“Shouldn’t we… shouldn’t we talk about it out of earshot?”
“What, the kid? Nah, he don’t even talk. No worries.”

Stop it. Just stop it.

“Well… alright. What do you think is the best choice for him?”
“I say we send ‘im off to the halfway house. He’s got a built in straight-jacket, anyhow.”

I want to move my dead limbs, force words out through my useless mouth, but I can’t. Mute. Paraplegic. A failure at the one trait inherent to humanity: wholeness; yet cursed with perfectly good eyes and ears.

“I suppose that’s the best choice. It… it isn’t as if he can do much of anything here…”
“Let’s be honest, Mel, he’s dead weight. God only knows if anything goes on in that brain of his.”

I can feel wetness on my cheeks; the utterly human habit of crying when one is unable to do anything else. But I’m only halfway there. Half a person. Trapped in the ultimate padded room: a well-kempt but doorless mind.

They leave the room, turning off the lights as they go, taking my future with them.