A Dream for the Panel

A Dream for the Panel

- The worst thing about life is how much the devil is in it. –

         The therapy session was, and had always been, scheduled for three twenty-five, though the patients sauntered in at various minutes after. So long as they all arrived and sat for the allotted half hour minimum, neither the guards nor the therapist cared. Conducted in the gymnasium, the uniforms would often linger at the bleachers smoking cigarettes occasionally glancing toward the dysfuncts. In a silent unbroken code of gym neutrality, the two opposing groups never interfered.
         The giant score clock’s hand was three marks after the seven when the last of the dysfuncts arrived. He was fairly new to Healthy Forest –only four days old- and rarely spoke to the regulars. When he slipped into one of the chairs arranged in the circle, the others broke their groups and sat in their own seats. Michael Strauss was the oldest and longest continuous resident and therefore served as the impromptu chairman.
         “Um, okay guys. I guess we’re ready to start now.” He threw a look in the newcomers’ general direction. “Anyone wanna’ open up?”
         Strauss always asked the question but none of the twelve fellow residents ever volunteered. He sighed and cracked open the notebook he carried religiously. It was his dream book (the therapist encouraged its use); to start, he’d picked a notation.
         “I dreamed a couple of days ago that I‘d died and gone to heaven. And when I’d just arrived, I was sitting on a bench waiting I guess.”
         “Waiting for what?” someone asked.
         Strauss shrugged. How was he supposed to know? “But as I’m waiting, this guy walks passed me then stops. Now I’m scared because this guy is huge, I mean Gigantor monster size. He’s looking down at me smiling and asks me to forgive him. I said, ‘Sure but what for?’ I woke up after that.”
         Joshua Mitt, the runway from Michigan, started laughing toward the ceiling. Something was obviously hilarious. His dirty dreadlocks bounced every time he sucked in air through his crooked teeth.
         “That’s the stupidest, most naïve, juvenile, transparent dream in the history of dreams.” His voice was naturally cynical and degrading.
         “You’re an idiot, freakin’ pill head.”
         Mitchell was to the left of him, folding her arms and legs like a confrontational pose. Joshua didn’t hate her, just strongly disliked.
         “Pill head? Couldn’t do better?”
         “Cool down guys for Christ’s sake,” interceded Derrick, the arsonist form Mississippi, “what Strauss is asking is what we think. Mitt’s opinion is that it doesn’t mean anything. What do you think Mitchell?”
         She glanced upward, showcasing her beautiful deep blue pupils. From Texas, she mirrored a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, bouncing curls and long legs seemingly out of place with the dysfuncts.
         “I think we blame stuff on people when we have ourselves.”
         “Ourselves?” Strauss questioned. “You think my dream was me blaming God instead of myself?”
         Derrick shrugged. “Could be it, I suppose.”
         “Are you lunatics that inept? Tell me it can’t be so.”
         Mitt rolled his eyes at the ignorance before him. “Yeah, we have the problem blaming others. WE - being the main word in that sentence. We: the dysfuncts, us (he put the phrase in air quotations) the special people who’ve hurt others by our actions.”
         “He, uh, has a good point.” Robert McCain spoke rather glibly. Out of all the dysfuncts, the short scrawny quiet kid was the one truly feared. He was too calm all the time.
         Strauss nodded. “Yeah, I agree. Why else would God be asking for forgiveness?”
         “Do you even believe in God, McCain?” asked Derrick.
         “Yes. Do you?”
         “Of course if you meant the One that controls all and knows all.”
         Mitt thrust out his hands as if the thought was there staring at them. He sighed irritated yet again.
         “Who in their right mind don’t believe in God? Raise your hands - no really - raise’em.”
         A few hands rose.
         “Idiots.” Mitt spat sadly, the dreads swishing from side to side.
         “I’m kinda’ surprised,” McCain said softly, “that you’re a believer.”
         “Why wouldn’t he be?” Derrick asked rhetorically. “To him it’s clear, black and white. What he doesn’t understand is why others can’t see it that way.”
         Mitchell, the cheerleader, looked on disapprovingly. “Okay, let’s say God exist like it’s just true. Did anybody think of what that means?”
         “That he owns me another god-be-damned apology.”
         “And a few billion more.” Derrick added.
         For a moment the session retreated into the safety of silence as each one considered the implications. Not often in their lives has one singular thoughts crystallized in their brains, branching like a jumbled spider web of possibilities; able to twist their own self-perceptions and views upon life opposing polar directions.
         Smashing half-smoked cigarettes with their feet, the guards eerily retrieved packs and thrummed the edges before finally pulling out another and starting anew. So strange of a phenomenon was it to see thirteen teenagers silent, boring a collective gaze onto the floor. Derrick looked up and smiled; they were reassured. They liked the kid with the brown straight hair and square jaw. He was always reasonable, controllable, took his meds as instructed. An all American son except for the fact he’d killed his parents by burning down the house.
         Mitt was the first to speak. “Free will, remember we all have it. Free will exonerates God. You can’t be blamed for something you can’t control.”
         “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me, man.” Strauss questioned unbelievingly. “You won’t even criticize HIM. Everything and everyone is up for grabs but no him?”
         “No, you moron. You can’t blame someone for something they didn’t commit. God didn’t make you have that dream, didn’t put you in this place.” Mitt retorted, the self-evident truth in his words.
         Mitchell pointed a finger at the dreadlocked head. “No, you can’t have it both ways, Mitt. You can’t have him real and be like Mighty King and not blame’em.”
         “So, simply put,” McCain spoke, “God’s existence equates guilt.”
         Derrick shook his head in agreement. “I believe so, yes. But you don’t believe that, do you McCain?”
         “No, I couldn’t”
         McCain had his hands flat on his thighs; his short frame leaned against the chair like a bent light pole. He looked at the group blinking the brown pupils innocently.
         “We all know why, don’t we? A person can choose to ignore or not be aware of it all, but it is still there within our souls. There are things we have done, evil wicked deeds, from which we have, and even now, deprive the sweetest joy, elation. No, God does exist. And if you believe that we are made in his image, then that feeling, the satisfying power surge must be ours and ours alone. Without that fact, then none of it would matter.”
         “But we’re not supposed to be this way.” Mitchell said somewhat detached. Her eyes were looking down at the end of vertical slits, peeking recesses of her folded arms. Like seeing a lost puppy, McCain felt sorry for her especially considering that he hadn’t finished.
         “We have free will, who says we’re supposed to be anything? We are who we are because we’ve relished the process, despite the fact we may regret the outcome. But, rewind time and we’d do the same. It’s by our own god-given right to choices that we live. No God? To believe in God means to know that change is possible, acceptable, wanted. No God and we are unloving concrete entities. Can you accept that Mitchell?”
         She was crying, the tears like a diamond’s trail on her cheeks. Her head shook. No she couldn’t accept his reason.
         Derrick coughed to break the silence. “You're very convincing McCain. Why don’t we see if any other agrees with you, or at least, your views? By show of hands, who believes in God?”
         Strauss counted six. “Who doesn’t?” he asked. He counted another six. “It’s even.”
         Joshua counted the bodies. “It can’t be. There are thirteen people. Hey,” he spoke to the new guy who’d hadn’t moved a centimeter during the session, “you didn’t vote. Why not?”
         Tommy heard the dreadlock head speaking but was too unconcerned to move. He heard something again, which only irritated him. Didn’t they understand that he didn’t care? Seven days ago, he’d had a real life, with family and friends and normalcy. Seven days ago the earth spun on its axis in perfect harmony with the time of his own world. And now there was nothing, peace was only hearing screams with the stills of memory. Quiet was feeling the warmth slipping between his fingers in an endless drizzle.
         Couldn’t they see he didn’t really care?
         There was silence as the panel of twelve stared, waiting. All they had was time in this god forsaken place.
         “Ever think, you’ve being judging the wrong person? Wouldn’t be the first time.”