TRW-Chapter 3
Mr Lyle wakes up in a different house. His house? He’s unsure but is beginning not to care. The house’s possessions are ignored. He heads for a shower and puts on some clean clothes. One thing his ego couldn’t help but notice was the sheer size of the house. Significantly more significant than his old house, perhaps a new promotion once again. Success seems to find Mr Lyle whilst he is under his forced hibernation. Women’s clothes were out hanging on the washing line. Due to his lack of connection with the world, Mr Lyle assumed they belonged to that Geography professor he casually saw two years prior. The sudden changes in his life had made Mr Lyle incredibly naive. Still, perhaps he wishes it is the Geography Professor. I mean, he has no memory of talking to her but has seen the emails. A small segment of her personality he has briefly experienced. And, as his consciousness floats further away on its own island offshore, Mr Lyle will take any familiarity he can comprehend.
He notices that it is a Sunday. Jubilation. A day and a half at the very least. If he even still works Mondays, at the university or has a job at all. Someone is tumbling down the stairs. Mr Lyle, dressed in his best ‘Mr Lyle’ attire, fears judgement. Is this the Geography Teacher? A new girlfriend? A new wife? How is he meant to act? He sticks with vanity, always his strong point. Overbearing confidence to smoother his visible nerves. He reaches for a tea towel and begins to clean the spotless living room table. He tries to create ‘work confidence’. The confidence one feels when you are at your job. The type of extroversion that is necessary to keep the paycheck.
Bureaucratic buoyancy.
“You put the football on, John?” A man asked.
Mr Lyle’s need for approval disappeared. He didn’t need to burp or fart, but you best believe he would have if he could. He must be staying at a pals house, he thought. A rough Sunday morning after a late night. Admittedly strange that this man was wearing clothes Mr Lyle spotted in the wardrobe, but he chose to ignore that flaw. In all fairness, maybe this is Mr Lyle’s home, and the male visitor has the confidence of an experienced couch crasher.
And there he was. A tall bearded man, long dark hair. Thick but not fat. Truth be told, Mr Lyle probably had about fifteen years on the man at least.
“Oh, is the table not to your satisfaction John?”
The man whips the towel out of Mr Lyle’s hand.
“Relax for once in your life.” The man says.
A strange feeling builds up inside Mr Lyle. His guard is down. They both sit down on the couch, and Mr Lyle puts the football on.
“Scooch up,” says the man as he tries to rest his head on Mr Lyle’s chest. He reaches to hold Mr Lyle’s hand as two matching wedding rings collide.
“I’ll be back in a second.”
Mr Lyle retreats to the bathroom mirror, a familiar coping mechanism with alien imagery. His hands begin to shake, so he grips onto his hair. Hair begins to fall out, so he grabs the tap. Holding on, squeezing tightly as his face turns red.
Numbness.
Phantom hands bleeding onto the kitchen sink. Time seems to have jumped as bloody razors now circle the drain. Frantically rubbing his head all whilst staring at the mirror. An old friend has come to greet Mr Lyle. A friend Mr Lyle thought to be dead. Believed to have been killed. Rising up from the grave to drag Mr Lyle back to where progression is dismantled. Mr Lyle knows what comes next. He clinches his fist, swipes his arms up and down as his breathing becomes uncontrollable. An out-of-body experience occurs as he watches himself collapse to the floor. A montage of Mr Lyles flashes through his brain, a ghostly visit from wounded pasts. Different bathrooms, different hairstyles with immature skin, producing the same result. A bloody panic attack on a cold bathroom floor