus rises slowly from the defendant’s table, holding a single brittle and dry paper before her.

            “Yes, your honor,” She begins cooly, “I wanted to show you my drawing that I’ve made for you.”

            The judge stares and raises his eyebrows slightly.  Agnus steps boldly out from behind the defendant’s table.  She stalks slowly toward the judge’s bench.

            “You see, at first glance my drawing looks to be lovingly crafted from thick charcoal or graphite,” Tiny black particles fall from the page with each step, “But in fact the instrument of my art is something altogether different.”

            “Your honor objection!  Why is the court entertaining this distraction and performance?” Come the shouts from the prosecution table.

            “My client is clearly mentally unwell and should not have been deemed fit for this trial!” Cuts in the defense attorney.

            “You see,” Continues Agnus, “My brush is painstakingly colored with a compound called potassium permanganate, the instrument of my art.  I’ve used it to draw the inspiration of my art and the true face of my soul.  I’ve drawn for you Agni, the Hindu God of fire.”

            “Get her out of here, she is not right!” A woman shouts, standing from the public seating.  The crowd erupts shouting as the judge begins to slam his gavel and call order to the court. 

            “But to really see its beauty, and see who I am, you have to add glycerin,” Agnus whispers to the judge with a giddy smile across her face.  She pulls a plastic water bottle out of her pocket and pours the clear liquid onto the grainy drawing of Agni.  The page ignites immediately in dancing flames so tall they eclipse Agnus’s face completely, and she tosses the inferno onto the judge’s robes which catch fire.  Agnus stands smiling before the judge as the flickering flames dance and grow in the reflection of her black eyes.  The eruption of screams and shuffling chaos across the court is muffled and distant to Agnus as her heart is filled once again with the roaring tickle of the fire, now completely engulfing the flailing judge.  She hears cackling laughter amidst the screams, growing as the fire and smoke grow to engulf the court room.  The sound of jangling keys cut in as she watches the court security sprint toward her.

            Agnus is tackled out of her courtroom vision and back to the padded floor of her cell by two large men dressed in white.  She feels a pinch as one of the men pushes a needle into her arm.  She is cackling loudly as they tie her down to a gurney, the fire in her heart still flickering with ecstasy.  As she is lifted on the gurney and carried out of the padded cell, her vision begins to darken, and she can hear the distant sounds of one of the men speaking.

            “What’s another round for her, anyway?  She’s been here so long that she probably pisses in volts,” he laughs.

            “Take your job seriously,” the other man chastises, “She’s obviously resisting the treatment, but the boss says we’re going to administer as many rounds of electro-shock therapy as necessary to get the phobia to set in.  Rewiring memories takes time, but she won’t be able to even think of a Bic lighter without feeling pain when we’re done.”

            As Agnus is carried deeper into the darkness of the hallway, her fading consciousness is filled with visions of thrashing on metal tables, of wires and straps and cages, of electricity, and of the terrible searing fire roaring all around her.