He was a lord's son, able to get anything he wanted. To simply make a list of wished, of wants, or disguised needs, and there would be little time before he received them all. There was never a time where he was told 'no', not by his father nor anyone.
But that was just the way Arthur Kirkland had been brought up. Alone with his father, in a nice house a mile away from a small village, they did not need to bother themselves with other people. Therefore, Arthur wasn't very sociable, continuing to swear in another's presence, never holding back what it was he thought of a person.
So, when a terrible occurrence took fold and he was forced to socialize to survive, it was more than he had bargained for, a risk that he later wondered was regrettable or not.
It was late one night, as the moon hung high in the darkened sky, surrounded by the twinkling stars, when he decided to take a small stroll through the forest with the notebook he cherished, one he had been carrying since his childhood. It was passed down to him by his deceased mother and held all her secrets. But years of wear and tear, of spilled drinks and crumpling grips, the notebook was hardly in great condition. No more could he decipher her scrawls, now just weak pencil marks, but he kept them close, adding his own stories to it.
Without paying much attention, time drifted on much too fast for him. Distance sped away with time, hand in hand, and once he finally noticed it, he was unable to catch up and found himself lost.
He was small between tall unfamiliar trees, the moon hidden to him, its light barely reaching him. He began to get a little frightened, aware that his father was probably looking for him now. He spent an hour searching in every direction, but he could feel that his destination was getting further and further away from him.
But this fear was weak compared to the terror that was to come. As a faint humming sound hit his ears, accompanied by a vibration that tore through the air, his heart thumped hard against his ribs, for he knew what was arriving in that vast sky. The German planes flew overhead; their lights flickered, like a beat. There were not many of them, only three, but their threat was very much alive, burning within his heart. He knew their direction, instinct screaming at him that they were aiming for where he had come from, and his mind submerged into the pit of the darkest fear. He ran towards where they vanished over the tips of the trees.
They left with a faint rumble, slowly dying down, in the night.
He halted, leaning against a tree, clutching his notebook tightly in his grip, holding it to his chest with all of his might as he heard the first bomb descend. The alarm wailed its first cry, howling through the chilly air.
He closed his eyes, his breath held in the bottom of his throat. Another bomb fell and he could almost point to where it was as it fell. The two seemed to take hours to reach the earth, whistling through the emptiness. Then came the waves of hot, powerful air, curling over him as they collided with their target.
He knelt down by the tree, pulling his knees to him and gasped. There was nothing he could do now but wait, and hope that his perfect home, his isolated life, was still intact.
Only after a couple more, the attackers were finished and the planes left, satisfied. Arthur, fearful of what he would find, continued to stay in his ball and he tightly held his knees as if his life depended on it.
As the dawn broke over the horizon, chasing away the shadows of the night, Arthur finally returned to reality, uncurling himself and standing up hesitantly. The notebook, still within his grasp, seemed to weigh heavier now as he realised that had something gone wrong, had his haven, his safety, his home been destroyed, it was the only possession he had left. The only thing that held any meaning.
It took long hours of heaving himself up hills, of dreading each second that came and by, but he finally reached familiar landmarks.
The first thing he saw was the village, now crumbling down to the very foundations. Pits burned here and there, releasing plumes of black smoke that reached towards the array of colours above. A place that was so often filled to the brim with smiling people, now lonely with not a single living being anywhere near the crushed ruins.
He continued on with a small hope that just maybe his home remained untouched. Not one emotion filled his face, but a battle that raged between several. If he found himself nearing tears, he'd push them away and adopt a rage-filled expression, then to a small smile when he saw that the path to his home seemed to be as he remembered.
However, once he reached the once familiar gates, he realised his hope had just been too strong. It plummeted so quickly. The gates, ones he had passed through so often in his life, were ripped apart, destroyed by the shock wave emitted from the bombs. Beyond that, his heart almost stopped at the scene. Where his home had once been was replaced by a burning crater, a few scattered pieces of rubble and possessions far away.
It was gone. Everything. All that he had grown up with. It was gone and he could do nothing. His father had left him, just as his mother had.
Arthur felt the first tear drop from his eyes. He quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand, cursing himself for showing such weakness. His father, dead… But he could do nothing now. He needed to think of what he would do next. Now that his home was gone, now that he had nothing.
No matter how hard he tried to hold back his lingering tears, they fell. He covered his face with his hands, sobbing silently, alone to grovel in his grief.
Later that day, he found himself on a bus, filled with the last survivors of the bombing. Those who had hidden as soon as the warning bell had signalled had dragged their way back up into the world, and they greeted him like a friend. Now, despite never speaking before, it was their experience, their desperate memory, that had tied them together.
Arthur watched the landscape outside the window. He had attempted to search for some possessions at his house, digging his way through the remains of former walls and ceilings until his hands were bruised and bloody. But he found nothing worth keeping. No money, no food, not even a simple photograph he could have taken with him. He had feared he may find his father's body, or that of the employees who looked after the house, but there was not even a limb to be found. If the bomb had landed right above their house, there would be no bodies left to search for. And he had almost ended up like that.
A young woman with a little boy sat next to him, smiling sadly towards his still frame. He gave a small one back, but even he could feel it was empty. He had not cried since those few tears, nor had he said anything since the last words he had spoken to his father before his walk. He felt numb, barely awake to the world for what it had done to him. He wished this war would end, that it had never started, that the Germans had not been flying over the village that night. But it had happened, and as he kept reminding himself, he could do nothing about it now.
The bus was on its way to London, the country capital, picking up any stray survivors along the way. It was true that it was the main target for bombing, but there were more places to hide there, better places to shelter, better bunkers and better hospitals to be treated in should something unfortunately happen. It was also better than staying in the burning remains of the past.
Arthur was scared. He did not know how to speak to people, and has always left it up to his father to do so. At their parties, their balls, Arthur barely spoke a word to anyone. His father had always been the one to entertain guests with conversation. But he was alone now, forced to do something to survive, even speaking to people. His status meant nothing in this situation, now that he had not a penny to his name. The bus was free, but he knew he would need money once he arrived in the great city. How else was he to survive? Alone, to boot.
He rested his head, shooing away the thoughts that clouded his mind. He no longer wished to dwell on them, sending only sadness from their company. He needed sleep and this would be the best chance to catch it. He thought it would take a long time to fall into slumber. However, it took but a touch as his head rested lightly on the window, and no more. Sleep took over. Not a dream visited, nor a nightmare. His sleep was black, dark, with nothing but shadows to occupy his tired mind. Not even his father visited to assure him things would work out.
By the time he had woken up, people were getting off. He followed, searching the outline of his notebook under his jacket with his fingertips. As he reached the bottom of the steps, he was welcomed by a large, plain, boring white building. He took it in and sighed, realising that this was where he would spend his days now, where his life would change so much. It was a homeless shelter, turned bunker for the survivors of bombed towns, the biggest in the country. It provided beds and food, and that was about it.
No one here had possession or nothing significant anyway, just like Arthur. He was now among people who had been through the same thing, all ripped from their comfortable lives, mourning losses. What he was once would mean nothing. He was a nameless man, unknown to them all, as they were to him.
Even knowing this, he couldn't help feeling the loneliness that grew within his core. No one wore smiles here, for there was no reason, and he may as well have been alone.
Young mothers ushered their children in, watching the skies with fear. Lonely adults dragged their feet in, losing hope as they glanced upon the doors. Older men and women trudged through, giving small warming smiles to the young, encouraging them, or attempting to. But they too did not have much hope.
One by one, the bus emptied into the street. Some chose to go another way, avoiding the shelter and the sadness that would inevitably lurk within. They would search for something else. Arthur followed the families through the door. He was a stranger to this city, not used to the massive crowds that engulfed him like a monster would. But he paid no attention, aware that he might start panicking if he returned to that thought too often.
Inside was filled with tables, none matching, and endless rows of hungry people as they sat and ate their way through the plain food of bread and soup. At the far end was the kitchen, where workers flung the slop on to the plates to be carried away and eaten. Few were giving any emotion. But as soon as a child offered their tray, there were smiles all around.
By that was a door. He wondered what was behind there. Probably the rooms for these people to sleep. Several of the ones he had travelled with made their way to that door, too tired to ask for the food to fill their empty stomachs.
It was a sad place, where children clung to the toys they had managed to save, keeping close to their parents' side or to each other if they had no one. There was no play, no board games, no jokes to pass around. There was barely any talk among the strangers, as if they were blocked off in their own little worlds of depression. Even the workers kept their words to a minimum, scared that they might say the wrong thing to these poor souls and hurt them in their already-fragile state.
Arthur sighed, something he was doing often now. He'd need to get a job, earn enough money to move out of this desperate hole of a place. How could things get any better if he was continuously surrounded by broken purposes?
He'd had enough sleep and he wasn't hungry, so he sat in the seat closest to the corner and rested his head on the table. So was this what his life had become? A midnight stroll, getting lose, and then his home reduced to nothing but a crater? His father, dead, his body never to be found. He would never have a proper burial, no funeral, no one to visit an empty grave now that most of who knew him were either dead, on the run or hiding. It would be a long while before anyone knew of his passing, or that Arthur was gone.
He'd never see anyone he had once known again. Those slightly familiar faces that had travelled with him were almost strangers, and they would want nothing to do with him. Soon, they'd move on and he'd be left alone. He cursed this war, cursed the fighters, cursed everyone, throwing profanities in his mind at the world. But he could do nothing. And he knew it could have been so much worse.
"Hey, you alright there?"
He couldn't help but feel this was all maybe a dream. What if he woke up? He could be back in the library at home, and his father would be calling once the cook finished preparing the food. There would be a book in his lap, or on the floor with its spine upwards after falling off. Maybe a maid might be cleaning the bookcases beside him and would give him a greeting in a smile, then he would be off to fill his belly. His father would be there, on one side of the long table, directing him to sit opposite and enjoy the fresh meal, with perhaps a scone for dessert. It would be a small meal, limited due to the low income of food to the village, but it would be enough to satisfy.
"Hey, you, I'm talking to you."
But no. He would not wake up. This was his reality now.
He felt a hand upon his head. He jerked upwards, his own hand instinctively curling around the book beneath his jacket so that it would not slip out. The hand on his head was gone, withdrawn back to the body of the man who had wrenched him from his thoughts.
It was a man a little younger than he, probably just out of his teenage years. He wore the white apron of the workers, but he had this bright grin, from ear to ear, and his blue eyes shone through the lenses of his glasses as they pierced Arthur.
The stranger gave a wave and greeted loudly, "You're new here!"
Arthur grumbled, resting his head back on the cool surface. "Not under the most fortunate of circumstances," he snapped, hoping to put the young man off and leave him alone.
He was much too cheery for Arthur's liking. It was true that he had been criticising the feel of defeat that hung in the air here, but it was with good reason. To be so happy, to grin like that, here of all places – he couldn't help but feel it was incredibly insensitive. Had this idiot not realised that he had just come from a devastating situation? As all others here had done. He was new here, as he so put it, because he had just arrived from a life changing nightmare. He was not about to grin it off, like some sort of fool and laugh about it. Nor talk about it, for that matter.
"I'm sure not," the arrival pushed. "But you got people here to help, right?" He sat down opposite Arthur, resting his own arms so that they were only mere inches away from his own. "Might be better to talk about what you been through."
Arthur glared up at him. It was precisely this type of person that got on his nerves. He was never good at talking to people. He's always say what he wanted, ignored the police greetings, but he was not insensitive. He knew that certain subjects were crossing the line. For once, he may have found someone who was worse than him with social situations.
Seeking to change the subject, he asked, "You're not from Britain, are you?"
The other man's eyes widened and he shook his head vigorously, obviously delighted that Arthur had shown an interest. Not that he had, of course, but he didn't correct him for fear of being dragged into multiple conversations, one after the other.
"Nope! I'm from good old America across the pond." He crossed his arms before his chest, flashing his teeth in the biggest grin Arthur had ever seen. "Joined the army a while back and was stationed in France, to help the French Resistance. Well, the German soldiers found out, with me not speaking French and all, and gave me a nice present to welcome me. They would have captured and killed me too had it not been for my supreme escaping skills" He pushed down his black top and the strap of the apron, over his right shoulder to show a dirty bandage, stained from grubby finger-marks, bits of crumbs from who knew what and spots of blood. "They shot me twice there. One bullet just scraped by, but the other one embedded into my skin. Hurt like hell." He tugged his top up again, hiding the wound. "They sent me here to be treated. They ain't fully healed yet, but I wanted to help people somehow. So they gave me this job, to help homeless people, survivors and the hurt. It's not exactly fighting to end the war, but it's some sort of heroic deed, eh?" He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "If I wanted your like story, I would have just asked."
"I like telling people stories. This is a story I can go back to tell my family. Can't wait to see their faces when I tell them I got shot at! Twice, too! Mom's not gonna to be too happy, though."
Arthur clenched his hands together in a fist as he gritted his teeth together painfully. Just as he had thought, this idiot American was insensitive enough to not realise that speaking of family in this kind of place was rude and hurtful. But Arthur said nothing for once. He silently judged, steaming with anger, cursing this American.
"I'm Alfred, by the way," he continued, not at all deterred by the lack of response to his conversation. "Alfred F. Jones. Your name?"
Arthur glanced up at him and said nothing. But the American waited patiently, holding out his hand to shake. As Arthur turned his glance to a glare, the American blinked and remained still. Feeling completely drained of energy, he rested his head again, noting that this Alfred fellow was just a waste of his time.
"I can show you around if you want to, darling."
Arthur snapped his head up, glaring red hot daggers into the twat before him. "Darling?" he hissed.
Alfred rubbed the back of his neck again, his mouth set to a little frown. "Yeah. You didn't give me a name, so what else am I supposed to call you?"
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply, willing himself not to punch the living daylights out of this annoying American. "Arthur," he muttered, much too quietly for the other to hear.
"Huh?"
"Arthur," he repeated angrily. "My name. Arthur Kirkland." He could have sworn that the American had planned this. Hadn't he? Had he gone about that just to get his name? He really was too much to handle, more annoying than he had originally thought. "Don't call me 'darling' again."
That stupid grin was back in all its glory, shining through like a beacon that would drive you to the cliffs. "Okay! I can show you around, Arthur."
"No, thank you. I'm fine by myself."
A kitchen worker called for the youth, ordering him to continue with the duty. Alfred gave one last look at Arthur, never failing with that smile, and spoke his goodbyes, promising that he would see him again soon. Arthur didn't reply, but watched as he rushed back to his post in the kitchen. For a while then, he caught himself glancing at the young one as he fed those who came up to him.
A little girl, carrying a small dirtied doll, skipped up to him, her pony tail and long dress bobbing with each step. Alfred knelt down and began to talk to her. From this distance, Arthur could not hear what they were saying, but his green eyes were glues to the little girl, who smiled happily and gave her doll for Alfred to see.
Alfred looked over her shoulder, catching Arthur's eye and held it for a few seconds. Arthur then looked away, unsure of why he had been watching in the first place. He decided that he wanted out of here as soon as he could. He could not handle people like that. There had been plenty before he had met, at the parties and the balls his father held at their house. But they were not too loud, nor were they in other's faces. Alfred was, and it made Arthur feel uncomfortable. People like him left an odd stirring feeling in the pit of his stomach and he didn't like it one bit.
