Kingdom of Animals

Originally published in Flash Fiction Magazine on 21 April, 2016: http://flashfictionmagazine.com/blog/2016/04/21/kingdom-of-animals/

My doctor believes a trip to the zoo will cheer me up. He buys me hotdogs and ice cream and encourages me to at least try to engage with the hundreds of animals on display.

‘Don’t you like it here, Jarrod?’ Doctor McCarthy says, stopping at the lemur enclosure.

I tell him no, I would rather be at home researching my symptoms on the Internet.

‘What is it this time, son?’

‘Chemtrails, doc,’ I say. ‘Did you know we’re all being poisoned by those white streaks up in the sky? The one’s left behind by aeroplanes.’

Doctor McCarthy tries to lure one of the lemurs over by holding out a handful of potato chips. I beg him to stop, the thing might be rabid.

‘How do these chemtrails make you feel, Jarrod?’

‘Frightened, angry. My eyes are burning, doctor. I think that might be a sign of exposure.’

He places a hand on my shoulder and leads me along a sand covered track. I glance around at the hordes of loud schoolchildren whose laughter makes me cringe. A little girl catches the terrified expression on my face and giggles. I want to tell her she wouldn’t be giggling if she knew zoos were popular haunts for paedophiles but I stare down at my feet instead.

When we arrive at the giraffe enclosure Doctor McCarthy turns to me and says, ‘Are you still taking your antidepressants?’

‘I flushed them down the toilet. They weren’t working.’

He sighs. ‘That’s because you didn’t give them a chance to work. I’m writing you another prescription. Trust me, those pills will make you feel better. Happy.’

I think about Jim Jones and Guyana. I picture his loyal followers poised over their cups of cyanide-laced Kool-Aid and I imagine old Jimbo would have coaxed them into consuming their final liquid meals with the word ‘Happiness.’

‘Don’t you want to be happy, Jarrod?’ Doctor McCarthy asks, offering a large carrot stick to a hollow-eyed giraffe. ‘Don’t you want to fit in with the rest of the world?’

I snort. ‘Who wants to fit into a world that gives people like Charles Manson a marriage license?’

‘Everybody deserves a second chance, son.’

I close my eyes and think of Sharon Tate. I see her blood smeared on walls, entrails hanging from overpriced chandeliers and the word ‘PIG’ splashed across the front door.

‘I’m starting to think you’re the one who needs help, doctor,’ I say.

He chuckles and drags me further along the track, deeper into the heart of the Animal Kingdom.

Cheetahs, covered in black-spotted fur. Symptom Checker warns me black spots are a sure sign of Meningococcal.

Elephants with garish trunks and tough hides, riddled with melanoma.

Doctor McCarthy buys more hotdogs and ice cream cones and keeps patting me on the shoulder with those delicate hands of his.

‘Do you believe in survival of the fittest, Jarrod?’ he says, gazing out at a jaundiced-looking red panda.

‘You mean like natural selection?’

He smiles. ‘Precisely.’

‘I know Hitler was a firm believer in it.’ I glance down at my arms and notice goose bumps speckling my skin.

McCarthy tosses his ice cream at the red panda and says, ‘Hitler was … maybe a little too overzealous but you can’t deny the fact he was a passionate individual, at least.’

‘What are you—’

‘Let’s just say he wasn’t all bad, hmmm? Even the thorniest branches can spring the most luscious roses.’

AUSCHWITZ blares through my mind. Industrial ovens stoked with the skinniest logs. Shaved heads and prison stripes the chic fashion for a party called ‘Genocide.’

I watch the red panda gobble up the ice cream before puking it all over a blond man in khakis.

‘You sound like you admire Hitler,’ I say.

He raises his hands in the air. ‘No. I’m simply asking whether you believe in natural selection or not.’

‘I don’t fucking know, all right? And what does it matter anyway?’

McCarthy guides me towards a safari-inspired exhibit and says, ‘Wait.’

I do.

A swishing noise fills my ears. The sound of heavy paws crunching gravel underfoot. A low growling.

‘You’re a very troubled young man, Jarrod,’ Doctor McCarthy says, placing his hand on my shoulder.

‘I … I know.’

‘Afraid of death, afraid of life. I bet you’re even terrified of glimpsing yourself in the mirror each morning, correct?’

I nod, my throat closing up.

The growling rises in volume, becoming the soundtrack to my nightmarish trip to the zoo.

‘Afraid of everything, aren’t you, Jarrod?’

I look up and see chemtrails splashed across the afternoon sky.

I close my eyes and think of ‘PIG,’ of Jim Jones and his Kool-Aid.

CHEETAHS INFECTED WITH MENINGOCOCCAL!

‘Yes.’

The swishing noise pounds against my temples.

‘So, if you won’t let me help you, how do you expect to survive?’ McCarthy says.

‘I … I don’t … want—’

‘You do want to survive, Jarrod. You want to get better. You’re just afraid to try.’

RED PANDAS ARE JAUNDICED AND CHARLES MANSON IS MARRYING A WOMAN WITH DEAD EYES.

‘Life is so hard, doc.’ Tears fill my eyes.

He squeezes my shoulder. ‘I know it is, son. We’re born to die and everything in between is merely survival.’

JET PLANES SLICING THROUGH THE WORLD TRADE CENTER AND ELEPHANTS HAVE MELANOMA. BODIES FALLING FROM THE SKY.

‘Survival.’

The crunching sound is close now, so close, but I’m afraid to look.

‘You can be happy, Jarrod,’ Doctor McCarthy says. ‘You can be a survivor.’

‘How?’

‘Just look.’

He tilts my chin up and I catch sight of the most majestic beast I have ever seen. Its roar cuts through the afternoon with fierce determination. We lock eyes and my legs nearly give out but I manage to keep from falling.

Doctor McCarthy whispers, ‘We’re a kingdom of animals, Jarrod. The trick is staying sane just long enough to claw your way to the top. Survival of the fittest.’