But all dreams die at one point or another. Everything dies. Why? What is the point in living if we’re only going to die…
My name is Allan Roberts. I’m 20 years old, and I’m pretty sure that I’m having one of those mid-life crises that those old people are always talking about. You may be wondering why exactly I’m telling you about this little thing called lyfe. Life sucks, period. Maybe yours is just pristine, but this is my story. And in my story, life sucks. Now, with that said, where should I begin?

1) I lost my job. Yep, I got fired. Never thought that would happen. It was my production company, too. I guess that’s what happens when you cost your label about a trillion dollars to make a movie that not even my mother will go see. Oops.

2) My girlfriend, well soon-to-be fiancè, broke up with me. So much for the “love of my life”. Guess I gotta take that ring back.

3) My father died. Yeah, that happened. Of course he would jump in front of a tractor to save a squirrel. He’s just that nice of a guy. But, really dad, a squirrel? What was the squirrel doing in front of the tractor in the first place? They are supposed to crawl across those electrical wires. Whatever, I guess he’s a hero. Congrats, dad!

Let’s just say I’ve had a bad day. Now, I need to buy a plane ticket, which I can’t even afford, and go back to Kansas. Don’t get me wrong, I love my father. I just wish that I didn’t have to go all the way back to my little hometown of Crystal and act like I’m not literally broke and I’m still that big, hot-shot movie director that ran away to Hollywood to “make a name for himself”.

I am nothing like my father. The whole town loves him. He’s been the mayor since before I was born for Christ’s sake. I’ve always been “the mayor’s kid.” I think the town was just nice to me because I was the son of Theodore Roberts. No one ever wanted to get on that guy’s bad side. I was his pride and joy. He believed I could make it big. He was the only one. I guess that’s why it’s so hard to go back to that town. I’m no longer “the mayor’s kid.” I’m “that guy that failed” now.

Anyway, that afternoon, I went back to my elaborate bachelor’s pad in Hollywood Hills and put everything that I owned out on the curb. Why shouldn’t I make the hobos on the street corner happy if I could? All of my belongings will be repoed anyway. I bought myself a one-way ticket to Crystal, Kansas (on my company credit card, of course) and an hour later I was on the plane settling in for a four hour plane ride back home.

Alright, now I see why first class costs so much.
1) Kids kick the back of your seats, like, constantly. And their mothers just give you those glares, (we all know what those are like). Seriously lady, you can’t explain to your child that it’s rude to do that?

2) I’m pretty sure this food is not edible. What’s this stuff even made out of? I think I found a hair. Not cool.
3) These things that are suppose to allow air in, don’t do squat. This air is ratchet and to that old lady wearing that gingerbread perfume, and way too much of it, it’s SEPTEMBER. Why on Earth would you think that smell works in September? Or at all, actually? I didn’t even think that they made that scent. Those vents just make the ratchet air freezing. I need to find myself a winter coat to wear and it’s not even winter.
4) Then there’s this woman in the seat next to mine. God, lady, just shut up already. I don’t care what your day’s schedule is. It’s almost 11 o’clock. I want to sleep. There are other people on this plane ya know. Must you annoy me?

I later learned that this lady’s name was Luna and contrary to popular belief, she actually could be silent. Even if that is only for 45 minutes while she filled out a crossword puzzle.

Before I got off the plane, Luna asked if I wanted to come to this party. (I think she just wanted to annoy me some more.) But, seeming as if I had nothing better to do at 1 in the morning, or quite frankly, had nothing to lose, I went.

Luna met me at the door and yanked me inside. People with long hair crowded the room (some men’s longer than women’s). Some were up on a low, squeaky stage screaming the words to who knows what. Others bobbed their heads and moved a little, (I’m guessing that this was how they danced). The rest crowded around a table taking some kind of pill. When I asked Luna what they were doing, she simply replied that they were “high on life”. I was confused at first, but then, I figured it out. The drug was life, well not life, but lyfe. Apparently, it allowed you to escape the life you had (the life you were unhappy with) and live out your wildest dreams. Seems like a lot of pressure to put on one measly little, pink pill. After the day I’ve had, I kinda wanted to try it. I was skeptical; I wanted to know if it actually worked. What did I have to lose? Nothing. Nothing at all. So I tried it. It tasted like watermelons and gave me the shivers. But boy, was I glad that I did it.
First, I was a monkey flying through the sea. Yes, the sea. Then, I was a dinosaur thumping around in the future. Maybe I was a llama. I’m not exactly sure. Dinosaurs and llamas look a lot alike. Then, I guess that I was a duck flying a spaceship. Why? I hate ducks. None of this makes sense anyway.
But lastly, I was myself. It felt like it was 3 weeks ago. I was planning the perfect proposal to my girlfriend. My movie was about to be finished. My best friend didn’t hate me. I was on the phone with my father planning that fishing trip that we haven’t gotten around to in years. I was telling my mother that I was actually coming home for Christmas this year. I felt good. I was me. The old me. The me I should’ve been. I wish that I could’ve remained in that world. Never leave. Never wake up.
But all dreams die at one point or another. Everything dies. Why? What is the point in living if we’re only going to die. So that’s when it hit me. Like when a coconut falls onto someone’s head in those cartoons and makes stars and birds dance in circles around their heads. If I were to take these lyfe pill things every time I felt upset or angry, I would never be upset or angry. And, with that thought, I found myself addicted. Yes, addicted. I loved lyfe more than I cared about actual life. None of this makes any sense. But does it really have to?

The next day, I went to the funeral. That funeral that featured my father in the casket. Well, technically I went. I wasn’t exactly “there.” More like my body was. Instead, I was in that world. The world that I wished was my world. The world without the casket in it. The world without these people in it. The world without black in it. My father hated black. He didn’t understand why it was a color. Hence why I’m wearing a yellow suit. I felt like yellow would be appropriate. I mean it was his favorite color. Also, I am the only one smiling. Everyone else is crying. Is it wrong for me to be happy? Most likely. Who goes to a funeral hygh on lyfe? I guess I’m the first. Yes, something to be proud of. Things just might be looking up for me.
When I got up to give the eulogy (I guess people actually read those, they aren’t something that happen “only in the movies”), mouths dropped. I don’t think these people could actually believe that I was wearing a yellow suit, especially to a funeral- my father’s funeral. Or the fact that I was smiling. My mother’s face though, that was priceless.

“My father was a kind man,” I began, “He even sacrificed himself for a squirrel. He was loved by everyone here.” I shook my head, “This is not his funeral. He wouldn’t want us to be sad. Look at you people. You’re depressing. He would want everyone to be happy. To come together and remind each other just how awesome he was. Hell, if he was here, this place wouldn’t be depressing;” my mother’s face was beet red and she glared at me as if I were the devil, “I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t want to make my father angry. He loved those old barbecues that this town was always known for. There was dancing and hot dogs, and Mrs. Pot’s homemade Chili. Shouldn’t we be remembering him like that?”

My grandmother started clapping, then the rest of the church. My mother just glared. And, I’m almost positive that I saw my father smile. The next thing I knew, everyone in the church was dancing to that rusty, old organ’s pitch. Even the priest (that looked not a day over 103)was doing some sort of move, not exactly sure what, but it was something. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all.

That night I went to Luna’s party house again. (Let me just make it clear that she loved my yellow suit.) I decided that I could be one of those people on that wobbly stage. They really enjoyed my performance. Maybe my next career move should be becoming a rockstar.
So I went up to Luna and asked her what exactly was in this lyfe stuff.

“Whatever you put into lyfe you get out.” She said with a smile.
I decided that if I were to continue to take this drug, I should probably figure out the effects it would have on me. So I asked the all-knowing Luna.
“The effects are simple; there’s only one,” she said, “ the effect of lyfe, is death.”
Ok, so, I don’t want to die. I may have wanted to a few days ago, but now I know that my life is not over, well not yet. I’m only 20. I can’t die. People only die when they’re all old and wrinkly, not young.
That same night around 2 A.M., I admitted myself into one of those hospitals that all those celebrities go to. I went up to the desk and told this lady with big bags under her eyes that I was addicted to lyfe.
The receptionist looked blankly at me, then slowly raised her right eyebrow, “You’re addicted to life?”
“Yes, can you help me?” I asked. Maybe it’s a new drug. Maybe these hospitals don’t know what it is. I fished around in my pocket for one of those little, pink pills. The lady looked confused. “ There’s this pill I’ve been taking,” I set the little thing on the desk between us, “lyfe.”
“Oh. Is this life?” she asked with that eyebrow raised.
I nodded.
“Ok,” she clicked her pen, “what’s your name?”
So the questions begin. What’s your name? Where do you live? When’s your birthday? How old are you? Can you tell me what day it is? Then there are my questions that just keep popping into my head. Why am I here? Will they ever let me leave? Or am I eternally stuck here? Will they actually help me?
After the questions, a scary man in light blue scrubs with muscles that barely fit in the arm holes of his top grabs my arm. He takes me to a little, white room with absolutely no windows and a cot that doesn’t even have a blanket. “So I’ve voluntarily put myself in hell.” I thought. The man went out the door and it slammed shut behind him.
I just have to laugh because I’ve been using my company credit card to pay for everything. I bought my plane ticket (should’ve bought first class). My amazingly awesome, yellow suit that I rented for my father’s funeral was also charged to that card. I don’t think that I’ll be taking that back either. Don’t forget my meals I’ve been having at those 5 star restaurants or any of my other necessities. Oh, and this place is not cheap. Although, it should be. This place is a downgrade from a motel in the middle of a ghetto. Ha. I need sleep.
The next thing I know, I’m getting woken up by that scary dude. Today he’s wearing purple scrubs. Cute. I guess he’s a doctor or something.
“It’s time for your first meeting,” he says in a deep voice that is just as intimidating as those muscles of his.

Now? Since when are there meetings at the crack of dawn? In my PJ’s? Guess so. I will not be the one objecting to this guy.
“Go down the hall, take a right. You’ll see a blue door with Mr. Billings’ name on it. That’s where your meeting will be,” he said.
I walked down the narrow, white hallways. Why is everything painted white in this place? I saw the faces that I didn’t get to see the night before. These people are zombies. Do I look like that? I ran down the hall to find a bathroom to look in a mirror. “Oh,” I sighed in relief, “I’m me.” I continued down the hallway, took a right, and found that blue door. Why blue? Everything else is white. Am I suppose to knock? Or can I just walk in? I knocked. Don’t want to get the doctor mad at me.

A slightly bald man with big round glasses opens the door, “Mr. Roberts? You’re quite early... And you’re wearing your PJ’s?”
“The guy in my room told me to come here.” I said.
“Ah, George. He could’ve told you to get dressed,” he said with a laugh, ”Come in. You can sit here,” and he pointed to a wooden chair on the opposite of his desk. “You know, your case is quite interesting.”
Case? Quite interesting? Who is this quack?
I sat down. I feel like I’m in a principal’s office. I thought this guy was a doctor. This is not a doctor’s office.

“Mr. Roberts, do you know what a placebo is?” Oh God, the quack’s talking again. And said something that I don’t even think is in English.
“No,” I said simply.

“It’s a pill that won’t affect you in any particular way. Many people call it a sugar pill.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, you see, Mr. Roberts, you’re not addicted to anything. Lyfe is nothing but a placebo.” he smirked. “You wanted to escape your life so badly that, when someone told you that these pills would help, your brain believed them. Your mind tricked you, Mr. Roberts.”

I was raising my right eyebrow now, “So you’re telling me that I’m crazy and this pill is a fake?”

“Yes,” he said with a slight laugh, “well you’re not crazy.”

Now that I’ve thought about it, I don’t actually remember taking that little, pink pill at all. Other than that night that I encountered it, of course. Maybe this quack actually knows what he’s talking about. Maybe I’m not crazy. Maybe there is a medical explanation for this.

“So, Mr. Roberts, you no longer have to be here; You aren’t addicted to anything. We can’t cure you if there is nothing wrong with you,” he said pushing the chair out from beneath him and walking over to the door.

I did the same and walked back down that narrow hallway to that little, windowless room. I changed back into my yellow suit and laid the Pj’s that I got last night on the cot. They were kinda like those robes you get at those fancy hotels, but not really. They didn’t smell too great either. I don’t think that I was the first to wear them.

That was when I realized that Luna was the cause of my insanity. To put it lightly, I was furious. She gave me lyfe. She told me what lyfe was. She made me think that lyfe was actually doing something to me.
I went back to that party house. Luna greeted me like she had every night that I’ve ended up here.

“What do you call this?” I spat while holding up my last lyfe.

“What are you calling it?” she winked, realizing that I was now in on her little game. Could she not tell that I was furious? Was she really about to be happy when she just caused me to go mentally insane?

Seeing the anger in my eyes, she confessed, “I was only trying to help. I’ve helped many people.”

“By giving them a fake drug?”

“Well, in all honesty, I didn’t give it to you. You took it yourself. This happens all of the time.”

“All of the time?”

“Yes.” she shrugged, “Look, I find people that are about to give up on life, and show them a new lyfe. Granted that not all of these people actually take me up on the offer, but you did. And those that do, usually make some dramatic change in their life, but always for the better.” she giggled, “haven’t you?”

I thought back. I made a complete fool out of myself at my own father’s funeral. At that same funeral, everyone was crying. I made them dance and celebrate my father. I did. I got up on that stage in front of who knows how many people and screamed the words to who knows what song. Me. I guess Luna actually helped me. A very strange way of doing so, but whatever she’s doing seems like a good way to help suicidal people. At that moment, I decided that I should’ve been thanking her. She saved my life, with lyfe. She only showed me what I’ve been missing.

Embarrassed, I thought that I should leave. But then I remembered that I had nowhere to go. I think that my mother is still upset with me for “ruining” my father’s funeral. So home is out of the question. I definitely cannot go back to Hollywood. Maybe I could make a movie out of this story. No, nevermind. Everyone would laugh in my face.

So I asked Luna if it would be possible if I stayed. Maybe, I could help her with this “lyfe thing”.
“We’re always looking for new recruits,” she agreed. “The only rule is that you can’t tell the people that the drug’s not real. They have to figure it out for themselves in order to get the whole experience. Like you did.”

I smiled. I have a place in this world. A home. I never thought that I was going to be a drug dealer. Well, sorta. Not the illegal kind, I guess.
“One more thing,”
“I thought you said that there was only 1 rule?”
“ It’s not a rule, per se. You just gotta grow your hair out,” she giggled.

“Over my dead body,” I replied.

The End