scottfield {{ d7

Three easy letters and yet nobody ever managed to grasp his name correctly; since birth his name hasn't been Wyatt or William or Whitmarsh (as one of his teachers always tried to persuade as if she knew more about his own title than him), but Why, why his mother thought 'Why' was an acceptable name for a child, he'd never know. As a child the other children always tugged on his name as it left their mouth, exaggerating it like his entire being was some perpetual trick other than conjoined building boxes of a talented entrepreneur; accompanying his epithet with a sling of less important whys, giggling to themselves like a sprung jack-in-the-box at the phrase "why the long face, Why" or the less welcoming "why does your mother hate you, Why." The other children and all forms of his name mixed as well as water and oil, so he grew to his last name more, Scottfield was at least harder to make a quick pun out of than Why or Tintin. Of course, they never seemed to rest if they didn't have the chance to make a mockery out of his name, so Scotty was often pinned on his chest even when he scribbled down Scottfield on each paper in his lazed left-handed writing.

Ambiguous scrawls smeared sheets resembled hieroglyphics rather than actual words, but Why was always too much a palette of stubborn and lazy to ever attempt at clearing up the unfocused view that was his writing (plus he could play the words off as correct answers on tests and the teachers were usually too tired of him to correct him otherwise). Although, his father consistently mouthed on and on on how they shared that and how the limps of their stretching eyebrows were twins and how both of their adam apples protruded like knives through a blanket and how no matter how much they shaved, their arm hair always grew back like redwood trees. Why never saw it of course; his hair was always tangled upon itself like grasping hands and he certainly never had- or get, hopefully- his father's potbelly; he did, however, certainly have possession of his father's height, six feet and a few spare inches worth of bullshit his mother would call him.

Most would agree with that nickname too, six feet and a few spare inches of bullshit, because most of the time he was- a compulsive liar at worst, because truths were always so difficult to hunt down, with one extra wording being added able to tip an honest statement into a twist of words. In the books he read stole from his father's room they always depicted a stereotypical gossip teller, and it was easier than breathing to link that character to Why's mother, spraying rumours around in a seltzer bottle. She never lived up to the status of course, whenever he mentioned one of his mother's fables about their neighbor giving Mrs. Chadwicks a type of wood not found in the forests cloaking their district like a beard, she would always blush and deny and shoo Why to his room while a smile etched onto his face wide enough for glints of light to lick between the gaps of his teeth from his mother's fumbling lips.

Why was always a better liar than his mother, considering strangers could rarely put a name to his face- rarely did he tell them his name was 'Why' since they never caught it as the right answer to "What's your name"- usually he made up his own name and story around strangers. Sometimes he was Aesop to strangers, and he would bit his lip as he explained in a thick accent matching one of the past tributes that his lie-of-a-cat was nowhere to be seen, and he would grow more frantic as the conversation went on that a man named Ponch stole it and was trying to sell its tail on the black market. Other times he was Whitmarsh Richardmeadow and would only answer questions with more questions and wouldn't dare to hold back tears of laughter itching his eyes every time he was W.R., the annoyance spray painted on his chat partner's face matching one of the masks hugging against each other in his backpack.

His father's repetitive asks about Why's masks grew as old as him, always branding him with whys as Why retorted with why nots and a flicker of a grin before sweeping back into his room. How was someone supposed to test stories without living them; wooden masks sculpted and etched with grooves to portray characters ranging from six to sixty laying next to plastic store bought ones at convenient stores, all burrowed into or pinned onto a backpack large enough to cover over half of body. Neither Aesop or Whitmarsh had their own masks of course, materialized facades were only left to some of the stranger characters or sold across the districts himself, redistributing them out to adults with a need to spice up something Why wanted no part in and children playing peacekeepers 'n avoxes alike (sometimes he jumped into the games himself, of course he easily outran a six year, but they were always more engrossed if they managed to catch him).

Usually it took ages to sell them- outside the younger market, but the wooden variety were always too big to fit their tiny faces- wandering around the district often left him homesick, yet it was always more exciting; getting out into the society and being forced into an improvised performance was anything but nerve wrecking. Despite both his calm exterior and blatant arrogance, a spotlight on improvise always left him giddy, his blood feeling more like marbles shifting around his body against his will and it was magnificent. It was almost impossible to fight back a painstaking grin to break his facade at first, but with the growth of his empire of lies, fitting into on the spot roles were at least more convenient.

As with the way with nature of course, Why slowly began to improve at all his rough edges that he saw as gold and his parents found with no commercial value; the masks of his lining his wall like sequence began more lifelike, with fake hair and pelt and cloth substituting in for the original sculpted in wigs, while his lies of different lives began to extend develop to the point of strangers that met him under the cloak of Aesop or Whitmarsh actually remembering his name as something other than Why or Tintin or Scottfield, even if it was only for the stupid cheeky grin or for the strange masks decorating his back.

Regardless the chuckles Why's make-believe occupations brought to himself, both his father and his mother were determined out to ignore both the masks and the fact that Why felt less than obliged than to work at the orchards like the bland of the district; why Why wished to seek out more was beyond them, with the fact of his compulsive lies growing into fake lives being blanketed from them behind his childish grin. To the strangers he threaded together to be like second, third, fourth family to, he was either Why or Aesop or Whitmarsh or Rowena or Merle, but for he was always just Why to his parents, irresponsible Why always stuck too far into his own stories, because why not.