LYLE BRIGHAM, DISTRICT FOUR {FIN}

.:{my head is an animal}:.



797B6C / / EF7F7F / / 7FFFD4

- - - - -

When I was thirteen, I started to see a therapist. I was convinced it wasn't only me - and it isn't. Whenever I tried to go to sleep, thoughts of death entered my brain and I got scared. I didn't wanna die, I didn't want anyone I know to die. For months I would stay up every occasional day, crying to my mom, telling her I didn't want to die; I couldn't. My mom told my everything would be okay - and it's lies like that that don't help me at all - and for some stupid reason I believed her. Of course, that didn't last long. The nagging at the back of my head grew stronger, and eventually it told me the truth, I'm going to die. That really sent me off, and it cut the final string because for days I didn't do anything. Twelve-year old me refused to go to school, because I could die there. A month after turning ten, my parents decided this wasn't acceptable, so they sent me to a therapist.

- - - - -

"Take a look in the mirror," my therapist would instruct me, "What do you see?"

I hated when she asked me this because I knew it was a trap. I was going to answer with saying something like "me" and she'll be like, "that's all that's there." I knew better, though. I wasn't convinced - like everyone else - that I was crazy. I've known forever now that's it not just be in my head, and I don't have that much of a problem with it. Still, I had to go to this therapist once a week, even though I was seventeen.

"When I look in the mirror, I see me."

No, I didn't fall for her trap, I let myself get caught in her net. Doing otherwise was impossible, it would cause a silly argument and waste my parent's money. She nodded and scribbled in her notebook. I know by now my shrink doesn't really write anything in there, it's just a fraud. Maybe she does, though. Whatever the case, I knew the main reason for it was to look professional and to act like she cares. Apparently, if someone cares, that'll "make me feel better." The only thing wrong with me is I don't wanna die even though I know I will. And maybe I'm a little depressed, but what's so bad about that?

"It's only you, no one else."

But that's the thing.

Ever since I was seven, I have been hearing voices in my head - well a voice to be more specific. He (I've decided to label it a he but I could be wrong) tells me what I have to accept. Mainly death. Some of it my responsibilities. He also tells me what to do, but I don't always listen to him. No matter what, though, he's always there counter arguing what I say or think, and it's downright obnoxious. Another glance in the mirror and I can see it's only me - my dark hair and blue eyes and fair skin - but he's there. He always is, and she'll never understand.

"Tell me, what's wrong?"

Hah! If I had to tell her every little thing that's wrong, we'd be here for an eternity.

"I dunno... I'm sad?"

Her pen scratches against her yellow notepad.

"Why are you sad?"

I sigh and shrug but she looks at me accusingly and I feel guilty for not being cooperative. The thing is, I don't know why I'm sad exactly. Maybe because I'll die? Or maybe because he tells me to.

"Because... Well I'm gonna die."

"Well..." - she starts saying while writing in her notebook - "Doesn't everyone die?"

I've heard that over and over but it won't change. Of course everyone dies, but some people die longer than others, like -

No, I can't think about it.

"No sh-... I mean, yes, everyone dies."

My cheeks turn red and I suppress a chuckle.

"Do you know anyone who died, and it hurt you a lot?"

Suddenly, it's not be in my brain anymore, it's him.

Phoebe.

I nod.

Lyle, you can't forget the way she used to smile at you on the playground or the way she used to touch your hand, waiting for you to fill the spaces in-between your fingers, or the way she would pass you a note or when she asked you if you liked her like that -

Stop.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

I shake my head.

"Well we're gonna have to..."

She looks between me and the clock, and I notice we have thirty minutes left. I don't want to talk about it.

"It was my friend."

Yeah it was my friend and I think we were gonna be more than that, we should have been more than that. But I think some people are sick bastards and I think some people deserve to rot in hell, and a lot of people who are the first thing are also the latter. And the person that -

You'll never forget the note she sent to you, with the pair of boxes, above it saying "check whatever one is true" and next to the first box says "i like u" and next to the second box says "i dont like u" and you'll never forget what box you checked even if it was when you were twelve acting like you were eight and twenty all at the same time -

"How old were you?"

Racking my brain, I think I was thirteen. I've told this story so many times I don't know how I could forget. There's so many things I'll never forget.

"Thirteen, and it was my friend Phoebe."

When I first got the news, I was startled. She was fine, I saw her in school the day before. Sure, she wasn't in school that day, but I assumed she was sick or something. And I guess it wasn't her death that hit be the hardest.

It was knowing I'll never see her again.

Or her hair or her eyes or her skin.

The first day I saw her, I could tell she had a sense of authority about her. Just that everyone looked up to her in a good way, and she deserved it. She was spunky. She was smart. She was perfect. She was almost mine.

I went to her funeral, but everyone in our class did. I tossed a sunset-orange flower on top of her casket and kissed her goodbye. My eyes watered, but I didn't let them flow. I couldn't show weakness. I had to be strong because I'm a boy and I only had a mere crush on her.

I think I loved her.

"I think I'm going to leave early today, thank you, Ms. Hakolis."

I excused myself from the room and dashed out the door to the alleyway. The Peacekeepers were there for days investigating what happened. I heard, of course I did. I saw my school down the street and I saw the right turn where you would walk at if you wanted to go to Phoebe's house. The dumpster is still there, her casket before the casket. Every time I walked passed there since, I cringed at the thought of her body in there. My mind races with thoughts of what happened to her.

Because you will never be able to erase what you heard. How she was raped, and then repeatedly stabbed. Because she was supposed to be with you forever. Because you were supposed to be her first.

- - - - -

A clean mop of dusty-brown hair covers the crown of his head. Grass-green marbles are implanted into his face. His nose long, but narrow. Small, elf-like hears shying away under as much hair as they can. His arms and legs - muscular from training - are pretty short, as he only stands at 5'6". He's just under 200 pounds.

Stubby fingers and toes stick out of him like dying twigs. His teeth are white and straight and his lips are a pale pink. Also, he has thin lips.

- - - - -

odair
thought i should say he comes from a wealthy family. only child. career. hasn't loved since.
also, what is appearance?