To The Other Animals

The following narrative was inspired by my fiction piece that I wrote for my A-Level English coursework.

So, how exactly are you meant to start one of these? Do I give you a sob story that I will eventually look back on and be subjected to immense levels of embarrassment? Perhaps if I tear a bit of the page to give it character. Yeah, that will make it seem like the real deal, in case of the unlikely scenario that one day this gets published. Or perhaps I should rip the delicate parts into shreds, give it that visceral feeling. Do I tell you about the events which have shaped me up to this point? Which have led me to my own damnation? Maybe I should stop using so many questions. Or so many big words. But how can I stop when I simply can’t decide? The more one seems to doubt themselves, the less they can attest to. He suggested I do this, so maybe I should take it a bit more seriously. Ok.

My name is Edward. As you can tell, I am a very critical person. I was raised in a Catholic home, being taught the omnipotence and omniscience of Christianity. At 10, I began to question my beliefs once my desires diverged from my chosen path. If you ask me now, I don’t believe in God. I think he is often more of a comfort for people, using him as a means to explain and rationalise existence using supernatural elements. However, he can just as easily be weaponised as this rigid being, with defining characteristics and ideologies embedded within the Bible. If we can re-evaluate ideas from other books, why are we so afraid to do so with religion?

I see reality through an existentialist lens. This means I think we create our own meanings, as the world in its natural form won’t. We can see this with the media and advertising, coercing us into purchasing products. They do so by selling ideas and meanings about the item through emotion or product placement, not as commodities. It makes sense though. People want to be entertained. To be catered for. To be persuaded. As much as I love engaging with content, I can easily see through this glamour. I often question the world around me, due to my love for literature and critical analysis. My parents weren’t really admirers of the arts but devotees to their own principles. Being poor triggered a sense of cynicism within my family, often frustrated by the confines of capitalist structures. Despite this, I think they knew the importance of education – despite my parents never managing to finish high school.

My mother stopped going to take care of her siblings and remained committed to the domestic life. My father was an uninspiring, mediocre man, resentful of the system which supposedly betrayed him by not allowing him to succeed outside of established norms. He was always angry and blinded by his own truths, but was a firm believer in tradition and preserving the family label. A few years ago, he lost his best friend during a car accident. The driver was a wealthy man, caught using his phone whilst driving. Perhaps this added fuel to the internal flame that burned in my father’s heart. I don’t hate him for the way he is, as I recognise he is shaped by a society that to him, has offered him nothing but apathy and judgement. I do feel bad for my mother, as she and my father married incredibly late into their teens and had me when she was 22. I’m 18 now. I just wish they both had taken a bit longer to live their lives before settling down. But I also know that this sort of freedom was frowned upon, especially as traditional followers of Catholicism.

I must also discuss something else. I’m unsure how to, frankly, as I’m worried it may be dismissed as me being overly dramatic. Essentially, a few weeks ago, me and my father got into an argument about my future. He was telling me that becoming a reporter was ridiculous, that men should be working as mechanics or gardeners. Disclaimer. He hasn’t been employed for 2 years. And refuses to get a job. I argued back by asking how a job could be more masculine or feminine, and he struggled to articulate himself. His inability to respond with a fair argument infuriated me. Well. Sure, there was the illusion of anger. Of a rage boiling on the surface. However, an idea reiterated throughout my mind, ricocheting back and forth. An almost cacophony of ink scribed into each thought. That genuine, raw emotion? It simply wasn’t there.

In an instant, it dissipated. Abolished, even. I’ve had moments like this before, where I’ve questioned if I’m even being authentic about how I feel. Often because of the judgement I face, I will apply a façade to protect myself. And because of this, I will ‘perform’ to the best of my ability. But it is so draining and leaves me questioning myself every single time. This is what I texted my best friend Lila:

“I’m scared of what’s happening to me Lila. The days feel like they’re getting shorter and the only thing I can do is question whether I’m being honest to you and everyone else. I feel like I’ve grown more distant with you and the others, giving brief responses and not really engaging with the conversations. I ran into Alex again the other day in the hallway, where he tried to exchange a friendly look but I didn’t look back at him. I was terrified. Of myself. I told myself that I was lying to him too and felt ashamed. I feel like I don’t ‘feel’ properly in the same way. I repress bad things that happen and it eventually leaves me feeling exhausted.”

I find it difficult to describe my mental state right now. I feel…barely alive. This void inside of me is unwavering yet unsteady.

–

“It’s just up here”, instructed the stranger.

A silence festered in the air, wandering aimlessly towards the end of the motorway. With dubiety, I believed this was the best decision. Lila knew that I knew. Of course she did. Honestly, I wasn’t going to bicker with her. She recognised within me an unsophisticated friendliness and compassion not many understood. She also knew writing was my passion and encouraged me to pursue it as a career. We had been friends since I barely beat the institutional mountain that was high school. While I had other friends, none surpassed her. However, my mother taught me the importance of not becoming over reliant on others and idealisms.

“Lila, can I talk to you for a sec?”, I inquired frantically.

“What’s up?”, sternly hovering her eyebrow.

“I don’t feel…right about this. Something about this guy freaks me out”, cautiously hoping he didn’t catch onto our faint, gentle whispers.

“Eddie, what’s wrong with you? I don’t understand the problem. We’re helping out a person in need. I thought you cared about what I wanted but I suppose I was wrong. You’d always seem to when we were younger. Suddenly, being the man of the house means you get to be so self-centered.”

“No, Lila, I think it’s a bad idea.”, commandeering the situation.

“Do you remember when you got the wind knocked out of you by Brian Dwyer?”

“What about it?”, I replied defensively.

“Well, if you remember, I told him he shouldn’t have beat you up because you fight very feminine, and it wouldn’t have been fair on either of you. I didn’t have to do that. I chose to.”

I remembered that moment so vividly. Of course she had to make a dig at how masculine, or rather lack thereof, I was.

“Why would you do that without telling me?”

“I didn’t want to upset you and wanted to make sure you weren’t keeping any secrets.”

“What secrets?”, I asked.

“Well, you know what it’s like. My family are super tight-lipped and old-fashioned about everything that goes on. But you know me…I’m an open book”.

Family. I promised to ring my mother to let her know how far I was.

“2 secs.”, I stated.

I grabbed my phone from my front pocket and called her. It was so comforting to hear her voice again, like an anchor pulling me back into the safety of home.

“Lila…I’m sorry. I am just trying to consider our options here.”

“I know, Eddie. You know I’d never try to hurt you, right? That’s why we both have these.”, she reassured me.

[fervently shakes wrist, which contains a silver bracelet with the letters engraved E&L]

“I know.”, adamant that her judgement would get us out of this.

“We have a choice here to help someone who really needs it. You get to decide and I get to decide. We both choose what to do next. So, if you really want, we can just abandon this guy and make our way home.”, consoling herself with the stranger’s callous gaze.

–

“So, when did it start becoming a cause for concern, Edward?”, asked Dr Locke, his words reverberated by the acute echo of the paper’s creased edges. They felt reminiscent of those dictated by a teacher, but his mannerisms connoted a sense of apprehension. Assertion. Perhaps he feared what might be implied, but perhaps ambitious enough to affirm.

“When did what?”, I wondered.

“Lila.”

[puzzled] “What do you mean?”

“Edward, it would be ideal for our sessions if you wouldn’t overindulge into that Ace Double I leave in the lobby. I understand that I recommended you continue writing, but you’re in too much of a vulnerable state to be reading something like that.”

“But I like it. It is interesting how often innocent people are forced to make choices they never wanted to”.

In fairness, me and Whispers’ Hilary Thomas had a lot in common. Except I wasn’t a big Hollywood screenwriter targeted by a supernatural stalker.

“You appear to have an underlying dependency on her. Some unresolved feelings, a chapter you never got to finish. Are you sure you aren’t projecting your guilt of how you perceive Lila onto how you see yourself?”, suggested Locke.

I stared. Then sighed in abrupt defeat.

“What if – I’m not allowed to move on?”, I inquired.

“In life, if we experience it, we rarely are given the chance to progress trauma. We simply learn to coexist with damaged memories, praying to God we don’t succumb to it.”

“I don’t pray to God. Not anymore.”

He looked at me in shock but then his expression reset. The man knew how to evoke a response. An almost abstract force, stringing you along as he dissected the wrongdoings of your life. His grey, dishevelled beard and grisly smile were mirages that concealed his attempt to provoke more out of me. Despite this, I managed to steal a look over his shoulder. The warm, lavish fire crackled and sizzled, illuminating his arms with a dark red tinge. He was right. Lila was everything to me. This can’t happen again. Or the blood remains…

Throughout our walking, I remembered the car we abandoned. I remember being restless, sat patiently in the front seat, transfixed – its body coated in a sharp ray of white. Uneven tarmac. A drabness of grey. A faintness of light. Concealed by a scarlet glint which covered the car’s body. Silver glows oscillated onto the window as it was cleansed by micro droplets of rain. I had always loved wet weather, much to Lila’s dismay. She said that it clouds your judgement. Personally, I see no infringement upon my personal liberties. I gathered a definitive look at the stranger. Tall and slender. Observant, a sleek appearance reflecting his perplexing nature. Dark and stubby hair, accompanied by faded black denim. These were supplemented by brown, sturdy boots, which carved into the ground. Me and Lila walked slowly to the stranger’s car, where I noticed the trunk was unlocked; the body was a harsh magenta and rather petit. Once taking another step, a vibration surged through my entire body. It was my phone. Again?

“You go ahead and take that, Eddie”, Lila stated.

My mother again. This call was brief. She said I needed to get home quickly, as a local newspaper I had contacted for work experience had called her, asking for me to get in touch with them. I was genuinely so excited. As a kid, I had always dreamed of writing stories. First, it was as an author. But books can be long and challenging to write. Then, I wanted to be a video game writer. But this is a sparse market. Journalism seemed to be the way to go. I rushed back to Lila and the stranger. This time, the trunk was unlocked but had been harbouring a dark passenger. I lifted it further upwards to determine what was inside, with the mat coated in puddles of saturated red. Not matte or glossy paint but liquified. A pungent smell of gas and strands of long carbon locks accompanied this. I ran to the back of the car door and opened it, to find skin pressed against the window frame. A tear trickled down my eye. Lila.

–

“Edward, we both know we are running out of time. I worry you don’t understand why we’re here”, said Dr Locke

“What do you want from me, Doctor? Genuinely. Be honest with me.”

“I want you to talk, Edward. What are you so terrified of? Being absolved of your pain? Or getting a chance to re-evaluate it?”, announced Locke, a faint grin emerging from his jaw.

A chill ran down my spine, the air permeating with unsettling, cerebral declarations which infected the mind.

“You know, Doctor. I wake up every single day and I wonder how I’ve ended up in this place. And I don’t just mean in this office. I know I was dealt a bad hand. But putting pity aside, I did everything in my power to decide the life I wanted. To try and choose the things that would make me feel fulfilled. So, if I can’t choose any of those things, when exactly do I get my chance to decide? Life has taught me that I’m often far more comfortable in the passenger’s seat.”

“I’m not her, Edward.”

“What?”

“Lila. The past is former, you can’t change it. And sometimes, our past sins are the ones which define us. We must find a way to embrace it.”

The words were etched into my mind. They were reminiscent of those dictated by a teacher. A sense of assertion. Not fearful of what might be implied but ambitious enough to affirm. With resolve, I knew it. In a twisted sense of irony, Lila’s cadaveric hush allowed me to find the right words. Like a fallen angel on the path to redemption, I saw her for what she truly was. For so long, I had been muffled and largely obedient to the actions of others. Especially hers. Perhaps the macabre of death shouldn’t undermine its queer kindness. She was a dear friend to me, and a dear manipulator.

“Maybe I was always going to be second place”, I concluded, the bitterness of my tears cascading down my cheek onto the ruffled carpet.

Everything. It was all built on a cat and mouse game, both of us testing each other’s limits by exploiting our growing insecurities. Every single moment. Every single one.

“In spite of everything that’s happened, I still have this. Even in death, I can’t let go.”, I realised, shaking my wrist devoutly as if my body was possessed by an abstract force.

As I turned towards the fireplace, I could see a flame rise and sizzle. Locke pounced towards the office door.

“It’s time to go.”

–

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