True Story: Pt. 4

He awoke again. He was still in the uncomfortable leather couch, and the sun was no longer shining through the window. It was fairly dark outside.

"Uhh..how long have I been here?" he asked, looking at the therapist. He was a shady man- tall and lanky, like someone had taken a regular-sized man and stretched him out just a little too much. His eyes were set too far back in his head, causing them to be perpetually cast in shadows. They also never seemed to be at ease, and his often-furrowed eyebrows did nothing to make him seemed more relaxed. He was a man who sat still for too long, as if he was constantly planning. But when he did move, he was a man who moved too quickly, like he didn't want to be caught. It was uncomfortable to be around him, and if any description could completely sum him up, it was that his fingernails were long and dirty.

He pressed his hands together and paused, clicking his nails together for effect. The pause had lasted about three seconds too long before he took in a slow breath to answer. "About three hours," he said. He felt his bangs brush on his forehead and quickly slicked them back over his head. It was an action that he repeated many times during the day, and it was also an action that gave his thin, black hair a greasy shine.

"Where's my mom?" the lifeguard asked, assuming that that was how he got to the therapist's office.

"She's outside," the therapist answered, and after a little pause he added, "Waiting."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

No response came from the lifeguard, giving that thread of conversation a fairly bad ending. If he was going to have any kind of success, the therapist was going to have to try harder.

"Here. Why don't you sit up?" he offered. "Sometimes that couch can get a little..." there was a pause.. "Uncomfortable." The therapist liked the idea of his speech carrying some weight, but he never realized that he often landed too hard on his adjectives, making them seem unnecessarily sinister.

The lifeguard liked that idea, and he tried to sit up. This is when he encountered the most baffling event known to mankind: The Process of Getting Skin Off of Leather Furniture.

For several thousand years, humans have sat down on leather furniture only to remember in fear that they would have to get up at some point in the future. They knew that they would have to experience the pain of ripping their skin from the leather, and regret would sink in immediately. As a result, we as a species have been looking for an explanation of why this happens for only a day less than leather furniture has existed.

The most recent study, which was conducted during the most dangerous time to sit on leather (last summer), has been considered one of the most successful and in-depth studies on this subject. A few furniture companies gathered funds for three researchers: a chemist, a physicist, and a philosopher. Together, they spent six weeks in isolation, sitting on leather couches, making observations, getting off the couches, and making more observations. When the company presidents arrived at the end of the summer, they found the couches ripped to shreds and the physicist huddled in the corner, muttering softly. The chemist and philosopher had had a falling-out over conflicting ideas, and odd substances were covering the walls. Concerned but determined, the presidents escorted the researchers to a highly publicized meeting to announce the results.

"So," the presidents asked, "Why does skin stick so firmly to leather?" The attending crowd held its breath. The chemist answered first.

"Well, its obvious that some chemical reaction occurs to bond the skin to the leather," he stated, glaring at the philosopher. The crowd cheered, finally in possession of an answer. The philosopher spoke up.

"Actually, I think it's pretty obvious that the skin and leather fall in love and never want to separate from each other." The women in the crowd gave a collective "Aww.." Everyone looked at the physicist, expectantly. Up until this point, he had been shaking and whimpering to himself. He froze as the crowd turned to him. After a few moments, the presidents asked him again, "Why does skin stick to leather?"

His eyes grew wide, as if remembering a repressed memory. He began vibrating vigorously and his breaths came in very shallow bursts. They pressed him again for an answer, eager to hear his response. He put his hands over his ears, shaking his head from side to side. "Quarks!" he quacked, and collapsed back into his seat. The crowd gave a collective "Hmm.."

The meeting pressed on and the presidents opened up the floor for questions from the audience. A woman stepped forward and asked, "It doesn't make sense though. Our skin gets slightly wet from being on leather too long. Why do we still stick to leather even if there's a liquid- I'm pretty sure it's sweat- on our bodies?" The crowd cheered, having wondered the same thing.

The philosopher jumped to answer first. He fired a nasty glance at the chemist before answering, "It's clearly a by-product of the skin/leather romance, not sweat. And that just helps it become stickier while the skin and leather cling to each other, not wanting to lose their love." The women in the audience began fanning themselves.

"No, no, no!" The chemist stamped his feet. "That's not it at all! It's just a liquid that's formed during the chemical reaction that bonds the skin to the leather!" Out of politeness, the crowd offered the physicist a chance to answer. He pulled at the skin underneath his eyes, screaming. As more and more eyes fell on him, he popped out of his chair and began running around the meeting room. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at the crowd. They gave a collective "Well...?" and he lost it. He ran up to the audience, pulled out his hair, and threw it into the crowd. He laughed a maniac's laugh and sprinted out of the room. A riot ensued.

Of course, none of this mattered to the lifeguard at this moment. The only thing he could concentrate on was trying to slowly lift himself and keep his skin on his body at the same time. By some miracle, he managed to succeed and turned to face the therapist.

"So, tell me," the man began, "What is your name?"

"I don't want to say."

"Why not?"

"Because I just don't like telling people my name, that's why."

"But," began the therapist, "What if someone had to write a story about you? Don't you think that it would get rather difficult for the author to distinguish you from other males in the story?"

"I don't care!"

He sighed. Then he stood up. He did cartwheels around the office and proclaimed his love for the Backstreet Boys, happy that no one could ever really know which one of them was actually doing this. Then, after getting dizzy, he decided he needed a breath of fresh air and went outside. While out there, he mugged an old woman, killed a man, and shot a gun into the air. Having had his fun, he decided to go back into the office to let the therapy session continue. (A few weeks later, both the lifeguard and the therapist would be tried in court, facing an eye witness testimony. The trial broke down, however, as the witness cried, "I honestly can't tell which of them did it! I was hoping that all the other suspects would be women so I could just say 'He did it!' I'm so sorry!" They were both set free.)

"Well, let's continue then," the therapist said. "Can you tell me why you don't like telling others your name?"

"It's an ugly name and I hate it."

"Can you just write it down for me, please?" he begged.

"Fine, hand me that paper." The lifeguard took a pencil, grabbed the paper, and begrudgingly began to scribble his name. It was very messy, as he avoided writing his name for anyone. He handed it to the therapist, looking down at the floor in defeat.

Anxiously, he took the paper and read what was written. It was tough to understand, but he managed to read out, "Cleatus..." His brows furrowed farther than normal. "....Haggits...Cleatus Haggis...Haggins? Cleatus Haggins?" The therapist could barely hold back his airy chuckles.

"YES! YOU CAN STOP NOW!"

"I'm sorry, but that's just.." a pause for unnecessary and sinister emphasis, "..ridiculous."

"I know."

"What was your mother thinking?"

"I don't know."

"You know you can change it... right?"

"I know."

"Or are you not old enough yet? I can't remember.."

"I don't know."

For a guy who was paid to ask questions, the therapist was asking the least helpful ones possible. He noticed this and took a break to try to get the session back on track. He paused long enough to click his nails together and brush back his bangs again.

"Okay, can you tell me anything about what happened today?"

Haggins told him everything he knew, which wasn't much. But it was more than the therapist knew. He talked about the girls from the pool, he summarized what he knew about the man that had driven in front of him, and- holding back the tears of lost love- admitted what had happened in the classroom earlier that day.

The therapist was shocked, but managed to keep an open mind. He calmly reflected on what he had just heard, trying to use it and dive inside the boy's mind. An idea abruptly forced its way into his head. "You said you hate English? And that you never paid attention during any English class ever?" he asked Haggins.

"Yeah."

"I'm going to have you take a little test," he began, "and then we can see if my theory is....correct." The hesitation was intended for dramatic effect, but just made the whole situation feel more dangerous to Haggins than it should have been.

He gulped. "Oh..o..o-okay."

The test mainly consisted of questions about English terms along with basic intelligence questions. Of course, Cleatus Haggins missed every single question, which is what the therapist was hoping for. Now he could tie it all together. He just needed to be completely sure before revealing what he had discovered.

"You swear that you answered each question as best as you could?" he asked. Haggins told him that he tried his best on each question, and that he was expecting to get a passing grade. "Well, I've got some shocking news for you," the therapist stated. "You're as dumb as a sack of rocks."

"That test was stupid anyway! Why did you even ask me any of those questions? They didn't help me at all, and that is what therapy is for!" Haggins shouted, slightly offended.

"They did help, Cleatus," the therapist insisted.

"DON'T SAY MY NAME!"

"I'm sorry. But they helped. I know what's happening with you."

This caught his attention. He cocked his head in interest at the therapist. "Well...?"

"Your problem is this: You are so incredibly dumb that you don't know the difference between a simile and a metaphor!" the therapist exclaimed.

"What does that have to do with anything?!" Cleatus lowered his head into his hands. He was hoping for a more concrete problem to be fixed. Something that would require shots or pills, not this.

"Don't you see? You're so dumb that whenever you create a simile, it becomes a metaphor because, to you, the two are interchangeable! This is astounding!" The therapist was on the verge of jumping around his office in excitement.

"No, I don't see."

"Oh, that's right. Well, basically, you can alter reality. It's..." The therapist knew which word came next, he was just waiting for the right time to say it, which at this point had been about four seconds ago. "..Incredible."

"Not credible?"

The therapist buried his face in his hands and sighed. "You're worse off than I thought."

"But other peoples' metaphors don't come to life, right?" Haggins noted.

"You're also so stupid that you don't know what 'literal' means," the therapist explained.

"Ah. How can I fix this?"

The therapist started to answer, but something held him back. He furrowed his brows again. An idea drifted across his mind. Plans began to form. He tapped his dirty nails on the desk as he thought to himself. He had almost just defined the terms for Cleatus Haggins, but then he thought better of it. He could use this.

"I'm sorry. There is nothing we can do at the moment to solve this." The therapist feigned regret. Then he faked a spark of hopefulness on his face. "But, maybe if you continue your sessions I can find a solution. And don't worry, I won't be charging for them. We also won't spend every session in the office; we'll need to get outside some."

Haggins paused, unsure of whether he trusted this man or not. "Why?" he asked.

"To do research, of course!" the therapist lied.

Cleatus Haggins was still skeptical. He thought it over many times. On one hand, this man was incredibly off-putting, but on the other hand, he just wanted to be normal again. He reluctantly agreed to the extra therapy sessions. The therapist let a smirk creep across his face.

"Don't worry," he assured, clicking his long, dirty fingernails together. "This will be..."

A pause.

 "...Fun."