A Little Piece of "Is This a Dagger I See Before Me?"

Since I'm on a roll with my past English work, this is a piece I wrote when I was 15 and it was for my English coursework. The theme was to end the fiction piece with the line "Is this a dagger I see before me?" in reference to Shakespeare but there was a change in plans and so I ended it differently. It's a little dark and graphic but nothing to be afraid about since I didn't have a large enough word limit to truly build up a story and suspense to act as a foundation to the story. Also it was like 2000 words over the word limit but totally worth it.

[
Is This A Dagger I See Before Me?

I wondered...what was the most satisfying way to make one suffer? In my case, to torture the one who had done me wrong would not be enough to fulfill the hatred I feel in my otherwise stone-cold heart. The possibility of making their loved ones suffer appealed to me. That way, they would be forced to watch as their weak, burdensome friends beg not for mercy, but for the death I will deprive them of. However, the efficiency in that laid in the concept of what happens after death. If there were a Hell worse than the seven sins of humans, then I shan't delay that glorious present to those who deserved it early. Oh, what to do?

        Day and night, I thought of what would happen when I got my hands on them. I knew neither of their name nor their face, as I was unfortunate enough not to have encountered him on that dreary night…the night my family was massacred.

*       *       *

It was a short memory and nothing bizarre had happened to hint of the wrongly decided fate that awaited me.

        It was a Saturday. Leaving home early on Thursday, I had packed and prepared myself for the three day business trip to America. As an engineer, I developed and designed weapons for the UK military. Though my daughter considered it as an incredibly “cool” and “awesome” job, it wasn't such a job, or one to be bragging about to fellow soldiers. Mostly, it was uneventful and a day of trial and error until the result I wanted was presented before me. My job to travel to America was to strike a deal with the private traders there for some new supplies. It was an important job, but I wasn't going to be the one who did the talking. All I had to do was provide the technicalities and reply to technical questions the market manager would otherwise struggle with.

        On Saturday night, I arrived home – lacking in sleep and rest – about to embrace the warmth of my wife and children when a nightmare I had never dreamt of became a cruel reality.

        Swinging open, the front door bellowed in the wind.

        They just forgot to shut the door after throwing the trash out, the naïve I thought. A friend came around for dinner and is about to leave, another voice attempted to convince me. Nonetheless, as a man who has seen the world, I knew the more probable events that could result in a loose lock. All the possibilities deemed the doom of my family, however, so how could I face it?

        Cautiously, I had stepped inside the house. It was a cool April evening and though the house had always been warm despite the disputes of nature, the grey dullness of the sky had infected my home.

        The unusual smell of sourness and the scent of blood threw me backwards. All of the negative thoughts from before flooded into my head, leaving no room available for any optimism. I ran towards the living where my family would usually inhabit just before the peak of the evening. I dropped my luggage and knelt before the body lay on the floor.

        My wife was in the centre of the carpet we once bought together. My children…curse the Lord; my children were in a helpless heap on the couch. My daughter, 6, and my son, 3 were holding each other as their beautiful brown hair flowed into a young waterfall.

        In shock, my ears were blocked and my eyes attempted to push away the horrible reality I saw. My body moved on its own as I approached my children. They were still. As much as I wanted to see, hear or feel them breathing, they were not. Having been formally taught first aid before, I had put my children in the recovery position, despite their lack of life. Robotically, I saw my hands shaking, but that was the least of my worries. Moving back to my wife, I saw that she was breathing, though it was hushed and rasp. Again, I had put her in the rightful position to increase her chances of survival.

        Grabbing the house phone that was now in a pile of dishevelled furniture, I dialled 999.

*       *       *

Naïve. I will never be so pathetic again. I should not have dwelled on the pitiful idea that my family could still be alive with all the blood flooding the world. I should have sought the villains who had committed the crime immediately and search for clues to who they might have been and what their purpose were.

        I chuckled at myself. I should have…I should not have…If I did this…If I did that… Why dwell on the things I cannot change when I could pursue the bitter future alone?

        Nonetheless, the police had managed to track down those who had done it through the whispers of the underworld. A gang of despicable thugs had broken into my home and slaughtered my family, having mistakenly thought that they were the family of a runaway criminal who had offended one of the ‘bosses’. In conclusion, my family had been brutally murdered due to a stupid misunderstanding of unworthy henchmen of some goddamned gang.

        I will consider not the opinions or advices of the police who suggested me to follow the voice of peace or let them convince me of their so-called ‘duty’ to have those criminals justified. The value of the law no longer serves me as a principle of life; as a rule to live by; as a frame for society to grow into. Instead, the law now serves as a burden, an obstacle I have grown to detest.

Currently, it was April; a year since the death of my only family. I still worked as an engineer for the military after a two month rest to recover from the pain inflicted upon me that night. A year. As patiently as I could, I had waited an entire year. I needed those thugs to have their guard down from me if I wanted my revenge plan to be executed flawlessly, which is the only aim I now had.

After the incident, I worked hard to retrieve contacts I would usually avoid gaining, in order to be closer to those I wish hell upon.

With information from the police, I have learnt that the hands that are stained with the blood of my wife, daughter and son have been identified by speed cameras the next morning. I have had their horrendously ugly faces memorised and their life stories lifted to the light. I know of their location day in and day out. However, what I wish suffering upon the most is not the one who had the courage to order his men kill, but the coward who did not do it himself.

Returning to my previous achievement of receiving contacts, I had conducted a meeting with the gang to present them with some blueprints and sample weapons in exchange for some precious cash. Well, that’s what they think. Money means as much to me as coal: simply something to survive until the day I need not to seek for revenge. Therefore, it concludes that what I want is not money.

I want them to suffer until they beg not for mercy, but for the relief of death.

*       *       *

Today was the day I was going to end my own burning of hatred and achieve justice through my own personal ways and ideals.

        The deal with the weapons went as planned in the warehouse where the important members of the gang were – especially the faces I recognised. It was like when I attended that trip to America with the marketing manager, except this time, I did all the talking; quite cleverly too, if you’d ask me. I struck the deal with the best bargain to my benefit, though that was only for show. If I didn't try too hard, they wouldn't believe me as an engineer who only wanted a bit more cash.

        I had all the blueprints and samples ready. My plan was a plan that worked faultlessly in the real world, though it was a shame that money was not a priority of mine…

        By the time the deal was struck, it was 0300 and my next step was ready. The climax of the play was about to unravel. They proceeded to inspect the sample weapons; after they were satisfied with the quality, I excused myself for the toilet. By the time I returned, they were all on the floor and groaning as the toxic gas burned their throat and stripped them of threat.

        Smugly, I had returned with a gas mask. The day before, I had snuck into the toilets of the warehouse as a cleaner and hid a gas mask in there. Don’t question my capabilities, or you would die.

        The entire gang looked like they were in sweet agony. Sweet, sweet agony. I smiled inside the mask.

        “Y-you… Help!” the man in charge of the gang – and deal – attempted to breathe out.

        I laughed. It was a wondrous sight to see such horrid, inhumane things suffer. It was not my revenge done and over, though. The gas was only to paralyse them while I slowly tormented them till the depths of the earth.

        It was only the beginning.

*       *       *

Locking up, the huge doors of the warehouse with steel chains the size of my arm; I secured the place so that no one else could get in or out.

        One by one, I gathered the men up and tied them with ropes and chains I found around the warehouse. After all, I had plenty of time to spare for these people. They were so lucky, weren’t they?

        I had little interest in the rest of the gang. All I wanted to focus on was the gang leader and the four who slaughtered my bloody family.

        Looming over the five men, I smiled smugly through my mask.

        “You must be wondering,” I began. “How did this happen? Who am I? What do I want?” My voice transformed from a sweetly amused tone to a bitter sneer.

        Staring back at me, the men looked frightened to their souls. Their quivering eyes reflected my coal black ones which was deficient of enough emotion to be deemed as inhuman.

        “I had a timer on the toxic bomb, so I had enough time to retreat. Why did I retreat? Ask me. You! Yes, you, Thomas Hanks,” I pointed at one of the four men who broke into my house that April night. I sniggered at the fun I was having. Hanks looked like he was about to wet himself! Oh dear, I must get a grip of myself. I cleared my throat and continued. “I did so, in order to have enough life in me to torture you until you know the purpose of what I am doing. Then, you would automatically understand what you must do to seek salvation.”

*       *       *

Unsure of what clicked in the five men I now held in my hands, their eyes began to see the reality that lay before them. Their shock dissolved in sheer panic and fear. They feared for their lives, though I was not certain whether they feared for the end of their sorry lives or the continuity of time.

        “W-what do you want? Who…?” Leonard Hughes – or more commonly had been known as Sir Hughes the Comrade Killer in the underworld – attempted to breathe.

        Ugh. His pathetically weak voice disgusted me to the point where the pleasure I had felt when I first gained triumph had vanished. Utterly useless beings. They could not even maintain my short-lived joy, yet they dare to remove others of their rights as ordinary citizens.

        “SILENCE!” I barked. It felt as if a volcano had erupted from the very depths of my soul.

The red hot fury. The distraught. The helpless, wretched defeat. I tried so very hard to block it all out! I did not need these feelings! They were a burden to me as I pursued the future I desired for the sake of justice.

“Stop!” yelling, I picked up a screw driver which lay in the corner of the warehouse and delivered the first blow to those who deserved so much more. Hughes was the one who felt my capabilities first.

Satisfyingly, blood spilled endlessly from his head. The liquid glowed and reflected a brilliant light as the chances of heaven was stripped from Hughes’ soul and mine too. Sweat beads merged together with the blood and soaked the cracked lips of the hideous face. Victory.

Hanks, Norton, Jones and Liberton stared in absolute horror.

Laughing, I looked around the warehouse for further weapons so that I could continue this gratifying game.

“Stop…please stop. I’ll do anything! I’ll pay you double- no, triple the amount you’re getting for doing this,” Jones begged. His voice broke at odd places, establishing a cowardly individual.

Oh yes. They were beginning to beg for mercy. It was a step closer to pleading for death, which was my ultimate goal. However, I was still deciding whether or not to deliver them death.

‘Deliver them death’… Hm… that makes me sound like the Grim Reaper. It as an interesting character, though I would be a corrupt one.

Looking straight at me, a pocket knife welcomed me to use it, in order to torment the next man. Jones begged me for clemency, so I should only return the favour by having him wait for his turn last. Therefore, I sauntered to Norton, who only gazed upwards and muttered inaudible words. Was he praying? I leant in closer, so close that I could feel his tremor.

“…Lord, spare me of the suffering I witnessed in my life…Please, Father, treat me with kindness and I will  return it in my next life and the life after…Respond to my plea, please,” Norton was begging God for salvation!

I jerked my head backwards, as if his prayers burnt my skin. “How dare you!” I bellowed. It was unbelievable for him to turn to the stupid, ignorant God of his when the causer, I, were here! “Are you so exceedingly dense?”

Norton’s eyes trailed to mine, but his mutters were still continuing.

Slowly, I bent forwards as the prayers revolted me. With the pocket knife, I took my time to cut those lips into bits and pieces until he was unable to request his God to help. He made awful groaning sounds in his throat as I pinched his lips together. His moans made me sick to the core, but what I did made me feel a pleasant lightness. “Where’s your God now?”

Moving on, I transferred my attention to Liberton. He was the one who was closest to my gas bombs, so he had inhaled the most; therefore I guessed it was not a surprise that he was still unconscious. However, it annoyed me that he could not watch his colleagues suffer when that was what I wanted. Who was he, anyway? To go against my wishes surely deserves worse treatment than anything else. Why? Because I am God.

I judged.

I punished.

I delivered justice.

“I…I have children and a family. My old pop needs me to feed him. Please…let me go.” I twisted towards the distorted voice. Jones.

A sea of emotions disrupted my train of thought on the ways to torture. Picturesque images of my wife, daughter and son swarmed into my mind. They were laughing and smiling. Their beaming faces filled me with joy; simply the thought of their happiness made me smile as if it were my own bud of bliss. The brighter days dissolved my anger and left me standing there, calm as a flower in the still of night.

“Why did you kill other people’s families then?” I questioned in a monotone voice. My head was dropped. “Why did you kill my family?” I whispered.

Jones hesitated. “You…I… I would die if I didn't…I needed to support my family…I was forced…Other people would have done it if I hadn't…So please, forgive me…”

My calmness faded as Jones muttered his final plea. “Forgive you? Forgive you?” I had wanted them to ask me for mercy, for death. Anything but forgiveness. “Are you indeed so immensely ignorant and piteous that you would even consider forgiveness from me after all the sins you have so cowardly committed? Are you serious? Are you really serious? ANSWER ME!”

Feeling wrath being emitted from my soul, a red haze clouded my vision. I could feel the murderous intent being discharged from my body as I reached for unsystematic weapons around me. What I saw was distant from my thoughts. My body moved on its own as it was fuelled not by my brain, but my soul. Feelings I had pushed again and again into a double locked box in my heart finally broke free.

*       *       *

My wife was called Elizabeth. She named my daughter Lauren and my son Arthur.

        Elizabeth was always a compassionate lady who wished only the best for everyone and everything, even those who did her wrong. Never in her life had she done anything which made her deserve what she got that April night.

        Adorable and bright, Lauren was the perfect child every family wanted to have. She often helped out afterschool and offered to help her mum with the house chores. Like me, she cursed people who were bad.

        Arthur was a mischievous young lad who made everyone feel like it was a hot summer’s day with his hyperactive energy levels. Though he ran around a lot and performed friendly pranks on his sister, he was like Elizabeth and was innocent enough to expect the best out of everyone.

*       *       *

Collapsing onto the floor, I felt tears flow down my cheeks. I was hopeless. Why was I doing this? My family would hate to see what I was now. I was an insane murderer!

Reluctantly, I lifted my head to look at the exhibit I created in the last three quarters of an hour. Bright red blood spilt everywhere from everyone. They were deformed to the extent that it took all my effort to look at them without cringing.

        “Why?” I screeched. “Why did you kill my family? I was forced to do this. Someone…save me…”

        My thoughts and feelings conflicted too much. My mind was about to blow and I was going to be relieved.

        I wanted to die. I wanted death. I needed death to ease me of this pain. It was too agonizing for me to bear any longer.

        Please, God, deliver me the death I deserved a year ago.

]

And Taken wasn't even out then. Ha.

A Little Piece of Fiction

Like my last post, this is the fiction piece I wrote for my English class last year. I worked hard on the weird and long extended metaphors, don't let em go to waste!

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The Track

Once, there were times when the clothes one wore determined their life story. If one wore grey ragged sheets of rough fabric, he was homeless and jobless. If one was unshaven and old then the top of his hat was most likely tattered from the streets of the slums as he begged for money. Those who could not bear the sight of such were dressed in shimmering silks, smelling of cleanliness and screaming gold.

            Thus it was inevitable that Sir Francis was astounded by the overwhelming diversity as his glowing hazel eyes absorbed the brightness of the night. His plaid grey suit, with the familiar structure of the old skill and the hand-sewn design, disguised him among the streaming crowd like a raindrop in a storm. Creatures with inner physical traits, with resemblance to humans progressed in the saturated streets; their world contained nothing other than a foreign sense of amour-propre.

            Some of their heads were inhabited by a ball of unnatural origin covered by their hair. Some of their shoes sparkled odd colours in contrast to the things they wore upon their upper bodies. The fabrics were scandalous! Sir Francis was not entirely certain whether they were meant to save them from the cold of winter or simply be a new type of ‘style’. However, he could not help but gawk as – those he assumed as – young girls wore fabrics which outlined their body and showed their ankles.

            As he carried himself through the throng of people, his feet were discomforted upon the uneven scars on the ground. The stones were inserted into the ground in a sequence, permanently remaining within the skin of Mother Nature. Indeed, the recipe of mud and northern weather may not produce a favourable mixture; nonetheless it would suffice.

            Despite such facts, how could he question the ground when it was of the same significance as a speck of dust to the universe? At night, no light should be visible but the flames of one’s lamp and the beautiful glow of the moon. However, Sir Francis became enveloped in a suffocating stream of fluorescent light. Square boxes were inserted insultingly within the wonderful stone architecture of the town’s buildings; each one of them were pasted with such sharp colours that he began to question his very own sense of vision. Objects of similar shape and size were organised upon ineffective storage capacities within those booths; people would saunter in and out of them as they admired such things, much like one may gaze at paintings at a gallery.

            Although his mind was intrigued by the extravagant difference in culture and society, he could not help but comment upon the nature of humans in the present state. The flamboyant ‘clothing’ appeared to resemble a lion’s mane or a peacock’s feathers; their aloofness to those surrounding them only symbolised their concern. Strangers interacted with strangers. There was a type of comforting satisfaction to be approached by one, it seemed (of course, it was only appealing by those who bore feathers).

            Further on, Sir Francis could not help but notice a deep scar that ran along the ground. Unlike the wounds made from the stones, this was much more ferocious. A straight rusting dent carved into the ground, parallel to a few more. People walked upon them as if they were merely part of what belonged. However, to Sir Francis, it stood out like a drop of crude oil in water.

            Boooooppp!!

            Utterly taken aback, his shock caused him to physically retreat. A flash of yellow passed his eyes. A moment went by before he could comprehend the situation before him: an excruciatingly enormous bullet flew by. Perhaps it was what made the scars on the ground, he contemplated.

            His eyes were larger than the moon’s as he looked up at it. Windows! The bullet had windows. Through them, he caught the wells of another; they held reflections of fatigue and sorrow. In that brief moment, he considered what it could be. Perchance it was a new transport for the sinned or the sick, for the possessed or the mad. No, it could not be as the bullet opened and the criminals and patients poured out like mice free from their cage. Immediately, they mingled in the water, spreading left and right before entirely becoming part of the current as they flowed through the stream. Like when a glass may be held into the ocean, when water came out more went in. Again, the yellow thing moaned before it carried people into the distance, shrieking that horrid noise. The penny had been dropped.

            It was a weapon.

            A weapon which carried its people to war; people who were defeated by the rules of the game.  Not only could its physical features knock a bull over, but its delivery of humans in the midst of human traffic held its detrimental effects. Sir Francis could see it.

            This was not a world of developed technology or advancements of the human brain. This was the yield of mankind. They no longer sought to survive. Survival was a burden. To make their lives more worth living, they made a fantasy world filled with artificial items to fill the void in their hearts. Sir Francis was unsure of what the void contained, but he knew it certainly lacked meaning, humility, will and the soul.

            Observing the unfamiliar world around him, he was ashamed as he saw young men look in awe at the cubic glasses. They wanted those pair of shoes, that scarf and that top. Why? They would not know. It meant nothing other than the change of the unchangeable world of which they craved. It meant nothing if they did not play with the idea of attention. It meant nothing in the face of the universe.

            Unnecessary production, unnecessary displays, unnecessary consumption.

            What had the world come to?

            Gazing down at his worn, black soles, he caught sight of a piece of paper upon the ground. There were many of them among the waste of others, but this one was just readable: “CH..TMAS!...SALE ENDS…”

            Lost in thought, he murmured the last legible part aloud. “Twenty-five, twelve, thirteen…”

]

A Little Piece of Non-Fiction

A little non-fiction I wrote for my English coursework last academic year. Pretty long-winded title huh?

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Whatever Makes Humans Superior Makes Humans Slack

“The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.” – Friedrich Nietzche (1844–1900)

Despite the works of existential philosophers, Nietzche and Kierkegaard, we still continue to live in a world where we are comfortable being manipulated through rules in the social hierarchy of our civilisation: following crowds, moving in numbers, subservient to social pressures.

Growing as a population, safety is gained in numbers. By sharing resources, both the young and the old are healthy for the community to rise. When change is due, those who are forced to succumb can do nothing but follow those who rise up to the challenge. ‘Safety in numbers’, remember? Thus leaders are highly valued and sought after although some may be stronger pillars than others.  Consequently, by looking after one another, members are content with their Lego bricks as they contribute to the architectural magnificence of society.

Let me introduce you to the internet-stars: lemmings

Among the mythical (and false) rumours that they commit suicide, there are the more logical theories of their social backbone that hint of more rational ways of thinking. However, it is undeniable that lemmings do leave their pack due to overpopulation, do jump into rivers, do drown and die. Despite this, they do not perform such acts to end their own lives; quite the contrary, in fact. As their community grows and their resources become scarce, the capable young are forced to leave their group due to the inferred social stress implemented upon them. Thus, in order for their community to continue living they must leave and find life elsewhere, afraid to object to change, in fear of even more change.

So how do they meet their demise with the adversity of nature? When they flee, they simply follow the most confident and capable (male) lemming. What else could they do? Perhaps they had considered the possibility of following the path of a lone wolf before the actuality of their size and (lack of) claws hit home. Thus, they can only (but) follow.

As a result, within the weird and wonderful Urban Dictionary, it is recorded:

Lemming [noun] (lem-ming)

1. A member of the crowd with no originality or voice of his own.

2. One who speaks or repeats only what he has been told to.

3. A tool.

4. A cretin.

An alternative metaphor to sheep

Many mammals at the top of their food chains are bound by such social upbringing, and humans are no different. When things need to be changed and that change is forced upon us, what can we do? Riots, protests, defensive actions, offensive actions... Surely if we have the people, we have the will power and if we have the will power, we have the strength. However, we must have a trigger before we can choose a leader and when times are hopeless, we are most desperate for one. So when one is graced upon us, we follow. Like sheep and like lemmings, we hold the hope that doing so will bring about stability, regardless of risks. (Although we require small doses of familiarity to convince us of choosing such an option, we ultimately succumb to the ironic familiarity of being led.) Of course, there will always exist those who wear red to a funeral, but let us just pretend that the circumstance we speak of is a world where standing out is no more than the attention-seeking method part of our seasonal trends.

The brilliant trends we have in modern society, which bloom in the media and internet, will prove to be a fantastic and relatable analogy where the behaviour mentioned above is most prominent. As Primark dresses their Barbie-like mannequins with the new season’s fashion trend, effectively replicating Selena Gomez’s latest wardrobe changes or Harry Styles’ new womaniser outfit, we may witness the scarily increasing dolls upon the streets. All manufactured from the same factory, they hold the same purpose but a slightly altered inner appeal private to its user.

However, humans have far surpassed the tactical survival skills of lemmings so we bring everything up a notch (or two, if you feel like the comparison of you and a lemming is an insult). When we follow trends and wish to blend in smoothly, we also wish to stand out: not as a deluded freak or a crazy dictator (though no doubt some would follow) but as a ‘unique’ individual. Few men and no women would want to see another person dressed in the exact same clothes. No artist wants to be caught with the same masterpiece as another. No leader wants to live in the shadow of its ancestor.

Human development has not only allowed us to progress with advanced technological and scientific feats but such evolutionary superiority has allowed us to develop in the on-going project of social digression. Having formed civilisations and nations, we have adapted our surroundings to ourselves, no longer needing to rely on variation and natural selection to be at the top of our game. No longer do we find survival a daily necessity. No longer is life to be lived.

Instead, we fill that void in our lives with delusions of pleasure and happiness – so-called sentiments drawn from materialism.

Of course, if your parents purchase a sleek and slender sports car for you, you may feel 'happy' or even ‘over the moon’. However, such 'happiness' is short-term; a lower pleasure, as some philosophers may say. There is the popular belief of "money can't buy happiness but it can buy things that makes you happy". Happiness or contentment or satisfaction (depending upon your standards) is a state of being one induces onto oneself. There are countless children's stories which portraits a joyful beggar against a despaired wealthy man. Surely such a story should be easily understood by the educated individuals of civilization, yet time and time again we manage to conjure up methods of justifying our pointless consumerist, materialistic and money-driven society.

At the end of the day, we do we live for? To get a decent (if not good) education, to be at ease in the social environment of a school, to get better grades than your rival, to go to university, to come out with nothing  lower than a second honour, to get a job and slowly climb the social ladder to be able to afford the luxurious Apple products… And how have we come to such a conclusion?

Because it is the course of life. Because everyone does it. Because without it, our identity crumbles away to nothingness; a pile of ash incomparable even to lemmings. Lemmings that are herded away from their community, that unquestioningly follow the one that leads, whose slavery to society led to their demise.

]

The Afterlife

Here's just a bit of my story-writing. A little something I casually came up with. I actually like writing a lot and I'm currently working on a serious story but here's a side story I had inspiration for when I was researching university accommodations and visualising my life as the sun was setting.

I named it The Afterlife because I had planned for things to get a little tragic and sad. But the hope I attempt to present is not false. There is hope, even if one may not feel it in the world that they live in.

[

During the season of rebirth and hope, the sun was high in the sky as the wind blew the seeds of summer about the busy streets of London. Oh but never forget the fumes of the cars and factories which dwelled in every breath you took, and it was this one particular breath that choked the young man into a fit of coughing. Those who stood about him on the platform held obvious faces of disgust despite their poor attempts to hide it. It was not a popular move to express signs of illness in the confinements of the crowded undergrounds during rush hour, but still the young man could not cease his coughing. Even Thomas felt the need to move away from himself but that was not how things worked. He could only but accept his hoarse throat and saunter apologetically into the tube.

Securing a seat next to an old woman, he immersed himself into the safe comfort of his smartphone. His mother messaged him:

Thomas will you please tell your Luke to quit hanging out so late? he won’t listen to a word his old ma says oh and can you see what cooking pots are good? the one at home is getting rusty

Sighing inwardly, Thomas told her that he would do his best to convince his rebellious teenage brother to stop being a teenager. Not explicitly, of course.

His thumbs races across the world he held in his hands and typed several messages in quick succession. It was no accomplishment in the modern day as his brother could most likely beat him at texting. Just like himself, the millions of individuals in London did the same, though perhaps ‘individuals’ was not the correct term. Thomas mused at the thought.

Not twenty suffocating minutes later, he arrived at his stop; it was a long tube ride so by the time he left, it was no longer so crowded that people had to fight to change their songs on their music players. The sun was setting as he made his way back to his small apartment in a “No ball games” area. The yellow hue of the streets provoked a series of existential thoughts in his head though they were nothing he hadn't pondered about before.

The world before ours was green and brown and yellow in the sun’s line of vision. Now? Now it was grey and red and - most recently - white. Never have I seen a natural stretch of land which remained unchanged over the horizon. Not in the Lake District and certainly nowhere near the city. He walked past the parking lot where typical English-looking trees stood, their roots overgrown and trapped by the concrete of the pavement. Even this piece of grass here is artificial. We destroyed the green that was here before and had to replant it to make it look more...natural. Approaching his building, he pulled his keys out of his black shoulder bag, just like the one he used in high school and college and university. Because this mouldy collection of bricks and metal looks so much better.

Climbing the stairs to his apartment, he smelt the smell of the city: the smell of abused nature. His keys jingling, he opened his door and was relieved to his place untouched. The peeling walls gave way to his bedroom - which could literally only be a bedroom, no more - and his bathroom where the interior design was consistently thorough. The hard wooden planes of his floor gave entrance to his living room where he spent the majority of his life in. His double desk was messy and a gathering of paper was strewn here and there, acting as a carpet in some cases.

Thomas pulled his earphones out, threw his bag onto his bean bags and made his way to the kitchen. It was perhaps four or five meters from his door to his kitchen, cutting across his carpet of paper. There was a type of comfortable silence which Thomas most enjoyed about living far from his workplace. The sense of blissful solitude where he could enjoy his own thinking without having to worry about what others were doing. There was a sense of peace in silence - perhaps that’s why the world is so noisy. Of course, there was the chirping of the birds outside and the cars that pulled in and out of the parking lot and the distant sounds of couples arguing some floors below. However, that was what made silence bearable, otherwise it becomes a burden - which is why I’m doing so well in life. Too much happiness becomes a heavy obligation. Just the right ratio of pain and suffering will fuel that happiness to formulate the perfect result.

His empty fridge presented to him an out of date ready meal he bought yesterday because it was on sale. He put it in the microwave for five minutes. Meanwhile he found his phone to occupy himself with. His thumbed flipped through his pages of applications before he stopped and locked his phone. He looked up and looked back down again, trying to think of something to think of. Unamused, he went back to his phone and checked his empty social networking sites where people posted things not for him.

Going back to the menu screen, he stared at the quick dial to his mother and pressed it. It rang twice before someone picked up.

“Hey mum,” Thomas said, his voice soft and minutely cheery.

“Hey Thomas,” a crackly voice replied. “Mum’s cooking, whatcha want?”

Thomas smiled at Luke’s breaking voice. “Hey Luke, how’re you doing?” He went to boil some water.

“Alright! How about you? I heard you missed me!” Luke laughed down the phone, his boy-ish grin was infectious.

“Of course I miss you, Luke! I miss beating you up ever so much,” Thomas joked, fidgeting with a teabag. “I heard you’ve been going out late recently.”

Thomas could feel Luke sigh. “Mum’s been telling on me huh?”

“She’s worried about you Luke.”

“I’ve just been going to Ben’s house and stuff to play the beta version. It’s so neat!”

“The beta version? That was out like two months ago, bro. I’ll send it to you, it’s not bad.”

Luke sighed loudly. “Dude that’s cool but I just want to hang with Ben--”

“Look, I’m not saying you can’t play with Ken...”

“He’s called Ben and we don’t play.”

“...but mum just wants you at home where she knows you’re safe. If I could, I would spend time with mum too but I can’t so that duty is up to you. You can spend one night at Ken’s and maybe the weekend, but when you’re home don’t just go to your room--”

“I don’t just go to my room.”

“I know you do Luke so don’t argue with me. When you’re home don’t just go to your room and lock yourself in there doing God-knows-what, just chill with mum till dinner time and then help her tidy the stuff back into the kitchen, wipe the table, watch some Britain’s Got Talent with her and you can have the rest of the night to yourself, alright?”

“...fine.”

“And if you behave, I’ll consider getting you a new phone for your birthday.”

“Really? That’s awesome, I’m like the best son you’ll ever have. Well not your son--”

“You’re totally like my non-existent son bro,” Thomas said sarcastically. His microwaved beeped. “Get mum on the phone now, will you? My ready meal’s done.”

Luke laughed. “Ha! You’re eating ready meals!”

“Get lost, you.” There was a bit of shouting and shuffling on the other side of the phone before a gentler voice took over.

“Hi Thomas, how are you sweetie?”

Thomas’ heart swelled up at his mother’s voice. “Hey mum, I’m doing fine. How are you?”

“Oh I’m fine, dear. It’s been a while since we've spoken properly, hasn't it?”

Thomas stirred his lasagna. “Yeah, it’s been busy down here. How’s your back? Does that waist band thing help?”

“Oh yes, dear, but it makes me look fat so I can only wear it at home.” She laughed. “But yes, it heats up and everything. How’s your work? Is it still as boring as ever?”

He laughed and poured himself a glass of water. “It’s actually quite challenging now because they've finished training me so I can take on proper tasks.”

“What about the commute? The travelling in London must be hard.”

Thomas pulled a face as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “It’s okay, not really that different from high school or college. It’s just on a slightly bigger scale with more people; I have to travel further but with a shorter amount of time. So it’s the best of both worlds, really.”

“That’s good then! Have you eaten dinner yet? I've heard that weather down there is going to be bad this weekend.”

“Yeah I've just made dinner. I think the whole of England is going to have a stormy weekend. Anyway, I won’t keep you from dinner so I’ll call you another time. Take care, mum.”

His mother sounded reluctant. “Alright then, you take care too, Thomas. Eat properly, bring an extra jacket when you go outside and sleep at least eight hours a night, sweetie. Don’t work too hard, treat yourself sometimes.”

He smiled. “My treat is having the privilege to treat the most beautiful mother in the world.”

Thomas could feel his mother smile from the other end. “Alright you honey-mouth, get going.”

“Love you.”

“I love you too, son.”

Thomas held his phone to his ear until his mother hung up before he microwaved his lasagna again. Looking around, he somehow ended up with a glass of hot water, a broken teabag in a mug and tea leaves everywhere. He put his hand to his face and laughed at himself. What a fool...
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Thanks for reading if you did. It's going to be a long-term project.