Hi everyone! This is my first real, focused attempt at a fanfiction so please don't judge too harshly... please read and review? Thank you!
Sometimes, like now, I just have trouble knowing what to write. I don't know what's with me these days. I mean, I'm supposed to have a fairly high literacy level, I'm known for my literature and suchlike; heck, some of the most famous authors in the heyday of things were British.
So why do words consistently fail me in times like these?
I suppose I've simply never had much experience with writing out my own thoughts and feelings. This just doesn't feel right…I feel like I'm trying to break into an enclosed space, with no idea what's behind it, be it explosives or dangerous creatures or other things of that ilk. There's too much tucked away inside my mind, too much I don't want to dredge up.
And yet…I still have that strange premonition that if I don't, it will destroy me. Just as surely as writing about it will. Either way, all hell will break loose.
I've contemplated giving this up for a long time; too long, it seems, now that I think over it. It's all too easy to fall into the trap of letting it slide, just one more day, hoping maybe the old wounds can heal by themselves…but instead, they fester. I can feel it. I think I've come too far in life (although, what is life really?) to go back any longer.
So I suppose I shall start…this is a limited, almost futile attempt to recount the past and, perhaps, make amends – however impossible that may be. I shall write, I shall open my heart and soul for all to see, and for all to judge. And if anything else happens along the line…
So be it.
Arthur looked at the innocent sheet of paper in his hand, read again what had taken him almost an hour to even gather up the willpower to write down. Almost unconsciously his fingers curled around the paper's edge, crumpling it slightly, but he remembered his own self-promise and sighed. The piece of notebook paper went back on the desk and Arthur's head back in his hands.
For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why he had trouble with all this. He was the United Kingdom, for crying out loud, a former empire and still a world power, yet…when it came to things as simple as penning out thoughts onto paper he couldn't do it.
It wasn't like he was going to make a book out of this – the very thought was preposterous – but…maybe…if anything happened…there might still be something left of him, something for people to remember him by.
And here he was, sitting at his desk on a perfectly beautiful sunny morning, as melancholy as could be. What a way to pass the time, thinking about the saddest things, such as whether he might disappear in the next half-century or so. Such unheard-of paranoia – if Arthur hadn't been himself he might have laughed.
Still…just in case.
The world wasn't going to last long anyway. And there were always constant stories circulating about the universe ending in some cataclysmic explosion or other. It wasn't that Arthur was that credulous but then again…it paid to be safe right?
He didn't even know what he was thinking.
Oh well…
If it came to that…maybe writing letters was the better way to go. Because the simple purpose of Arthur's writing was, if at all possible, to make amends. However impossible that might be. Maybe, just maybe, he could heal the wounds the past had made, not so much the ones he'd sustained but those he'd inflicted upon others.
And of those, there were plenty.
Arthur sighed again. It was all catching up to him, and fast. Try as he might, he had no choice.
Write letters it was.
Looking up at the clock, then glancing out the window to observe all the cheerful pedestrians enjoying the day, and then regarding once more his cluttered desk full of paperwork and the small piece of paper from earlier, Arthur reached for a pen, got out the fifty-year-old letter paper that would finally serve its long-awaited purpose, and began to write.
If this wasn't going to rock the world, he didn't know what would.