Quite Unnatural
Edmund stood facing the wind, his eyes closed. He always enjoyed the feeling of the wind whipping against his face and tugging on his hair. He twined his bare toes in the grass – how glorious that felt! A patch of healthy grass was hard to find.
It was one of those more pleasant July days, but the streets were deserted. The only noise came from the large intersection nearby – a constant flow of honking, cursing, and deafeningly loud engines that one learned to ignore after a while. Edmund was one of those rare people – labeled “quite unnatural” by normal folks – that enjoyed walking outside.
He opened his eyes and heaved a great sigh. It was about time to go home, or his mother might finally notice that he was not in front of the blaring, bright-colored television with the rest of his siblings. Not that she would care much. She was more concerned with her cooking and knitting than her least favorite, and by far most problematic and abnormal child. Edmund was quite a disappointment to her.
As he walked home, dragging his feet, Edmund caught glimpses of meaningless color coming from the dark, tomblike interiors of the perfect, washed and sparkling houses with their dead, brown lawns. He knew very well the routine the mindless drones inside would be watching: soap operas, sitcoms – some featuring happy couples at the dinner table; others featuring angry, argumentative couples that never stopped fighting – and educational shows on such important matters as why every woman should opt for artificial insemination. These shows would be interrupted every five or so minutes by commercials for the yarn that every woman needs and the golf set that every man must have. If one was lucky, there might be a weather update, in case one forgot what season it was.
At long last, Edmund reached the cement steps to his own house, looking, as usual, like each of its neighbors, except for the gleaming golden “24” on the door that indicated the house’s number. Edmund crept inside as quietly as possible, hoping his absence would remain unnoticed and thus go unpunished.
Yet, for once in his life, his mother was waiting for him. “Edmund,” she addressed him curtly.
“Yes, Mother,” the boy said politely, keeping his voice steady as he could. He tried to smile, as if nothing was wrong and his mother was not so clearly angry with him. A strange man walked into the room.
“Edmund,” repeated Mother. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Robert Jenkins. He works at the Center for Mental Health. You may have noticed his car outside.” Yes. He had assumed it belonged to one of the neighbors’ many visitors.
“I called the CMH while you were gone, Edmund,” Mother said, almost apologetically. She looked nervously at Dr. Jenkins.
“I am taking you to the Center,” Dr. Jenkins said, hardly moving his pursed lips. “It is for your own good. You have done the right thing, Mrs. Smith. Come with me, boy.” Dr. Jenkins did not look either of them in the eye, but instead handcuffed Edmund and forced him, struggling, out the door.
