The Realm and the Writer

In a dusty cafe near the center of town sat a placid gentleman with deep-set grey eyes. He took sips from his worn cup and shuffled lazily through the days yellowed newspaper. The dense smog of the city filtered through the door and a chorus of short harsh coughs could be heard almost continuously. The atmosphere is quiet for the time of day, only a few customers spread out like lone chess pieces on an over used board. A young man sits, perched upon a torn black stool, his tan suit neatly pressed and his auburn hair freshly greased. He's eating a rather limp looking pie, taking his time seemingly enthused with the process. In the front near the door a young mother fidgeting with her young son wait to be served by the waitress. Her blonde hair held up in pins and her black and white polka dot dress fitting high upon her neck give her a false sense of aristocracy. The waitress, in her grey dress and coral pink apron bring them each a glass of milk as she pulls a pencil from behind her ear. The scene is almost surreal in appearance until the young man at the counter quietly stands and throws his plate of pie viciously at the window behind him. It shatters with a piercing crash. The mother, covering the head of her now crying son screams out a bit in fright. The waitress rushes back behind the counter and out of sight, most likely phoning the proper athorities. The older gentleman sits still, staring forward, his newspaper now resting on the table. He new they'd be coming.

The young man at the counter silently returns to his stool and resumes the same position he held while eating the now discarded pie. A rush of running feet bring forth a crowd of police. Dressed in black, with reflective black helmets, they all look the same. Same height. Same build. The crowd into the small cafe and surround the young man. He looks up shocked at the sight before him. He stammers an objection as they place him in cuffs and life him off of the stool.

"Mr. T. R. Jenkins. You are under arrest for violation of article 6577B, section 2. Your punishment for such crime will be considered after a thorough emotional examination."

They haul the stunned man off, leaving the cafe in a silent state of shock. The gentleman fold his paper neatly and slips his coat on, revealing a circular badge on the left breast reading, "Department of Justice, Cognitive Division." He had known what would occur this day, it was his job. To observe the criminals emotional and physical behaivor leading up to the transgression. A detailed background of each criminal was investigated 3 months prior to the incident to help determine the punishment to be delivered for the crime. The gentleman knew the young man's fiance had just left him. He was torn with dispair at the lose of the one he loved. Therefore his punishment was classified under sadness. One of the hardest punishments to endure.

The gentleman left the cafe and walked quickly down the main street of the yellowed city. The days, being perpetually cloudy from pollution set off a yellowing fog which drifted in an out of every passageway. The gentlemen was heading to the rehabilitation center on the edge of town. A solid white, rectangular structure void of windows, save for the one near the door. The inside was steel. Silver metal as far as the eye could see. He grabbed his labcoat as he rushed through the doors to the containment center, just in time to see the other doctors strapping the young man to a chair facing a large screen. Electrods were attatched to his head and chest and a needle connected to a wire was gently inserted into the base of his scull. Above the scene sat a glass room, an observation deck filled with computers and instruments used to project the last emotional thoought, which led to the outburst, onto the screen below. The young man screamed in agony as clips were put in place to hold his eyelids open, forcing him to watch the screen through the entire process.

Suddenly the lights dimmed and the screen popped on in a brilliant haze of greys and blues. The depressing moment of his loss focused in and the dialog began broadcasting through the speakers on the walls.

"I just don't love you any more," the young woman in the image kept repeating. The young man twitched and shifted, trying desperately to free himself from the torture. He began sobbing uncontrollably, the first sign of mental breakdown. The memory played out a few more times before others began flickering across the screen. Images of his parents on their death bed. The loss of a childhood pet. Suddenly the young man wrenched into convulsion, the moment of psychosis had been achieved. Here, in their city, the joy of this psychotic experience was considered the norm and highly saught after.

As the screen faded to black and the young man drifted off into unconciousness the doctors released him from his restraints and escourted him off the grounds. Another justice served and another happy citizen released back into society.

A log was kept of every crime ever commited. Each crime classified under one of six primary emotions (sadness, happiness, anger, fear, disgust, surprise). Each classification held it's own type of psychological punishment, each resulting in the same euphoric psychosis in the end.

The city was a quiet one, everyone keeping to themselves, no one hardly talking to another. But punishment would always be served. All in order to maintain the peace and trainquility needed to keep them there. Keep them from discovering themselves.