Hello guys! I hope you enjoy reading my fanfiction; I only recently got back into the fandom, so I'm sorry if my characterisation is a bit off :/
I really love the character Boo Radley in To Kill A Mockingbird; I love the idea of someone not wanting to leave their house because of the outside world.
Okay, I'll stop waffling; I hope you enjoy reading this first chapter! If you would be kind enough to leave a review, that would be super great ^^
"In that book which is my memory,
On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you,
Appear the words, 'Here begins a new life'."
― Dante Alighieri, Vita Nuova
Folks in the town were always terribly concerned about the weather. Even on days like this one, when the sun was aglow in the cloud-free sky, and the residents of the town didn't have to swaddle themselves in multiple layers of clothing when walking to work, people always found something to complain about. A conversation wasn't a conversation with a glum remark about the forecast, and a person was able to tell if something was bothering his companion if he didn't cast his eyes up to the sky and say "Horrible day, isn't it?"
Unlike in some towns, where people would fix their eyes to the ground and ignore one another when walking to their destinations, in this town every man and woman always had their eyes fixed on the heavens, watching for any change. People would stop one another in the streets and comment on how the clouds were looking that day, or how the sun seemed to beat a little more intensely on the backs of their necks than it had been the previous day, and that they all had to drench themselves in sun lotion to stay safe.
Arthur Kirkland had not seen the sky in ten years.
Of course he'd seen the sky, out of the grime-stained windows on the second floor, but he had never stood under it, never been open to the elements, be it rain or shine. There was a cracked pressure dial in the hall, but he doubted it worked, and the thick curtains pulled over the ground floor windows didn't let much light in anyway. It was as if the house had an atmosphere of its own, as if it was a little world secluded from the rest of humanity.
Well, it was, in some aspects.
Arthur Kirkland couldn't remember the last time the postman had actually put something in the letterbox, and couldn't recall when the milkman had last delivered his order straight to his door. It wasn't like any of that mattered anyway- he collected the milk from its delivery spot on his back doorstep, and he didn't think there were really any letters he had left to receive, or even wanted to receive. There was no-one left to send him birthday cards, not that he could remember when his birthday was, and there certainly weren't any documents he needed to sign or read concerning any issues with his life. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, his life was pretty much over.
His hand, which had been resting on his knee, reached out to firmly grip the handle of the single cracked teacup resting on the arm of the chair he was sat in. His hand shook so dramatically that he had to set the cup down again, concentrate his willpower, and resume lifting the cup to his lips.
The tea was lukewarm, as it always was when he got round to actually drinking it, but he didn't mind. Lukewarm was better than cold, and cold was better than dead. The house possessed two stoves, but he didn't want to light one in case the neighbours saw the smoke rising from the chimney, or if his trembling hands dropped a match and the entire house went up in flames. Which, he thought, were both reasonable arguments, leaving him to shiver next to a battered paraffin lamp in a house that sometimes got frost on the third floor walls.
The cold edge of the cup touched his lips, and he sipped the tea in a delicate manner. He'd always liked tea, tea was the only thing he dared to drink, and the stash of tea leaves that had lived in the pantry for goodness knows how long were as good as ever. Or so he thought. Maybe his sense of taste was deteriorating along with the leaves. He hoped not; he liked to think he was not deluded in any way shape or form. There was no way Arthur Kirkland would ever forgive himself if he ended up in a lunatic asylum.
As he lacked the advanced meteorological knowledge the townspeople shared, his interior conversations were a little less than intriguing. Look at the door; soon it'll be hanging off its hinges. Reckon the second floor's rotted enough to cave in? My my, the windows sure have more dust on them than they did yesterday, maybe it's the moths.
His thought processes were not the most stimulating things on the planet, and he knew that; ten years in the same house had taught him a lot about thinking. It was better to just function in a sort of dormant state than bother interacting with oneself, it cut out hours of tedium, and a lack of connection with one's brain meant the days just flew by.
It had been a shock for him when he had realised how old he was.
Twenty five. He should be travelling the world on one of those steam ships, exploring the globe for places unseen and undiscovered. He could have finished his education, maybe have found himself a degree. He could be married. Hah, as if. If Arthur Kirkland had learned anything about himself, it was that he and romance weren't meant to be. The best romances were in books, nothing real ever amassed to the tales of love, loss and paradise that he so frequently read about.
He had probably read the same shelf of books in his entire lifetime. The previous owners of the house had not been too keen on letting their son engage with literary materials, especially those of romantic nature, so the only works he had access to were those his mother possessed. He took one to read each week, finishing each one in a matter of days, then swapping it for the next one. They were all tales of wispy brides being galloped after by tall men on magnificent horses, and the women having to choose between two suitors. Even after the seventh read, he still found them thrilling. He couldn't understand how two people would even find a person out of the millions in the world who would return their affections, but he found it interesting nonetheless.
Upon finishing his tea, he came to the conclusion that it was time he graced his tired eyes with the joy of his reflection. He was not vain, not in the slightest, but he liked to feel he was still upholding the aesthetic values of a gentleman. No stubble, cleanly dressed, kempt hair.
Setting his teacup down on the coffee table which was still missing a leg, he rose from his chair. It made the bones in his knees complain and his back stoop, but he managed to stand up and walk to the stairwell. It was one of those days when he felt like a ghost, gliding through the layers of dust like he didn't exist. He had grown accustomed to avoiding the creaking spots on the stairs, so as he ascended to the second floor, he made hardly any sound at all. Books and many sheets of paper littered the steps, along with odd clothes that didn't belong to him and various broken vases and dishes. They had been there ten years prior. He didn't want to move them.
Reaching the second floor of the house without more than a few wheezy coughs, he strode into the middle of the room and sighed. There was a long mirror hung on the back wall, flanked by a vanity table and a chest of drawers. It was grimy around the edges, and there was a long crack going down the middle, but he was still able to see his reflection in it, even with in the dim light.
His eyes were big, much too big for his face, and were the sort of muted green that was neither vibrant nor interesting. Even in the lack of light, he could see his skin was; pallid, not creamy, and there were tiny veins showing at his temples. His hair was light, almost feathery, and looked colourless. He wasn't really sure what colour it was, or what colour it used to be. He looked like a watercolour that had been rained on- the colours from his eyes, his skin, were muted and washed out, almost translucent, like they weren't really there.
Averting his eyes before he became too absorbed in his appearance, he turned away and paced across the room. The wallpaper was faded yet recognisable as a rose pattern, the furniture was mostly woodworm free. Nothing in the house had changed apart from slowly gathering more nothing, nothing except him. Perhaps the house was heaping his age on him, sapping his life while it remained youthful. Definitely not; he was merely being fanciful. There was no such reason to his wasting away, other than the disappearance of hope in his life.
Once he had hoped to leave the house, he had prayed to be freed and to see the world as he had so wished. He had thought, when he remained the sole owner of the property, that he would be free to do as he pleased.
But Arthur Kirkland was as trapped in his head as he was in his house.
In the distance, so faint he could have mistaken it for a passing carriage, the foghorn of a ship sounded. ahahauhadouiasdsdddhddddaHBD