TRW - Chapter Two
Nothing quite like your face the morning after crying. Rebuilt yet lacking stature. Mr Lyle, in his fragile state, was, unfortunately, hyper-aware of his aged face. The day before, small wrinkles were maybe new, but now, his face was unmistakenly withered. The empty space atop his bedside table gloats. No bottle of water, no anti-depressant blister pack, no fear of dehydration, and no fear of death. His wardrobe, which had yet to be excavated, was finally explored, providing surprising disappointment. No flavour. Mr Lyle was never one for fashion, but he at least had some weird clothing choices. Some t-shirts accompanied a story: merchandise from a defunct media company from the eighties and t-shirts of old bands even when Mr Lyle was a child. The rare obligatory white shirt was now at home in his home...the house. A streak of white and black, a monotonous Oreo omitting deadly fumes.
Dressed, somewhat focussed, Mr Lyle headed for his bicycle, ignoring the brand new Audi sitting in his driveway.
“It has only been a year,” he whispered to himself, pleading for extinct normality. The city had not changed, and his cycling instincts still stood firm. Auchenlock street was approaching, which teased out an unsurfaced grin. You see, I did say Mr Lyle struck a chord with some of his students, and the music played oh so loudly on Auchenlock street. “Hello, Mr Lyle!”
“Be careful, you mad man Mr Lyle!”
Some even greeting him with
“Good Morning, John.”
Mr Lyle turned the corner putting on his Easy Rider face. Rain obstructing the view, but his right eye forced entry, searching for familiarity. His time cycling down Auchenlock street was one of the few times he sought eye contact with possible strangers. The concrete took away egotistic opportunities, which he quickly rejected in his comforting role as a cyclist. He grabbed many eyes like he was performing to a comedy crowd, an open mic desperately fixated on the success of his jokes. He bombed. His audience had severed ties.
Auchenlock street typically was the coffee to Mr Lyle’s morning. Well, the first coffee. Standing in the theatre, returning to the crime scene, Mr Lyle stared at the whiteboard. Rushing his focus from the whiteboard to the clock at the back of the hall. No change. His actions begged for a neck sprain.
“What are you doing, Mr Lyle.” said a young man in shorts and a vest with the irritating confidence that follows vest wear.
“Oh…nothing, nothing. Sorry Chris, I am in my own head a bit more than usual…CHRIS!”
“Yea?”
“Em Hello! How have you been? What is new with you? Still, heading for the masters? Did you ever hear back from Spirit magazine?”
“No, Sir, remember I told you? You said my grades in Law would suggest that that should be my masters, and I graduate in a few months. But yes, they did get back to me. They liked my stuff but said it was a bit premature; they kept tabs on me but haven’t submitted anything since as this masters is killing me.”
Several seconds went by as Mr Lyle plotted his next move. An anger untraceable, the criminal seemingly entered witness protection and here stands as Mr Lyle, Head of Literature. The rage failed to dissipate, unfortunately for Mr Lyle. He knew Chris was just one man, one fallen star in a sky filled with forgotten lights. Some forgotten and some, it seems, unplugged by Mr Lyle himself.
“That is all for today, folks, oh, I forgot. This is the password to access the copy of chapter seven. Let us all pretend this is legal.”
Mr Lyle instinctually reached for a pen and turned to the whiteboard. His heart squealed as his trauma refreshed. Pen touching the board, Mr Lyle snaps back around to see an empty theatre. The whiteboard, now erased, Mr Lyle rushes to his computer screen.
04/04/23
He slams down on his table, repeatedly stripping his knuckles. Pain from a body out on loan.