Maddness: An Adaptation of “Absolutely Nothing” by Osoanon Nimuss

When he was nine, he wrote a poem on construction paper and he called it “Puppies” because that’s what it was all about. And his teacher gave him an A and a star-shaped sticker and his mom hung it on the refrigerator door. That was the year he learned to ride a two-wheeler because all of the other years he’d been too scared. That was the year he was the king of the monkey bars because no one could climb them better than him. And his dad always said, “Atta boy!” with a hand on his shoulder and he was always there to say it. When he was twelve, he wrote a poem on notebook paper and he called it “Dreams,” because that’s what it was all about. And his teacher gave him a B and a small smile with a half-shrug. And his mother said, “That’s nice,” and didn’t hang it on the refrigerator door because she was too busy making the casserole. That was the year he stopped playing on the monkey bars, even though he really wanted to, because it was no longer the cool thing to do. That was the year he learned how to ride a mini-bike, even though he was scared, because all of his friends thought it was cool. And his dad said, “That’s great,” with his eyes on the newspaper and some days, he forgot to say it altogether. When he was fifteen, he wrote a poem on wrinkled sketch paper and he called it “Love,” but that’s not what it was about. And his teacher gave him a C+ and a strange look. And his mother didn’t hang it on the refrigerator door because she was sleeping. That was the year he found a pool of blood in the hallway at school and never found out how it had gotten there. That was the year he rode a motorcycle -- because he was afraid to -- and he felt adrenaline and absolutely loved it. And his dad didn’t say, “That’s great,” or “Atta boy,” because he was watching TV, and some nights, he wasn’t there at all. When he was seventeen, he wrote a poem on yellow tablet paper and he called it “Confusion,” because that’s what it was all about. And his teacher gave him a D+ with a concerned expression and a long look. And his mother didn’t hang it on the refrigerator door because he didn’t show it to her. That was the year he mostly looked at the floor when he walked in the hallways at school and he was tired a lot because he was having trouble sleeping. That was the year he was jumped behind the school, and he walked home with a bloody nose and torn sweater. And his dad didn’t ask what happened because he wasn’t there. And his mother cried softly, alone in her room. Four years later, he was twenty-one and his mother didn’t celebrate his birthday. That was the year he walked down filthy streets and nobody recognized him. That was the year he punched through a window just to feel the glass in his knuckles. And he wrote a poem on a coffee-stained envelope and he called it “Madness,” because, really, that’s what it was all about. And he gave himself an A and a blade through each cursed lung and he hung it on the bathroom door because, this time, he didn’t think he could make it to the kitchen.