Arthur sighed, running through the familiar motions of filling the tea pot with water, placing the pot, on the stove, and turning it on.
He didn't feel anything. There was no pain, or sadness. His mind was blank. There were no thoughts, nothing in his mind at all.
This house was his prison, and he could not leave.
Sure, his parents had died years ago, the people who forced his entrapment no longer keeping him where he was. But he no longer felt the need to leave the old, run down house.
Before his 7 years locked in the house, Arthur would have jumped at the sudden shrill noise from the teapot, and possibly made some weird noise or squeak of surprise. But he didn't react. He felt nothing. The Brit simply took the lid of the pot, and stuck a few tea bags into the water.
Arthur was currently, if his memoery served him well, 23 years of age. When he was sixteen, he might have been a bit of a punk, leading to trouble with the law that eventually led to his father locking him up in the house.
He poured the tea in a small tea cup, taking a sip of the boiling hot liquid. It scalded his throat, burning it as the tea slipped down his throat, but the left behind rawness was just another sensation. Arthur paid no mind to it.
The Brit went and sat by the window, exhaling softly once he was settled and peering out the window, around the thick curtains that blocked all light. The street stood empty, which made sense, seeing as it was most likely a Tuesday, meaning all the children would be at school, and the adults at work.
Right as Arthur was about to shut the blinds, a bit of movement caught his eye. There was a young man sitting in the grass of a yard across the street from Arthur's home. He was writing in some sort of notebook, from what Arthur could tell.
The man seemed to sense Arthur's emerald eyes on him, and looked up, his gaze meeting the Briton's for that brief moment, before Arthur closed the curtain, his heart oddly pounding in his chest. Arthur blinked, looking down at the skin of his chest, which was visible through the thin, pale yellow shirt he was wearing.
Why did he have that reaction? He hadn't felt anything like that in years, the darkness of his room had made sure of that.
Suddenly Arthur longed to be outside, to be able to truly and properly enjoy the bright sunshine that made the blonde outside seem more peaceful. That had made his hair shine almost golden.
He walked slowly towards the door, feeling more and more unexplainable fear and anxiety the closer he stepped to the dark, almost foreboding wooden door, that led outside, and to his freedom.
But yet again, he couldn't reach out, even to touch the doorknob. His hand and body were trembling at the thought.
He blinked, then turned to walk away. Arthur heard a soft thump, then quickly snatched the mail from it's place. He fled to the living room, then sat back in his chair. There were the normal bills, then one, extremely out of place, folded up piece of paper.
Arthur raised an eye brow, setting the bills off to the side and unfolding the paper.
Ummm... Hey...
I'm not too sure what your name is... Francis told me I shouldn't want to know. Do you ever leave your house?
I don't think I've ever seen you come outside... How old are you? I'm 19. My name is Alfred F. Jones. I hope I'm not botherin' ya too much, I just thought you might want someone to talk to...
so yeah...
I hope you do answer this...
It'd be pretty cool to make a new friend...
Please write back soon.
Hopefully your new best buddy,
Alfred F Jones.
Arthur felt his lips twitch slightly, up into a slight smile. Someone... wanted to talk to him... and be his friend... He grabbed a notepad from the shelf behind him, then suddenly realized just how dark the room really was, so he opened the curtains. The sunlight spilled into the room, revealing all of the dust that coated the furniture.
The young man, whom Arthur assumed was Alfred, was still sitting in the grass, laying back with what looked to be earphones in his ears. Every few seconds he glanced towards the house.
Arthur opened the notebook, and grabbed a pen, starting to write a reply to the young man named Alfred F. Jones.