Lonely Stories by Xavier St John (the false prince txt) 📖

be angrily sent to and from home, my parents screaming in block capitals at the school for mistreating me and bullying me worse than the other children did (which was true in a way, the other children tended to stay away from me after the fire alarm fiascos). As the days grew colder and snow fell onto the school field, the meticulously carved snowmen would all melt overnight - aside from mine of course, which stood with a menacing smile, watching us all day through our classroom window. Sometimes when I waved at him, I could have sworn he waved back, but it must have been the wind wobbling his branches.

When I was 18, I moved to university. It was different to what I expected, a lot whiter and cleaner, but I didn't mind. At least there, I wasn't shunned by the other students. It felt like all of us were effectively social outcasts, the parts of humanity that were left on the cutting table, but somehow we could all form our own little strange community together. Smiling to the others as I strolled past them to get to my dormitory, every evening I was greeted by more smiles and waves, an almost visceral cacophony of happiness. Unfortunately, not everyone smiled - some of the staff seemed permanently grumpy, waiting in the corridor with arms crossed across their body for us to go to sleep. However, I felt like I fitted in, and the eyes that watched me weren't pretend any more, but they were real.

My course was long. Every day, I would meet for a 1-to-1 session with my professor, and we'd discuss at length the vast field of veterinary practice. Most of the time, we would also chat about ourselves, how we were doing; I cherished the idea that he actually cared about me, as well as how I did in my exams. His notepad was always full of scribbles, a sea of blue ink, but I never saw what it actually said. I assumed it was just notes about our course, areas that I needed to practice or go over at a later date, like he told me they were.

 When the exams drew nearer, I thought that it would be quite useful to have that notebook, so that I knew what to revise - after all, it's quite hard figuring out your weaknesses. One night, after I heard the staffs' keys clink in their pockets all the way down the corridor, I opened my door and slinked out of my dorm. I knew exactly where the notepad would be. Keeping close to the wall, I darted along the tunnel, turning left at the end to face the second wing, where the Professor's lessons took place. Crouching along the floor, I slipped my slender frame past the door and into the quiet room. The small lamp that hung from the ceiling was still on, illuminating the white desk in front of me. Sitting, in pride of place, facing the professor's plush chair, was the notepad. Grabbing it, I rushed back out of the room, clicking the door shut behind me before plunging down the corridor, sliding to turn right and ploughing into my dorm room, quickly shutting the door behind me.

My chest heaving, I checked my prize, making sure it was my book. My name was on the front. Phew. I'd never seen the front of the notepad before. Emblazoned on it were the words:

"Broadmoor - Schizophrenic Wing".

What a funny name for a university.

Revolution

 

Revolution

 

I woke up surprisingly early. Unlike the frantic rush of waking up late that I was all too accustomed too, I lay in shock at my punctuality, too afraid to see what the world actually looked like before 9am. One at a time, my eyes opened to a chaotic room, my little sanctuary where I reigned supreme – messy and disorganized, just how I liked it. The smell of burnt toast was wafting up the stairs, causing a begging gurgle from my stomach, hungry for any scraps of food. I grabbed blindly at the floor beside my bed, still half asleep, until my hand brushed a crisp wrapper. Reaching inside, I took a fistful of Doritos, rammed them into my mouth and turned over. Curling the duvet around my toes, I was beginning to drift back off when I heard the gentle throb from outside.

Sleepily I grabbed a pair of trousers and a t-shirt from beside my bed and dressed myself. Carefully treading across the sea of wrappers, clothes and long-forgotten forms, I made my way to the window and peered through it. Nothing looked different - if anything, it was a bit too quiet outside for a sunday morning. By now there would always be a few people wandering up and down the street, heading for a coffee or going to the square to open up the market. Today, there was nothing.

A rhythmic drum beat pulsed in the distance. Squinting at the rising sun, I tried to place the sound in the city – it sounded close to the park on North avenue, but I couldn’t be sure. The cause was most likely some drunken idiots. I turned to stagger back towards the warm comfort of my bed, yet upon making the first step an explosive sound pierced the pulse of the drum. Swooping upwards, the flare filled the sky with a red glow, catching every edge and sinew of the clouds as it blossomed into a fiery effigy.

Turning my back against the ghostly red illumination, I started towards my door. As I waded through the rubbish swamping my floor, the chorus of wailing flares grew in strength. I lurched towards the handle, my fingers brushing the cold brass as I slumped into the door, my shoulder slamming against the wood. I jerked the doorknob, shouldering the door to open it, yet it would not move an inch. Frowning, I rested both palms across the door and pushed, but was met with the same resistive force. I took a step back, braced myself and hurled my shoulder at the door, smacking it with an audible boom but still without moving the wooden barrier. As I struck the door, a faint, resonating ding emanated from the other side of the door. Upon further experimentation, I concluded the grandfather clock outside my door must have fallen and was barricading the door. I was stuck here, in my room.

Whilst I made my discovery about the door, the situation outside had escalated. The drumbeat was like a tremor through the ground, every beat vibrating the floor as it continued its slow, relentless tempo. Thankfully, the flares had stopped, and the gentle yellow hue of early morning had returned; the wailing noise, however, had only evolved. Instead of the shrieks of rockets, the clamor was replaced by shouting and chanting, inaudible yet repetitive. Nothing was yet visible, but outside on the cobbled street people were sleepily drifting out of their marbled houses and peering in the direction of the drum. Below the opposing window, the front door burst open and a figure sprinted out of the house, clutching an overfilled bag as she ran down the road in the opposite direction. Behind her, a trail of clothes and money flew from the open bag, following her as she ran, ran away from her husband. A breadcrumb trail following our Ruler’s wife.

My gaze followed her as she slipped away down the street until her high heels and fur coat rounded the corner at the end. Now, individuals could be heard in the chanting, the drum beat drowned out by a thousand voices piercing the air. The red and orange flashes were now behind the houses opposite my window, and bottles sailed over the rooftops before crashing back down to shatter against the pavement. The street below my window was too quiet now. Scouring the road for movement, my eyes panned across the panorama of silence and found nothing except the whisper of wind against the window. The wave of projectiles behind the opposite houses was moving along to the right, and the discordant shouts diminished slightly as the herd moved away. A tiny movement caught my eye from across the street. In the house opposite, a curtain slid across to allow morning light to spill into the darkness, illuminating a shadowed figure against the window, his head in his hands. The darkened man looked up and stared at me, before slamming shut the curtain - I was alone again.

The drumbeat stopped. The metronome had been relentlessly beating all morning, a constant in the chaos, but now it had been snuffed like a candle. Craning my neck to look at the end of the street, I waited, heart-pounding, bracing myself for the inevitable.

The droning chants paused. A moment of calm.

The end of the road erupted.

Bodies surged forwards, carrying lurid banners above the wave of humanity as they crashed down the street. Red-faced skinheads formed the vanguard of the horde, screaming as they marched closer. In their hands flailed smashed bottles, bricks, even a broomstick or two. The makeshift army juddered forwards in disorganised unity. As they moved closer, the chanting grew louder, a crescendo of panic between the beautifully marbled houses and upon pristine cobblestones. The crowd's stampede slowed to a halt as they reached my doorstep.

Screams. Fists. Hate. The air was filled with one pulsating message of anger, throbbing through the walls as they continued their warcry. I watched as across the road, gingerly, the curtains opened. The figure, shoulders drooping, shuffled to the window. No sooner was he visible did a brick sail through the air, crash through the pane and smack the figure square in the jaw. As the man crumpled to the floor, a cheer erupted whilst the glass rained down upon the crowd. Flares hooted and a red glow covered the street as the crowd ripped at the door with fingernails and hammered against the walls. A second brick flew through a lower window. As soon as the shards of glass hit the ground, the crowd poured through the hole, an infestation surging into the marbled house in a primal rage. In the broken window of the upper floor, multiple shadows writhed through the bedroom. A piercing scream ripped through the city as a man, bloodied and bruised as his jaw hung slack from his face, was hoisted up by uncountable hands. He locked eyes with me across the road. Glistening against the crimson, tears coated his cheeks, and his arms flailed uncontrollably as he was dragged closer to the window. Silence dropped across the road like a mist, thicker than the blood-red smoke from the flares. One final shout slipped from his lips as he tumbled through the smoke, creating beautiful swirls and eddies within the fog. When he hit the cobbles, the red flattened and crashed outwards like a wave, colliding with more smoke and creating a tapestry of fumes, formed by the hooting crowd and their victim. It was horrifying. It was grotesque. It was inhumane.

And yet, somehow, it was beautiful.