Will Simpson sat disappointingly in his arm chair. Laptop on (quite appropriately) his lap, knowing full well that his mother, or other authority figures, would point out the likelihood of it giving him some manner of crouch specific cancer or render him, at the very least, infertile. He stared blankly at his screen, waiting in the hope that something will happen. Anything really, so that it would provide the slightest bit of entertainment or amusement into his boredom. Perhaps, a friend would tweet a witty insight that he could reply to that would make him look clever or a politician he disliked would do something stupid, so he could rage about that. Alas, his friends proved remarkably dull and granted him no epiphany worthy thoughts and, for the first time in recorded history, a politician had not had a publicised affair.
In his pondering into the utmost rarity of these events, his screen went black. The light was just so that he saw his reflection. His black hair and pale features accentuating his blue eyes, which were barely visible in the dark surface. Them being his eyes however, he was relatively certain they were blue. Looking at his reflection, he reflected over the time spent staring into mirrors spiking his black hair, applying eyeliner, and painting his nails the darkest and most soulless colour of black he could possibly procure. He wasn’t a Goth, so much as an existentialist academic with a taste for loud music and a flair for dramatic dress. He owned, or only wore, four colours of shirt. Black, grey, blood red, and any combinations of the three. He took great delight in looking like a stylish corpse with a makeup artist and generally disappointing his family. He was relatively certain, even to this day, that his “difficult” childhood was the major reason his Aunt Rose never had children or perhaps it was because she was a lesbian. Granted: we have the technology to make that work and there’s adoption and the like, but Will recognised there was a strong correlation between being homosexual and not having children. He knew homosexual parents were out there, and good for them and all that, but there are proportionately less of them than the breeding hetero-class of parents.
His early childhood was charecterised by imagining himself in a red uniform battling hordes of Zulus or sinking fleet after fleet of Napoleon’s finest officers. It was at about age thirteen, that a young William Simpson realised that the Zulus were defending their homeland from forces of Imperialist profiteering scoundrels and, although finding no cultural or moral obligation against warring with the French, he learned that he became sea sick with a remarkable level of ease.
He stood, placing his portable sterilisation machine on his desk, strewn with papers, pens, several wires of unknown origin, and a book or two. He went to the loo to stand in front of a mirror with the tap running. He wet his face to insure that the current reality he was indeed the realest reality he could be inhabiting. He looked back into the mirror and imagined the aneurysm his teen self would have had, if the moody sod had seen him now. He looked like the epitome of a punk teens broken dreams. The top of his white shirt was unbuttoned and his shirt was untucked out of exhaustion from a long day at an office and not to make a statement of any kind. His hair was remarkably unspectacular, his eyes completely unaccentuated, and his nails a biological skin tone. He then made his way to his bed to lay down on his back and stare at the ceiling. He was somewhere in between just looking at the ceiling and staring into the wondrous infinity of the universe, when his phone vibrated twice.
Two vibrations means a text. A text means some blessed individual has taken time out of their busy schedule to bless him with their wisdom and be the subject of their thoughts. The anticipation of who it was and what it could be about. He calmed himself and took a few deep breaths to satisfy the racing thoughts. To avoid looking too desperate he slowly reached down into his pocket. And pulled it out. He looked at his screen and was immediately disappointed. It read: “Mum: How you been? Haven’t heard from you in a bit. Your brother’s home from uni. Come by and say hello?” He threw his phone on his bed and thought “Fuck off mum. I’m extraordinarily busy”. He reclined back onto his bed to place the wretchedness of his life with the wretchedness of others. He was feeling particularly wretched when something that was probably positive happened. His phone buzzed twice. He reasoned that his mother, though annoying, is hardly repetitive. That left only one possible option it was somebody else. It couldn’t be dad. His father ignored him most days. His brother resented that Will’s theatrical childhood overshadowed, his brother, Stephen’s glowing abilities. So that meant it had to be somebody else. He fumbled through his sheets looking for his phone. He searched frantically, then realised that he was acting too excited and changed to a more nonchalant manner to appear cool to his empty room. He found his mobile and read the message from…
I appreciate your patronage in reading this. I’ll be sure to keep you posted.
A Well Organised Asylum 