My story may be interesting to some more than others, to few or to many. But it should be known that it will rest with me, in the deepest corners of my very heart, for a million years to come. I suppose we must start with the basics. My name is Arthur Pendragon. I am currently 42 years and 7 months old. I live in a too-small apartment in the centre of London with my family and my one and only friend, a chocolate brown Labrador names Cooper [Cooper Attikus Pendragon the second, if you must know]. He was given to me by my sister, Morgana [A raven-haired beauty that could bring any man to his knees. Myself included], he has a missing leg and he's almost blind, though that never stopped him chasing me down the street when I had, not purposefully, locked him in a wardrobe for a little over three hours, but I digress. As I previously mentioned, my name is Arthur Pendragon. And this is my story.
As unabashedly clichéd as it may be, the day my story begins was the best day of my life. One of three, actually, but we'll get to the others in a moment. I woke up on my 20th birthday expecting nothing more than a kiss on the cheek and a pair of socks. What I actually found when I opened my eyes on that rainy November morning was a letter, propped up on the pillow next to me, my name etched into the pure white paper with black ink. I ignored it, of course, and dragged myself out of bed and into the hallway. I was met by silence, cold and painful, and as I made my way down the stairs, I couldn't help but feel that something was wrong.
Let me explain. I live in a house with my mother, father, sister and two brothers, both of whom are under five years of age. Two toddlers, plus the three month old child that Morgana somehow produced, meant that my house was never quiet. Even at night, while all were asleep, I could hear the humming of a baby monitor or the sound of my brother mumbling in his sleep [Though Arthur didn't know it, 3 year old Teddy Pendragon was far from sleep; in fact, he was sat in the middle of his bedroom floor, halfway between his bed and his baby brothers, reading silently to himself from a book of fairytales that he had received as a birthday present from a neighbour], but the house was deathly silent. Not even the ticking of a clock was heard as I opened the kitchen door and looked inside.
As usual, the smell of fried bacon and eggs filled the room, rushing into my at the first chance it got. My mouth watered instantly, and I wanted to sit at the table, knife and fork in hand, and wait for my mother to place the plate of food in front of me, planting a tender kiss on the top of my head. But the problem with that fantasy was laying on the floor in front of me, mouth tightly shut and eyes wide open. I rushed forwards, hastily grabbing a tea towel from the table, and fell to my knees at my mother's side, desperately pressing the towel down [too hard, I must admit, but at that moment in time, my mind was too focused on stopping the bleeding, and not on hurting my mother] on the gaping slit that spread across my mother's chest. The blood had drained from my face, causing the blood to stand out like paint on the white canvas of my skin. The echo of a scream rushed in through one ear and out of the other, and it took almost a full minute for me to recognise it as my own. I slowly released the pressure on my mother's chest to find that blood no longer bled from her, and as I looked down at her colourless face, her fiery red hair, I reached out my hand and stroked the cooling cheek of my beloved Rosemary.
The letter that was on my pillow that morning, it still lay there 98 minutes later, when at last I got to my feet [Shakily, weakly; I collapsed into the table on more than one occasion, almost failing to steady myself on the last] and left my mother alone once again. The window of my bedroom was wide open, and as I entered the room, a chill ran through me. I looked at the letter, challenging it to tell me the secrets it held within. Walking to it, I glanced around my plain, faceless bedroom, thinking no thoughts, feeling nothing in particular.
The letter felt light, almost weightless in my hands, and I turned it over, debating whether it was really there, or whether I was merely imagining its existence. It lay face-down in my palms, the neat handwriting that spelled out my name now hidden from my eyes. I lifted a finger and broke the seal [Dark blue and crumpling, the image of a lion had been carelessly pressed into it]. I pulled out the piece of yellowing paper and unfolded it, expecting nothing, and seeing just as much. The paper I held in my hands was empty, no words marked it, no images, no… nothing. I turned it over in my hands three times at least, before crumpling it into a ball and launching it at the wall in frustration. I lifted my hands to my ruffled, blonde hair and gripped it tightly, squeezing my eyes tightly shut as a tear or two began to form. I fell to my knees and let out another scream. Then I fell to my side and buried my face into the soft, woollen carpet that lay under me.
The day, evidentially, did not start as one of the best. It did not start as the worst of all, either. In truth, it was somewhere in-between the two, though I'm sure that's not easy to imagine; a day worse than the death of a parent. But the worst is yet to come, I assure you. Much, much later. The worst is still to come.
