Gene is hysterical, and
you can decide yourself what you want that to mean. He exhibits the
same sense of innocent mania as a five-year-old with a switch-blade –
it feels like it can bubble over at any moment into something deeply
disturbing. The cracks in his panic-stricken shrieks are like a pair
of jelly sandals on a mass murderer – you feel like you should be
scared but they make you want to give him a hug.
He is a pure being
unscuffed by the darkness at the heart of this most unforgiving of
worlds. A new pair of gleaming white Y-fronts that have not yet lost
their lustre to the dark brown Marmite skids of experience.
I love him in the way
one loves a puppy with deep emotional trauma – I want to hold him
and tell him “everything's going to be okay”, even if it is a
terrible lie. But I worry such naked affection would send him into a
mad frenzy of awkward panic. So I'll just maintain a safe distance
and try to achieve a comforting smile. I don't want Gene to know how
bad it can be. I want him to feel safe.
When I feel myself
starting to slip, when the tenuous consistency of my mind begins to
deteriorate like a once firm sandcastle falling apart in the Sun, I
hope I can lose it with as much charm as Gene.
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