As a disabled Vietnam vet I believe as Americans we should never let our service men and women be forgotten, i.e. those who have not only put their lives on the line to protect America but have done it because they believed in the American Way, which is, democracy, liberty and freedom. We should never let these people down. We should never allow them to be found begging for food or money in the streets. We should never ever allow them to be the target of ridicule by anyone, American or foreign. Since the Vietnam war, veterans have been facing what I call, the Three Hell Syndrome. In this regard syndrome means most nearly condition. Let me explain what exactly three hell syndrome means. (1) The first hell: War. (2) The second hell: Mental Traumatization, and (3) The third hell: Homelessness. I have experienced all three of these hellish conditions in my lifetime and know, this nemesis, in and of itself is a consistent, debilitating paradigm. Unless the three hell syndrome is not stopped many more servicemen who come back from participating in future American wars will die homeless, institutionalized, in jail or even having committed suicide. Please take a moment of your time and find out about the many war vets who are facing one of these crippling conditions or are facing all three or have faced them and managed to get over these conditions with the help of the VA and are now living a productive life. What you will discover is many of our veterans, past and present, are incarcerated or roaming the streets at this very moment, shoeless, penniless, homeless and without family support. With your help this tragedy can stop if we all work together to put an end to this kind of humiliation which should not be going on in America. Not now. Not ever! IF YOU CAN HELP IN ANYWAY PLEASE DO….
On the way to his appointment mom and dad barely said two words to each other. They were worried that Peter would have another convulsion albeit he hadn't had one for nearly three months; still they worried.
They arrived on time. The psychiatrist spoke with mom and dad privately while Peter waited in the lounge and then in the aftermath wanted to speak with Peter in turn. This was the first of a series of personal and private psychiatric consultations she was supposed to have with him. It was a decree from the mental health board. They wanted to know if he was happy at home and if things were going well for him. Did he have any complaints. When Peter sat alone in the psychiatrist's office she smiled at him.
"Peter... how are things at home? Your mom and dad told me you are taking your medication."
"Everything is fine. I'm taking my medication. Although I hate it. I'm not sick. Why does everybody keep thinking I'm crazy?"
The thirty-four year old female M.D. rose from her desk chair and made her way to the seat adjacent to where Peter sat. She leaned forward took Peter by the hands.
"Peter no one thinks you're crazy. What you have is a chemical imbalance in your brain."
"No I don't. You’re lying and you know it."
The female psychiatrist stunned by Peter's rebuttal, recoiled in her chair. She stared into his face, because she hoped what he said was meant to be a joke. But when she examined his glassy eyed countenance further, she grasped that what he said, he meant. She glared at his physical stature from bottom to top. For an eleven year old boy he was nearly as tall as she was only much bulkier.
"Peter I am a qualified medical doctor. I have spend the better part of my younger life learning to recognize people who suffer from social or mental problems. It is my job to understand the symptoms and prescribe medication that will help those that can't necessarily help themselves live normal and productive lives. Can you understand that?"
"I don't have any mental illness. You don't no what you're talking about."
"I am a trained psychiatrist. Trained to-"
She stopped momentarily. She glared peculiarly again into Peter's fixed eyes which were focused on her legs. In fact Peter stared at the intoxicating dark space in between them and began to rub her right thigh in some sort of dazed-gaze.
"What are you doing?"
Peter didn't respond. He continued to rub her thigh, his gaze now fix on her breasts like a dead zombie come back to life to feast on living flesh.
"Take your hand off my thigh this minute!"
Peter continued to ignore her. He stood slowly as her watery eyes followed him. Then he put his hand on her breast. She flinched, screamed and jumped to her feet as the chair flew backward and she nearly followed it almost loosing her balance.
"I'm calling your parents this instant."
Immediately she headed toward the door, but when she tried to open it, it wouldn't budge. She beat on it but strangely her beats made no audible sound to the ear. As if, she was dreaming the whole thing. In an instant, she turned and put her back against the door panting and shivering; gazing at Peter who now bobbed his head back and forth, while he ambled toward her, liked he’d never seen a female before in all the eleven years of his life.
"Listen Peter behave yourself. This is going to get you into serious trouble if you don't stop right now! Do you hear?"
If he heard her, he ignored her demand and continued to approach the psychiatrist until he stood up against her and began sliding his hand underneath her skirt as he stared into her frightened green eyes. She tried to dart from the door but he held her with the strength of a grown man with the force of a mule. He was so unusually strong she honestly could not move. The phone rang. Unperturbed by the sound behind him Peter continued to slide his hand until he reached her thigh as his sense of touch tasted the soft meat of her rear-end with the palm of his right hand while he cupped her right breast with his left. He began to grind away on her body. Groans of a man’s passions crept forth from his stiff body then gushed forth from his mouth inaudible horrid phrases. Shivering from pure terror, her arms and legs incapable of movement. She felt anesthetized. Like some evil bitch-of-a-nurse had given her a unnecessarily heavy sedative. But in truth some force more powerful than that of a little eleven year old boy had her pinned permanently against that door. She tried to slide along the wall to get to the ringing phone but as she did, Peter's force move in rhythm with her every movement preventing her from going anywhere.
Intermittently she screamed as his hand drew ever closer to the crotch of her panties as the odor of raw fish exuded the air. His breathing hot, dry and loud. Like a mad rapist fresh out of the loony bin. Then suddenly an invisible voice from nowhere rang out. In a deep tone it said,
"Go ahead Peter fondle her."
Hideous faint echoing giggles followed.
"What the hell in god’s name was that?" she said, as her head darted to every corner of the white square room in search of the invisible deep voice. It was ventriloquism. Yeah that's what it was. Peter knew ventriloquism. That must be it. She told herself.
"Stop this, this very instance or I'll scream for your mother if you don't, for god sakes. Why are you doing this to me?"
"Go head... scream you silly bitch," the evil deep voice said.
Peter unkempt, sweating, lifted his eyes and stared into the eyes of the female psychiatrist, who stared slightly down at him in utter gaped-mouth shock at his outrageous behavior. What she saw nearly stopped her heart cold; Peter’s face turned black as the night. His eyes became first blood-red, then milky-maroon, and finally tar-black. For the life of her she could not see any pupils at all. She broke into an uncontrollable shivering-stare followed by frightening whimpers which seemed to last forever, water pouring from every pore of her body. Then this pointed teeth creature with tar-black eyes, crimson skinned in silhouette, sprang forth from Peter's body and tore off her white blouse with its claws. Somehow she yelled for someone to help her, but again, her yells were inaudible, as if she were deep within some sort of impenetrable, sealed, lead container. One with absolutely no acoustics. Then the thing told Peter in a deep evil tone to go head and lift up her skirt. In total shock she blacked out in an upright slumped-position throwing her back against the wall then slid downward to the carpeted floor head hung down, legs wide apart, right in that office. Coached by the evil spirit and its followers, Peter stooped down and fondled her for several minutes then fell backward and passed out. Hideous, eerie giggles rang out in choir. Then the things vanished as giggles faded.
Moments later the psychiatrist opened her eyelids. She gazed at her torn blouse but it was no longer torn. Now she sat at her desk chair and Peter sat across from her biting his finger-nails, peering down at the office carpet. Jerking his head upward, squinted-eyed, he stared silently into her blanked face. She glared at the wall-clock above the door: ten thirty-one. Only five minutes had elapsed since the start of the appointment. She broke for her office door and yanked it open. Heart racing a mile-a-minute. Shaking her head in total disbelief and not knowing what to make of it she closed the door slowly and crept back to her desk bewildered. A moment later she told Peter that was all for the day. He left.
Once Peter got home, he charged up to his room and threw himself on his bed.