He started scribbling indecipherable messages at the age of ten. These messages were often accompanied by pencil drawings. The drawings displayed little brains with arms and legs, putting holes in themselves with various objects. The objects included: pens and pencils, forks, knives, rakes, etc.
His parents were terrified by the drawings and the scribblings. They thought that perhaps their son was schizophrenic. They were so terrified of this that they decided they’d rather not know. So they never took him to a psychiatrist. Instead, they kept him in a locked room, safe from the prying eyes of others.
He was schooled at home in various subjects. He had a private tutor named Tully. Tully was very patient and perceptive. He saw potential in the boy. He encouraged him to read and to draw. The boy did this. He continued to compose his indecipherable messages on paper. He had over one thousand sheets’ worth of them by the age of thirteen. Nobody but he could read what they said.
One day Tully asked to see the entire stack. The thirteen-year-old boy showed it to Tully willingly. Tully took it under his arm and said goodbye. The family never saw him again.
And so the boy started to scribble anew. He scribbled and he scribbled. The pencil drawings had now changed, however. Instead of brains, they showed thin men that looked like Tully. The thin men were putting holes in themselves with various objects (see 1., above).
Three years later the teenage boy had produced one thousand sheets’ worth of scribblings and drawings. His education had ceased three years earlier, but his art continued to evolve. The messages were no longer completely indecipherable to all but the boy. In places they could be read and interpreted. But only those with a mind that worked like the boy’s could understand them. They did not reveal themselves to the casual reader.
His parents were still terrified. They did not understand the messages that were scribbled on paper. The drawings made them feel uncomfortable, as they continued to think of Tully as a decent human being. They wondered if they should have their son psychoanalyzed. This idea made them nervous, however. They thought it best to keep the boy indoors, away from others.
The boy did not stop scribbling. He scribbled and scribbled until he had used up all the paper his parents had given him. Then he began scribbling on the walls. The floor. And onto himself.
He drew his double staring at himself from outside the window onto his arm. The he that was inside was drawing a picture of his double staring at himself from outside the window onto his arm. And so on, ad infinitum. This drawing made him dizzy to contemplate.
Just then there was a knock at the door. His parents stood there, holding a number of objects: pens and pencils, forks, knives, rakes, etc. They began poking themselves with the objects. They did not bleed. Soon, they had poked so many holes into themselves that the boy could no longer see them. They had poked themselves out of his life.
The boy looked out of the window. There was a face staring in at him. The face was indistinct, unpleasant. The boy stood up and went to the window, but the face had gone. He tried to open the window, but it had been nailed shut. He picked up one of the many tools his parents had poked themselves into oblivion with and broke the glass with it. He hoisted himself up and put one bony leg through the hole in the window.
The scribbler put down his pencil and left the boy there, one leg inside the room, the other outside. He closed his eyes. It was difficult for him to imagine what it would be like to ever leave this room. Just then there was a knock at the door.