Opposite of Primrose

Opposite of Primrose 

Caspian was never afraid of losing himself. He would welcome it even, to spend a day where he wasn’t him, a day where he was anyone else. Or maybe a day where he wasn’t even anyone, a fresh slab of clay for life to sculpt.

And when he looked to the future, he wanted to see something. Anything instead of nothing. There was no five year projection plan for him, just a hope that suffocated his lungs at times. It was just “maybe one day”s for him and packets of ketchup he would pop as a substitute for the people he would hurt. And when there were no packets, it was just a rage that erupted like a volcano once a week. And when the volcano didn’t erupt, well, it was surely something. 

And his room. Caspian’s room. It was like a jail cell but with pretty painted walls to distract someone from the way it compressed your very dreams. The windows jostled at the slightest breeze, and they did nothing to filter the blare of police sirens or the screeching of street cats. It was almost like it enhanced them. His closet had vomited all over the room, clothes that were never worn simply thrown on the floor or left on his bed (yet he knew exactly where they were, even though they all seemed to share the same attributes).

Now Caspian himself. He was a reflection of his room. Clothes that still managed to not go together even though they were all practically the same. And his body morphed everyday. Skinny? Chubby? Morbidly obese? Severely malnourished? It didn’t matter, he was all of them. His hair was unpredictable. Some days, he liked it. Other days, he could barely stop himself from going completely bald. It was half-coiled and half of something else. Not wavy. Brown. But Caspian’s eyes...weren’t any different. They were brown. He had a face only an artist could draw, if that artist had shaky fingers (some days the artist was twelve). 

Caspian stayed in his room. Even if he had the chance to leave it, he wouldn’t. The walls were painted such a dazzling color, after all. But it hurt. Because he could see through the bars. It was why he could never leave, and also why he wanted to. 

People. How unaffected they were by the lack of him. Especially his family. He stayed in his room, but he could still hear them. He could hear their laughter, even their silence, just how they could function without him so effortlessly. So it became less of a jail cell and more of a jail cell with a nice bed and pillow. A comfort, a place where he could just put his head down and pretend no one was there. And the more he thought about leaving, the more pillows and cool gadgets would appear, making it harder to ever leave. Even though Caspian hasn’t read a book in many years, he still read the secret messages his mind would send him, a distraction, messages between silences. Anything to avoid the growing loneliness in his chest. Even if it was delusional. He pressed his ears against the window to hear them. Screeching of cats.

Caspian didn’t count the days he spent in his room. He counted the ketchup packets in his trash-can. Sometimes he wondered if someone was sliding them under his door, a prevention from the rumbling volcano.

He wasn’t friendless. Caspian had friends. They talked to him now and then, but they never invited him to anything. That was his fault. He told them about other, nonexistent friends, and they just assumed he was with them. So, yes, he wasn’t friendless, and he liked that. His favorite nonexistent friend was Mark. Mark understood him. Mostly because Mark was just a fragment of Caspian, a fragment of his wishes that manifested itself into a person with a backstory; the backstory Caspian kind of wished he had.

Mark had a father who died in the war, and his mother was strong and independent, basically the best. Mark was cool. He had beautiful brown curls, a nicely angled nose, and a healthy-looking body. And Mark was kind and he never judged people, unless he was talking with Caspian. That’s when Mark judged everyone, and they would both laugh. Caspian did, at least. Then he would cry at the sudden realization that Mark wasn’t real, and couldn’t ever be real. 

As a solution, Caspian kept a journal. A journal named “Mark”. And he wrote in it, every single day, or just whenever the illusion of another person was just too unrealistic for him. 

But at times, Caspian would find that some of his words were missing. Then, when he opened it once again, there was a new page. A page composed entirely of his own words, handwriting differing depending on how he had felt when he had written them down. 

A trick! By Mark!

A trick? By Mark?

“You were never afraid of losing yourself, Cas, you said it yourself.”

It seemed arbitrary that Mark would bring it up, but it wasn’t. 

It was a long-winded description, like someone took Caspian’s thoughts and slapped them on a piece of paper. He didn’t understand half of it, why Mark would suddenly bring up something in a new paragraph and then pretend like he didn’t the next. 

“Remember when you tripped on the dog?” Mark would write, “you don’t have to trip on dogs anymore. Also, my dad died in the war, so I’m pretty sad about that.”

Then, at the very bottom of the page: “accept my help.”

Caspian didn’t write that day. There was a new entry the next, but not by him. It was...easier to read that time. It was like Mark had just sent a long text message. But, again, at the end: “accept my help.”

“What help?” Caspian thought aloud, “what is this?”

The next day, his questions were answered. 

“I want to be real and you want to be someone else. Write more. Accept my help.”

Caspian wrote down every word he could think of. Next day, new entry, more mindless begging. 

“Aren’t you just me? Or something like that?” Caspian wrote down. 

“Exactly. I am the person you’ve always wanted to be. So be me. And no one else. Accept my help.”

It was frustrating to ask a question and having to wait until the next day to have it answered. It wasn’t like the response was helpful as well. 

“How do I help? What’s your motivation? How are you real?”

But Mark didn’t respond. 

Caspian was convinced he was going crazy. There really was no other explanation. 

“Fine!” he said to the journal, “I get it! It is fun to play tricks on a person who can barely even think properly at times. It is fun to...” he trailed off, and didn’t say anything else.

No Mark, just stupid real friends. Well, Sam was nice. Sam had a skateboard. Mark didn’t have a skateboard. Maybe Mark wasn’t even that cool. 

New entry. “I’m giving you what you want. Accept.”

“Okay,” Caspian quickly jotted down, all thoughts of Sam flying out of his head, “I accept.”

Sleep was hard. He popped a couple ketchup packets, and then sat on his bed until he got used to the smell. Then, he slept.

When Mark stepped out of his room for the first time in a couple hundred ketchup packets, it was...nice. It smelt good. 

“Morning, dear,” his mother greeted cheerily, “I baked some muffins for you! Right by the stove. They’re still cooling so be careful.” She pinched his cheek with a cheery smile and left. 

Caspian hated his mom’s blueberry muffins. Mark scoured them down. His mouth tried to reject them, but then it gradually accepted the foulness of fruit in a dessert. 

Mark didn’t feel guilty at all. He liked the sight of real things, not just the messy scribbles of an insecure teenager. He liked being alive, he liked how granite countertops felt. It didn’t take that much time to convince Caspian to give up. He should feel bad. He was helping, so maybe he shouldn’t. But the person he was helping didn’t really have an idea of what was going on. 

Well, Caspian was never really afraid of losing himself anyway.