Stones. Pounds. Kilograms. Something I have not seen in a while. Not since m mother threw out our tired old scales thats purple shade had faded more than the hairs on my father's head. They had only been collecting dust on the top landing for years and were practically stained that mousy-brown colour that, quite frankly, looked like what I deposited down the toilet after a horrendous dinner made by my grandmother, who -in her prime- was an amazing cook, not it was as if an oven was product made by aliens and food was edible fresh out of the freezer!
This is the story of Beau Button, well, Beau Fairchild, but nobody remembers his official surname. After years of being referred to as ‘Button’, why would they? It’s a simple story, no twists, no turns, no dramatic pauses, just a straight, narrow road that leads to now.
Tracing his finger down his arm gently, Edward glanced over to his wife who sat up, her back pressed against the wooden headboard that had been knocked together by the pair the previous day. Her mouth was moving lightly as her eyes scanned her newly purchased copy of Peter Pan by J.M Barrie. A smile spread on her lips, a small chuckled escaping them every so often. Edward's eyes travelled over her body taking in all of her natural beauty. Her fair hair was tied up in rags like shoelaces so that her hair would curl, her pale skin was basking in the sunlight that protruded through the small crack in the large draping curtains. Her bright blue eyes matched her nightgown that hung loosely over hr body. To say that Edward was in love would be an understatement. She was the apple to his eye- his one and only. Elsie Hallow née Windsor was his world and would be until death do they part.
Lord and Lady Elmsmere were proudly well-respected members of society, living the luxurious life in their quaint manor a few miles from London in the rich countryside of south-east England. With people serving their every needs it was no wonder they failed to notice the disappearance of their children as they hid away in their attic in amongst the covered portraits that were so big they reached the roof, spare funiture resided under dust sheets and boxes of old toys and documents stacked high leaving little room for them to play but they certainly didn’t mind.
Bubbles. Such wonderful little things that bring joy to so many people when they float around, shimmering in the light of the sun, free to do what they wish. They climb so high into the sky as little ones marvel at their simple creation made from a small mixture, previously bottled and sold to the eager children for pleasure—such wonderful little things. So wonderful that they also have the power to detach you from the rest of the world. Isolating you. Constricting you. Leaving you unable to connect with everything going on around you until you are left lifelessly trudging through life with no hope or glory to your name. Just an existence. Not a life.
It's been four years to the day since my brother took his own life.