House of Lincoln

1

I tried to tell Clyde, but I knew he wouldn't understand. Still, I desperately tried to explain with a sliver of hope that he would. Sadly, though, there was no hope, because deep down I already knew: I was alone.

"It started with just being tired. I would wake up in the morning and I wouldn't want to get out of bed. When I eventually would, I would grab a snack or my parents would have my breakfast—either way, food did not excite me anymore. It all tasted the same. Sometimes I would simply forget to eat. I guess my body didn't find any gratification in eating anymore. When I asked Lori about it, she seemed to have some concern for me, but quickly turned her attention to the incoming call from her boyfriend. I will say—with shame—that I did secretly hope someone would show that they cared. At times I would just add a small remark to my siblings. When one of my sisters asked me 'what I was going to do today' or 'what my plans were', I would mutter a small depressing reply: 'Probably nothing. What's worth doing anymore?' The most reaction I'd get was a sad look (usually from Leni). Maybe I hoped that they would start crying out to me: 'Oh, Lincoln! Get out of bed and head out the door! Go to Clyde's house! Pick yourself up, get slapped, and run around in circles!' I would've probably appreciated a proactive response like that—even now I think I would. I've yet to hear anything though. Even going to school—like today—I have to have my dad scream at me before I determine that my discomfort in bed is worse than the discomfort of heading to school. It's like that's what life has become: doing whatever's less miserable as opposed to doing what's fun."

I could see that Clyde was upset. I could see the pity lying in his eyes and reflecting my image in them. It's like both of his eyes were mirrors showing me my disturbing image. I was alone in his view of me, and from where he sat, he saw just me, sitting all by myself, handling my problem on my own. Maybe that's what saddened him. Clyde was always a smart guy, and he's the smartest friend I have. It's a shame though, that "smarter" doesn't mean "more helpful", because I already could tell what he was going to say. I knew what his mouth was going to spout before it even opened:

"It sounds like depression, Lincoln. I think you should see a doctor."

Of course, that's what anyone would think looking at my situation. A kid who finds nothing fun anymore, who'd rather lie in bed than go out to the mall with his friends. Yes, I am depressed, but it's not depression. I don't know why I feel this way, but I can tell you right now that whatever it is—it lies in my home. I'm not implying that my parents mistreat me or that my siblings make my life a living hell. No, I'm saying that by some twisted nature, the house that I live in is affecting me. Now, consider my friend, Clyde, who just responded with the logical answer of "Sounds like depression, see a doctor", and think to yourself: Would he believe me if I told him my house is haunted? Maybe he would, since he loves to binge paranormal shows with me on occasion. However, I think in this situation he would find matters to be too serious to consider a childish concern like ghosts. It doesn't seem like a very appropriate concern to converse about with your depressed friend who's begging you for help. Even if I were the one to suggest it to him, he probably would try to be the good friend he is, see past my suspected delusions, and get down to the textbook answer for why my house makes me feel sad.

"Clyde, I want you to come over this weekend. I want to show you something."

It's obvious that the only way to get any rational person to believe in a "haunted house" is to have them experience it for themself. They need to be left to doubt their senses and scream in terror at the horrors in front of them—but of course, it would all just be in their head. (By the way, I hate calling my house a "haunted house". It makes it sound like just a general case of a cliche to interest passing tourists. It's not silly, especially not to me. I've told you already how much this depresses me, will you do the courtesy of taking me seriously? The only reason I say "haunted house" is that it's the only way to describe my situation easily enough for anybody to understand, when in reality, it's the most complex thing that will probably ever burden me.)

"This weekend? I've got a birthday to go to on Saturday, though! I don't think I'll be able to come over."

"Cancel it, Clyde. This is serious. You need to see what I'm talking about so you know I'm not crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy." (There it is again—the logical mind of Clyde. A typical answer that is meant to help, but only assures me that he'll say anything—even if he doesn't mean it—just to comfort me.)

"If you don't think I'm crazy, then you'll show up at my house tomorrow. Okay?"

"...Okay."

And with that, I've sealed a promise from Clyde. We're good enough friends to know that promises are too imperative to be broken. Promises are emblematic of a quintessential friendship. They symbolize the absolute trust that is involved, and if that trust is broken, so is the friendship. Me and Clyde both understand this, and that's why it pleases me to hear this from Clyde. Tomorrow, I'm sure it will only take one night to prove to him that a "haunted house" doesn't seem so laughable when discussing the matters of my home. If I'm meant to go mad within its walls, I'd wish that someone would be there to know where my mind's gone.