Read Online We Are Monsters by Brian Kirk - Free Book Online Page B

“Yes, it would make things slightly better, I think.”
    Eli looked around. An elderly man was lurching their way, mumbling obscenities to himself.
    â€œWell, I’ll see what I can do.” He reached out a stiff arm and patted Miranda on the shoulder.
    She grinned and looked away. She began therapy under Dr. Francis the following day and never was the same.
    The refrain of the cover song came around again—infinity stored deep inside—and Eli rubbed his arms to dampen the gooseflesh prickling his skin. He turned off the iPod and began packing it away.
    Randall continued to nod his head as the beat lingered in his ears. “That’s heaven,” Randall said.
    Eli smiled. “I’m glad you liked it.”
    â€œNo, I mean, that’s like a real connection to heaven. The afterlife exists inside that song.”
    Eli leaned back, inhaled through his nose and held it. His eyes landed on the mural painted against the far wall, the beasts living harmoniously in the garden of original sin. “You mean, this musician lives on through the recording, making him eternal?”
    Randall shook his head. He combed the hair out of his eyes, but it fell right back in place. He looked at Eli through jagged strands. “The song we just heard is a second-or third-generation recording of a live performance by a band of men blessed with special talents granted by God. That song is not eternal because it was recorded. It is eternal because it was written before time began. It precedes the stars. Trace it back to its origin and you find God. It was composed in heaven. To hear it is to experience the divine.”
    Eli was encouraged by the clarity of Randall’s words. Music always elevated him to a higher level. A place of articulate intensity. Music and laughter, he thought, are among the most effective forms of therapy.
    â€œThat’s a beautiful way to think of it,” Eli said. “Do your songs come from the same place?”
    â€œNot all of them,” he said. “Some are just sounds I make with my mouth. Some, though…” Randall began to drum his hands against his leg, “…some come from something beyond me. I just share it. The Creator speaks through all of us in various ways.” He smiled and pointed to his head. “Not all of the voices we hear are imaginary.”
    A flash of heat seared Eli’s chest, and he had the sudden urge to grasp Randall by the hand and escort him out of the hospital. To free him like some rare and beautiful bird that had been confined to a cage. What if this whole time, he thought for the thousandth time, the tremors beginning to seize his hands, we’ve been working to fix people who aren’t broken? And if that’s so, then what have I done? What am I doing? What am I to do?
    Eli stood and gripped the briefcase handle hard to steady his hand. “We all hear voices,” he said, attempting to control his own. “It’s all a matter of how we react to them. How they make us feel. What they make us do.” He thought of Crosby and his heartbeat slowed. Crosby’s imaginary voices had convinced him to kill. That was clearly a sign of a disorder, not some form of divine persuasion.
    Eli concentrated on his breathing. Insanity is suffering; your job is to relieve suffering. Rajamadja’s manic smile and tittering laugh came to mind. Not all insanity is suffering, though.
    He heard Miranda’s melodic voice, “Who determines who’s sick and who’s well?”
    His heart began thumping again, this time in his throat. He forced a smile and directed it at Randall, his wrinkled skin creating a landscape of canyon valleys. “We’ll do this again,” he said and walked away, weaving between pockets of patients on his way to the door. Many of them were mumbling to themselves or to something unseen. He wondered what they heard.

Chapter Ten
    â€œThere are forces working to bring about