Hashmarks

I heard a very touching story yesterday about an older teen. He had been withdrawn for years, listless. He was there, but generally unresponsive to the proddings of others. His parents had run the gamut of taking him to various doctors and psychologists. For some time, he was on psychotropic drugs to treat what they thought was depression. When classmates tried to approach him, they were met with hostility. “Fuck off. Leave me alone.” he muttered, head bent downwards, reflecting his unworthy state.
Then one day, he is in English class. The bell rings. All the other kids leave. He stays in the back of the room, motionless. His teacher asks him if things are all right. He says “I’m afraid.” “What are you afraid of?”, she asks. “There’s someone behind me. There always is. I’m afraid.”

The teacher calls his parents and tells them about this. They take the child home. More testing. More doctors. Finally they find one who understands. He is not depressed. He has paranoid schizophrenia. The prescription changes. And all of a sudden, he becomes a young man. He opens up. He speaks freely to others. He is sorry about the transgressions from his former state, but he understands. “That’s how I was before.”

He is an artist. I’m told he has a vision into things you and I would never see. His teacher asks him to draw a pencil, and to give the pencil emotion. He draws a room, three dimensional. Or should I say four? There is a pencil on a desk, all shriveled up. Bent. Unworthy of attention. And on all of the walls, on the ceiling, on the floor, there are hashmarks, drawn with pencil. Four vertical lines, one slash. Counting the days the pencil was in this prison.