I will name him Mr. Lyde. It is what my father called me when I was in line for a punishment of some sort.
If he is the storm that colonizes a sunny day, then this moniker is appropriate. It’s also “safe” because he is frozen in the past. Only as real in the present as I allow him to be. In my head, shoved into a dark corner with his arms bundled in a straight jacket. He isn’t crazy, per se. Just volatile. Striking with purpose, but usually going too far. It’s his way. As much as the rest of us love to build and imagine, he is inextricably tied to destruction in his own reality.
