I moved in behind him and laid my fingertips along the side of his face, immediately and forcefully drawing him back into a soundless black vacuity of calm in the middle of this violent mob, vanishing from sight. He jerked upright and his arms flopped like landed fish at his sides but he could hear no other sound, and no voice other than my own, hissing quietly into the emptiness of his soul, echoing and rebounding off the walls of his consciousness. Shadows played across his wild eyed visage.

“I know who you are; all you were, all that you are and all that you might be. I will instruct you because you have shown that you cannot learn.” He shuddered and jerked like a thousand watt live wire in a downpour, but was unable to free himself. I continued.

“All you were will change. Your tongue will never weave falsehoods, your eyes will see only facts and you will hear the reality behind all lies. You will know only the truth, and realize forever the error of your ways. You will search for meaning as you have searched for nothing else, and will not rest until you are face to face with virtue. You will absorb all that I impart to you as sure as you believe your own name. Is this clear?”

He nodded slowly. I could feel him sobering, the effects of economical alcohol being forcibly ejected from his system. His stomach disgorged its contents and I stepped aside to avoid the spattering stream upon the ground, but did not break connection. He must know. They all must know.

The throng surged around us, whooping and shrieking, throwing books, furniture and anything that wasn’t bolted down into the inferno. Sirens wailed in the distance.

I opened my mind to him and poured the contents into his, being careful not to turn his brains to sidewalk chalk. I showed him the meaning of existence, the penalty of his every action; the wings of a butterfly causing hurricanes halfway around the globe. The universe herself reclined on the head of a pin and bade him welcome to her secrets.

His eyes were flushed, and streams of tears ran down his face. Subconsciously, he flailed his arms to brush me away but his hands clutched at nothing and he whimpered.

“Remember,” I said, and stepped away, severing our link and shoved him back into the light. He fell to the ground, and curled into a ball, his shoulders shrugged and his body wracked with sobs. I watched him for some time from a few feet away. I had to be sure.

When he finally hauled himself to his feet, he looked around, uncertain of where he was, but now his eyes had changed. He shuffled off into the darkness, away from the fire and I looked for another pupil.

Thomas McKenzie is currently working for a small branch of the federal government as a photographer, researcher, historian and general techno-bitch, and is awaiting orders to Defense Information School. He dwells in the Pacific Northwest and is probably very angry right now. His work can also be read at www.tlchicken.com under the pen name 'Smokin' Joe Blow'.