My mind is a fragile thing. No, the world around me is fragile, brittle, crumbling at the faintest touch. I am strong; a stoic among weaklings, a hero among monsters, a shining light that eliminates darkness and leads the way.
If I keep telling myself that, I will live to see another day. I will summon the strength to cast aside the blankets and remove myself from the bed. Another day of pain, yes, but one of distraction. Without the diversion of this dull, daily life, my mind would melt into a thick butter that would cook my flesh.
I should rewind.
My name is Carter Richeson, a 22-year-old Nothing from Nowhere. Okay, I will drop the act. I reside in the underworld of London, but my origins will remain a secret for now. Maybe you will win my trust and I will whisper my hometown in your ear. Suffice it to say, I’m no Brit, thank God. The people of this wretched isle are miserable and uncouth. Forget the stereotypes that infect our movies; the polite, dashing gentleman played by Colin Firth or the loveable, wealthy rogue depicted by Hugh Grant. They are fiction, their clean, polished world a fable. I should know; I have had the misfortune of residing here for more than a year.
My father thought me a better fit for England than the cultureless pit of my home. Or rather, he sought to indoctrinate me into spewing the sarcastic nonsense of English gentlemen, wearing their tailored suits, and wooing their damsels with my satin accent.
My heritage is English, Welsh, and a splash of Irish. My parents sing God Save The King more than they pledge allegiance to the flag. Don’t ask me why because I have never understood it. I would like to claim they are rebels, but to rebel against those who once rebelled against the Crown by pledging allegiance to said monarchy seems at best needlessly contrarian, and at worst a childish plea for attention.
My father is an old-money elitist and my mother is his new-money sidekick. My father rues the way our nation is progressing. He claims the New World Order is our true overlord, grasping the strings that make Joe Biden stumble around.
Whether or not he is mistaken — by God do I have thoughts of my own on the subject but I won’t explore them here — I fail to understand why he believes Great Britain is any different. This bubonic island is culturally bankrupt and morally inept. I call it Grey Britain.
Is the land of gentlemen real? How many movies depict handsome peers conversing politely over pheasant and wine, gentlemen shaking hands before battle, lords engaged in intelligent debate, and poets penning lyrical masterpieces before an arched window? Is this world an act of fiction, or has it been consigned to the past? I was sold a lie. Merry Old England does not exist.
I believe that when my father enrolled me in this central London university (which I refuse to name) he imagined his son would study at a replica of Hogwarts, enriched by a library of endless literary wealth, surrounded by first editions of Keats, Yeats, and Dickens. My dire environment could not be further from that paradigm. My talents and good name are wasted on this college campus that resembles a Soviet apartment complex.
I considered dropping out of university and boarding the next flight home. I cannot face the disappointment that would bring to my father’s watery eyes.
And so, I will remain here in the tomb that is my bedroom, in the casket that is my bed, under the blankets that are my cell bars.
I am better than this, but my bad luck never runs out.
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Davey Cobb 