Something had always unnerved Jones about the child, ever from the moment he first saw him.
Only in 4th grade, but with the soul of someone far older. He never laughed, never cried, never smiled, never showed emotion of any manner. And frankly, even though he’d never so much as raised a finger against them, he terrified the other children.
Every day, they would play on the swingset, the slides, the seesaw. Save for him. He just sat there, staring at them, no, observing them. For, like any other time he looked at his fellow classmates, his eyes were cold and emotionless. As if he was looking over cattle, and not his peers.
Although, at this point, Jones had begun to doubt whether the child was even what one could consider human. He may have looked just like any other ten-year old boy, but there was something feral about him, a contained savagery lurking beneath the surface. It was evident even now. The child’s mouth, never betraying any emotion, was now covered by a muzzle. Not unlike a caged animal.
He is an animal, Jones thought to himself. You saw what he did just now.
He wouldn’t have ever guessed the day would be any different than normal. His students were the same rowdy yet good-natured pack of kids they had always been. Come recess time, the rest of the children had gone outside, save for two. Jones hadn’t thought anything of it at the moment: he had enough on his hands escorting the rest of the boisterous students through the halls and out onto the playground. Upon doing so, he’d walked back to the classroom to grab his coat. He remembered the gripping feeling of abject horror as he opened the door and took a step in…
No. The child handcuffed and strapped to the backseat wasn’t an animal.
He was something much, much worse.
Jones barely had any more time to reminisce on this when the police car came to an abrupt stop, and the officers driving the escort cars yanked the child out of the backseat.
He couldn’t help but feel on edge as the company walked through the doors of the sprawling, stark white complex. The whole facility was unnervingly silent, as a matter of fact. Almost immediately, men in stark white lab coats led the child, who didn’t seem inclined to offer resistance in any way, behind locked doors. Jones noted, somewhat contentedly, that the officers who had escorted him followed about 10 metres behind, hands resting near the handguns clipped to their waists.
They sat the child down, and one of the doctors removed the muzzle, a touch more gently than he should have, thought Jones irritably. Then the steel door closed behind them, and he sat himself down on a nearby chair in the reception centre, which was, he noticed, rather curiously located within sight of the interrogation room.
For hours, there was nothing but silence, and the occasional chatter of the intercom. He didn’t pick up any of the magazines on the ottoman beside him. He simply sat there, not thinking about anything in particular, not even the horrific situation he had been thrust into. Just waiting.
Finally, the doctor opened the door, and walked out towards him, a clipboard in his left hand. Dimly, Jones was aware that the doctor was talking to him. Medical jargon and such. He felt a sense of twisted…excitement? Yes. There would be an appropriate sentence for such a horrendous, irredeemable crime.
“…he’ll be relocated to a specialised rehabilitation centre…”
Jones felt his heart stop. A cold lump formed in his throat. His parched lips opened but struggled to make noise. It was so clear. Relocated? The child couldn’t be “fixed” like some broken automaton. How could they not see?
“You can’t let him…that’s…that’s not a child…”
“…sir?”
“You didn’t see…you didn’t see what he did…there’s no way…no way any child could have done…you don’t…”
“Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can assure you that with proper treatment, he should–”
“YOU CAN’T LET HIM GO! YOU CAN’T LET HIM L–”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“NO, DON’T LET HIM GO! HE’S NOT HUMAN! HE’S NOT HUMAN!”
Jones felt two pairs of hands grab his arms and drag him away from the doctor. He heard himself shout, but wasn’t aware of what words came out of his mouth. All he knew was he had to get to that room, to do what the doctors clearly weren’t going to, what he should’ve done the second he saw the dead, mutilated body of a ten-year old boy on the floor of his classroom; broken pencils and jagged remnants of safety scissors littered around the scene.
If he had looked back one last time through the cell window at the child, he would’ve seen a small, almost imperceptible smile play across the corner of its mouth.
The City High Review 