19

                                    

                                          
When Phil was a younger child, he wasn't exactly the epitome of normal per se. Often teachers would call home about his . . . unorthodox behaviours. Whether that be eating bugs in the playground during break times, scribbling novels worth of comics on his maths work or, his personal favourite, asking boys out for the dances. At the time, Phil never saw it as a big deal. He never imagined why liking someone could be wrong, nor why someone would find issues in it as a matter of fact. 
                          
 His mum was perfectly aware of this, Phil has always been open with her on these matters. His dad, however, he was never so lucky with. The stupid material armchairs remind Phil of that. The dull, grey reception looks almost identical to the one he sat in only years ago. The too-white walls seem to be a common factor with these buildings. Same goes for the lifeless furniture and anxious patients scattered around in a completely deafening silence. 
                          
 Phil sees white where his knuckles should be. They're almost translucent through how hard he's gripping the arm rests. His breaths are hardly steady, thankfully only on the brim of hyperventilating. He hates how pristine the reception is. He hates how he can count at least six other people in the room and there's still not a single word being spoken. He hates every living and breathing part of this. 
                          
 Every passing second equates to years, Phil's sure of it. His bones are snapping and his mind's melting into dog years and all he can do is sit on the side lines, hoping he doesn't lose his other organs. 
                          
 His arms are red with scratch marks by the time a man in his thirties walks out of an unknown room and calls for Phil. A forced, miniscule nod emits from himself as he pushes up from the chairs and follows into the room.
                          
 His skin's the first thing to go, burning into a pile of peach coloured brine on the futon. The unknown man sits opposite Phil. He seems nice enough, Phil knows. He looks good - not so much the stars melting into a man pretty, but pretty nonetheless. He holds out a hand and introduces himself. 
                          
 "Hi, Mr. Lester. I'm Dr. Taylor, I'll be your practitioner over however long you decide to stay." Dr. Taylor's voice is nice. Not honey and lime nice, but alright. "Due to your circumstances, we can either spend this time talking, or going over methods to help cope with mental health. I would like to say, however, it'd be a much more effective approach to talk first." Phil doesn't understand how his new therapist can sound so utterly calm whilst fully aware Phil's life is falling apart. It's bewildering to him. 
                          
 Phil doesn't want to talk. He's more than fully aware of therapy. He knows he can't talk. The issue is, Phil has no one to converse with about these subjects. Oliver's been exhausted from them over the past few years. Dan's no longer here. He can't make his mum feel any more guilty. He doesn't want to talk, he knows he can't. But he does. "You - you won't be disclosing anything I say, right?" It comes out slowly. A sentence that lasts a millennium, boring even the speaker. He shouldn't be asking questions. His mouth should stay closed.
                          
 "No, no, of course not. Under a whole bunch of legalities and policies that'd bore you to death, we're prohibited from disclosing information about our clients." Dr. Taylor speaks in sporadic breaths. Like a politician debating who gets to live and who doesn't. That is him, though. That's all therapists are to Phil. He notices the brief pause in his doctor's explanation, however. "Is that a concern at all?"
                          
 It's as sudden as they describe in the movies. Glass shards scraping the thin tissues on his brain, sculpting a horrible image of his past within it. Even if he's not there, he can hear his dad's voice acting the glass shards. He can see his dad auditioning for the part of disappointment. He can taste the Fairy dish soap he insisted Phil's mum uses due to sensitive skin. The stupid, shitty things he's forced to relive whilst the man that's supposed to be his dad is away off somewhere. 
                          
 Phil cannot talk about this. He can't. So he simply shakes his head, disinterested. He's sure Mr. Taylor can sense his pavement façade. Phil's not the breezeblocks he thinks he is. He isn't a thousand pounds of stones, building walls after walls, moats and oceans. He's a feather. He's a feather that's waiting for the gust of wind to hurry up and blow him across the waves and the walls already. He's a feather that's unaware the gust came years ago.
                          
 "Erm, no. No, sorry. Just curious." Phil steadies a sigh as he watches the walls disintegrate into black. "So, what about the coping strategies?"
                          
 Therapy lasts a lot longer than Phil anticipates. Even as he takes the easy route by discussing coping techniques, the world grows dark and cold, and the flowers wither and die, and Phil's left there. Stuck in his mind which is stuck in the past and he can't escape. He's sick of never being able to escape.
                          
 The car park is cold. It's dim, it's dull and, just like every bloody thing in Phil's life, it's too much. He's struck by the vibrant blue sun, the yellow-warm weather. Why does everything else get to be so pretty, so perfect, whilst he's stuck with nothing? It's not fair.
                          
 It's not fair whilst his eyes start copying the rain clouds. It's not fair whilst he sinks to the edge of the pavement. None of it is. Nothing is fair and Phil's not sure it ever will be. The mini pebbles look so small. They look so out of place. A giant sitting on a pavement leaves no rooms for boulders the size of pinpricks. The more Phil thinks, however, the more he realises that he's the small one. Not the tiny boulders.
                          
 Phil feels trapped. Stuck in what's supposed to be a beautiful summer gaze. What's supposed to be a soprano of 'hey, look at you go, you're getting better!' or at the very least give him closure. Instead he's stuck in fizzy, he's stuck in warped, he's stuck in his mind. Until a voice pulls him out of his trance. A voice constructed by Aristaeus and the stars. A voice strained through the coffee filter that leaves a deep, rich, glow.
                          
 Phil has seen Heaven and he has seen Hell, but never before has he heard them both. Not until a drizzling honey and a sweet lime whisper a tidal wave across the road. It's not a lot, really. But to Phil it's oxygen. It's a constellation of perfection in the stars and he can only be certain he's the one that put it there. 
                          
 He isn't known for much, not really. But he'll be known by all as the man that died from a voice. A tiny, mere whisper of "Phil."