Not Sick, There’s No Cure for This

Hey, ya’ll, welcome to this week’s Short Tale Monday.

I will go ahead and warn you if you are fairly squeamish, you may not want to read this week’s story. I’m not really sure where this came from. I started with a prompt and before I knew it, this came pouring out of my fingers. So please consider this your trigger warning. I don’t want anyone doing poorly after visiting here.

If you’re squeamish, please Don’t continue.

Everyone in the office stood stock-still as the young boy just laughed and laughed.

The nurse tried to soothe the other children in her office that flinched at hearing his laughter.

When he finally stopped laughing, his mouth twisted in a mockery of a smile and he faced the vice-principal who had just called him a sick little boy before he started laughing.

“Don’t call me sick. I’m not sick.”

Before he could finish his statement, the vice principal interrupted, not realizing it wasn’t a smart move, “Young man, yes you are. Only sick boys think it’s fun to jab holes into their classmates with pencils. Only people with something wrong in their minds think it’s fun to catch birds in front of the 1st graders and break their wings. Only little boys with no conscience think its acceptable to sneak into the kitchen and dose all of the cafeteria food with a laxative, putting nearly the entire school out for half a week. The only acceptable prank you pulled was setting up buckets over various doors with paint for the first person to enter the room. For that, you would’ve received suspension. For everything combined, you’re expelled and police notified to ensure you get help.”

He never noticed that while he was talking, the 8 year old boy was slowly stepping closer and closer.

Just as the last word left his mouth, he grunted with pain and folded in half as said boy he’d just been lecturing jabbed a plastic fork deep into his groin. One of the school’s gym teachers stepped forward and pulled him away from the vice principal as he made to kick him.

Twisted smile still stretched across his young face, “Don’t interrupt me, Idiot. I said, don’t call me sick. I’m not sick. I’m twisted. Sick makes it sound like there’s a cure. Even I’m smart enough to realize there’s not a cure for this. Even I can tell my brain doesn’t fire normally, I just don’t care.” 

Dread filled every staff member in the small office as they realized this young child knew something was wrong with him, but he had clearly been raised that no one would care so why should he.

Just then, a police officer walked in, “We were called about a child?”

The vice principal wasn’t in any condition to answer, the nurse wasn’t leaving the children she was with to attend to him, and the other staff and secretary were confused as to who called the police.

The secretary spoke, “We’re sorry but what child?”

“We were simply called by someone anonymous, wouldn’t identify herself, who stated that she’d been called about her child who’d hurt several children. She declared that she no longer wanted anything to do with him, he’d hurt his siblings too much and now was attacking his classmates. So she called us.”

The other adults realized with dawning dread that the mother that they were waiting for, rather than come for her son, had called the police, disowning him.

The young boy, smile gone, bored look on his young face, “That would be me, I would imagine.”

The gym teacher filled the officer in on everything he’d done in the last week. The officer took him into custody and the secretary asked, still filled with pity for the young boy since his family didn’t even seem to care about him, about what would happen to him.

“He’ll be placed into a foster home while a case is investigated, should there be anyone that wants to pursue charges or he does something worse.”

The officer walked the young boy out, for many of the staff, it would be the last time they’d see him.


©Paula Crofoot

Well, that certainly escalated quickly. I could’ve done without the part involving the poor birds but what my character says he’s done, he did. I condone absolutely none of this, except the bucket prank-that would be funny as long as I’m not the one that walked under it. Unfortunately, there are really people like this among us.

Before you leave, be sure to click on the link for this week’s Sunday Fabricated Stories. It’s also a mental health issue hundreds of people deal with but nothing near as twisted as the young boy above. Nowhere near

I Don’t Know Why But Thank You.

‘Til Next Time, my friends.


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