Written by: Bradley Allen MarkleFormat: Novel excerptWord Count: 6,659July 09, 1998
Some s___ can’t be worked through. It won’t –
get better with time. The myopic shrink
with glasses thick as bullet proof glass tells me I should keep a journal. It’ll help me work
through my depression he says. His name is Dr. Calloway. His right hand is shriveled up, his
twig arm bent at a weird angle. I can’t help but stare at it. I like to imagine he’s part tyrannosaur.
I want to touch his desiccated fingers, fold them, shape them into the talon of a dinosaur. Hesays I should begin each journal
entry by writing three words to describe what I’m feeling, and
then explore whether my mood has improved or changed at all, and then maybe try and write
something positive to think about for the rest of the day. Bulls___. Oh. He also told me he’s
going to read the entries every day and edit them, removing all the bad language and whatnotbecause he has to present the progress of my case to a panel once a week, but, he says, I can stillfeel free to write whatever I want, even cuss words galore. He said that, cuss words galore. Well
d___. I wonder if women find his freakish, contorted hand attractive. I do. It’s like watching
someone make a joke about the brains of your husband stuck to your lime green kitchen wall. I
wasn’t supposed to see that part. I rus
hed back into the house because I had to find a picture of Caylee, any picture, just something to remind me of her. There was a big, fat cop there. His
hands weren’t like Dr. Calloways. His fingers were plump, gluttonous caterpillars clinging to the
r’s mitt of his palm. He poked at what remained of Jim’s skull, somehow glued to the wallwith gray matter. The cop jabbed at it, said hey buddy, what’s on your mind? He guffawed,
turned to his fellow cops, their eyes wide on me. The fat one realized who I was. He looked
down and shuffled his feet like a disciplined school boy. The tip of his finger was red. He wasn’t
wearing any gloves.
I couldn’t stop staring at his hands. Just like I can’t stop myself fromwanting to touch Dr. Calloway’s. I don’t think this journal is working me through anything.
July 11, 1998Dr. T. Rex says my first journal entry was a good start. He says I should try writing three words
to describe my feelings, though. It’s part of the healing process he says. Ok. Three
words:Numb. Numb. Numb.
Maybe it’s the drugs. Mom gives me enormous light blue pills every day with breakfast. Horse
sized pills. Why are pills always blue or white? Why not magenta or sunshine yellow or black orpolka dotted or s___ brown or lime green? That was our first argument after we bought the