Lies of a Story Teller

Orrie and Reinette

I smelled something burning the moment I walked in the door.

“Orrie?” I shouted, waving my hand in front of my face and coughing. “Orrie, where are you?”

I tossed my backpack and keys on the couch in the living room and burst into the kitchen where an overwhelming cloud of smoke boiled on the ceiling. Objects were strewn about the room. A misplaced chair, a few bags, several pots and pans on the floor or stacked on one another. It was a haphazard mess of objects.

A tall boy with dark hair was pacing madly around the room. He was handsome and strong, built like a football player. He had on a blue and white polo and plain jeans.

He was muttering darkly to himself, seemingly unaware of the smoke.

“It’s the darkness…take a walk…forgetting all of the rules…”

Everything he said was nonsense. A pit wormed its way into my stomach.

I came up to him, “Orrie, Orrie,” I said, trying to get his attention. I reached out a put a hand on his shoulder.

“No!” he yelled, violently panicked. He pushed me away. “Don’t break the wall!” More nonsense.

“Orrie, it’s alright,” I said in my best soothing voice. “It’s me, it’s Reinette. You’re just having an episode.” I laid my hand on his shoulder. He tried to fight me off, but I stayed on him, cooing to him gently in the same voice reserved for very small children.

“No!” he cried, his tone becoming one of frustration. “No…it’s not the time…it’s not thick enough…”

He suddenly burst into frustrated and confused tears. “The sun isn’t even out yet…it’s not even close…” I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him close, tiptoeing to put my chin on his shoulder.

“Sssssh, ssh, ssh, ssh,” I said gently, holding him tight, feeling his heart beat too rapidly in his chest. “It’s okay, Orrie. It’s not real. It’s just your imagination. Come back to me. Breathe deep. That’s it. Come back to me, hon.”

He collapsed onto the floor, sobbing into my shoulder. I held him, rocking him back and forth, whispering comforts and he cried.

Eventually, his crying turned to whimpers, his sobs to uneven gasps and he slowly calmed down. I let him take his time, the smoke billowing above our heads.

“Orrie?” I asked after a while. “How are you feeling?”

He took a shaky breath to answer, stuttered through sobs, “B-better.”

“It’s okay. Just take some deep breaths.”

He took a few deep breaths.

“I think…” he said after a few seconds. “I think I alphabetized all of our canned food,” he finished with a choked laugh.

I laughed. “That’s okay. I never could find the Alfredo sauce. Now it’ll be right up front.”

He laughed a few times, his voice hoarse with over-use. He used the back of his hand to wipe away the moisture on his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Rein,” he said. “I didn’t mean to lose it again…”

“Hey,” I said sternly. “None of that. It’s not your fault.” I leaned back and smiled at him. “What burned?”

“Eggs,” he said. “They’re still on the stove.”

I helped him stand to lean against the counter and pulled the pan off the hot stove, turning off the dial at the same time. I threw the charcoaled bits into the garbage disposal and, when I had finished, went around the house and opened all the windows to let out the smoke. I came back to check on him a moment later.

“Did you hurt yourself at all?” I asked. He was scooting chairs and things back into place.

“Don’t think so. I might’ve bumped my head on the counter once when I was pulling out pans, but it didn’t even make a scratch.”

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Don't know what this is and it probably won't be anything in the future so don't get your hopes up. I just wanted to write a scene where one of the characters was mentally unstable, so that was basically the only reason this got written at all. -flyon