When John H. Watson was seven years old, his home was a sanctuary. It was a modest little house right smack in the middle of a long street of other homes. His mother kept a neat, trimmed garden at the front and nice lacy curtains in the windows. His father kept the lush grass in the yard clipped and made sure it thrived. There was always a familiar car in the smooth black driveway, and the red tiles led up to the same house they always had.
John had lived in the same house his whole life. It was comforting, it was familiar, it was safe. Jokes were shared, stories told, hugs exchanged and kisses placed. Food cooked and people hummed. There was always a comfortable buzz going on that made John feel happy.
When John H. Watson was eight years old, his home balanced between heaven and hell. The peaceful equilibrium of the four people living inside was slowly tipping; the one pushing it over was teenaged Harriet. One day John came home after an exciting day at school to a loud and angry household. As soon as he opened the door he could tell things were not right; the air seemed grey and heated with anger. Mother and Harriet were having a row. Harriet said something awful and Mother had started to cry. The two stopped yelling briefly to notice little John in the doorway. He quickly ran up to his room, locked himself in his closet, and cried loud enough to drown out the action downstairs.
After that, John H. Watson's home quickly turned into a hell hole. The only thing John's parents ever seemed to care about was the clothes Harry wore, how much makeup she put on, why she smelt of alcohol, who were those people she was hanging around with, and how girls were not supposed to kiss other girls. No matter what room John hid himself in, he could always hear the echoes of the others yelling and saying awful things to each other. He took comfort in plugging his ears tightly and telling himself it wasn't true, Harry doesn't hate Mum and Dad, no one's a disgrace to the family, and none of them displeased God.
John H. Watson gravitated around his home, though. He knew of nowhere else to go but there. He voluntarily walked right into the pit and locked himself in there every day, because he wasn't wanted anywhere else. He dreaded being alone and disregarded by his family as they fought with each other. So John rejoiced. He found an old radio in the garage and plugged it in beside his bed. He played the music very loud, loud enough to drown out the commotion downstairs. He often listened to the Beatles because their songs were about loving each other and being happy. John also stayed after school to visit the school's library. Everyday he brought home a stack of books, so once in the privacy of his own bedroom, he could plunge into another story about witches and dragons and brave knights who were loved and respected by all for their noble deeds. He loved losing himself in magical forests and haunted castles and Narnia and Middle Earth and Neverland. He drew pictures of his favourite characters while he belted out the chorus to Hey Jude. He stayed up past his bedtime with a light under the covers, too caught up in an exciting plot to go to sleep. John H. Watson had found a way to cope.
But one day, nine and a half year old John Watson was looking out his bedroom window into the backyard, a horrible churning feeling in his stomach. Mother had been cleaning and found something bad in Harry's room. Father ordered John upstairs and the yelling started again. John obeyed and sat with his elbows on the windowsill, watching the wind blow through the bare trees outside. It had finally dawned upon John Watson that he was, in fact, lonely. Books and music weren't as comforting as they used to be, especially when one had read the whole kid's section at the library and heard every Beatles song over and over. On that cold and wet November day, John felt an unfamiliar pain inside. He longed for someone to come and talk to him, to hug him and smooth his hair; to ask why he looked so sad and why he didn't eat as much as he should be eating. Then he would gladly pour his heart out to aforementioned person about his family and all of his problems. Hell, he wouldn't even mind his mother coming up to nag him to drink his milk or clean his room; anything to reassure John that he had not been completely forgotten. But alas, his parents seemed to be caught up with Harry and Harry seemed to be busy with her own life, leaving no one left for John.
Little John let out a deep sigh, and rested his chin in his hands. He shut his eyes very very tightly and wished as hard as he could, over and over, for a friend. Someone his own age, someone who could relate to his rubbish home life, someone to help take him away from it all. He wished as hard as he could; squeezing his eyes shut so tightly that tears poured out of the corners and down his face.
I need a friend.