Chapter 1: Happy Half-Birthday
You know the song "I'm holding out for a hero"? Well, that was exactly what I tried to do. And you know what? I ended up with the bad boy but lucky for me, that was exactly what I needed.
So when I walked through the corridor with one hand in a packet of Tom crisps and the other; gripping a well-worn edition of Lowry's 'The Giver', and wall of bricks hit me, I knew it would be an extremely clear signal from any higher power that there was-and-is that something life-altering was going to happen.
It didn't matter to me from the moment I left my stance to when I hit the floor, that the wall was less brock and more organic material than anything. With my crisps scattered everywhere and my book falling apart over the floor, I didn't hesitate to swear in three languages and then proceed to pick up the remnants of my personality from being trampled on by the other abandoned souls. Souls whom traipse that same pathway every day; be it for work, school, leisure or adventure.
The next words which left my mouth were somewhat inexcusable;
"Excuse me! Did you purposely decide to plough through the corridor like Freddie Mercury in break-through or do you just walk everywhere monotonously because of all your blood is diverted to your steroid induced muscles?" I exclaimed in a rather forthwith manner, blocking out everyone in the corridor except the stranger and me.
When looking back on it my behaviour did seem somewhat arrogant. And to be honest it was my mind which was securely fixated on my upcoming birthday. I was born in the February of 1999, a cold and dreary day according to many of my nostalgic relatives. It is because of the time of this year that it has always either rained or snowed making what is supposed to be a joyous occasion, a rather melancholy one. So when my mother one summer made a flippant comment about how the 18th of August was half way to my birthday, so it would be better to throw a birthday party for me in the summer. And so I took those extremely wise words of wisdom and brought them to life, and so every year instead of celebrating my birthday in February, with a party inside and colourless, we celebrate it only in August, in the heat with a barbeque. It is this year's half-birthday party which was clouding my judgement to walk in a corridor without strewing my belongings in every direction as if Tracy Emin decided to recreate a Jackson Pollock painting. And so the pause button was release from its encapsulated narrative of my subconscious to carry on living in reality.
"For your information, these muscles are perfectly natural, homegrown and organic. And if you were paying attention I was not the ploughing one, it was you who seemed to be controlled by some external authority; to which place was your head at? Was it what you are going to eat for lunch or which fictitious character do you fancy in this current moment?" He spat in retaliation, all of which was said in one angry continuation, no break for a breath was needed as the pace somewhat matched his exhalation. Despite this raucous outburst, it wasn't hard to notice at second-glance his large dimple-inducing grin; an expression which seems to counterbalance his previous emotion of anger. Unfortunately, for anyone submitted to interacting with this strange and yet intriguing man, his grin was not the only perfect part of his face:
His Umber eyes twinkled in rhythm with his silent chuckle, his slight stubble improved his Adonis-like features and his stretching, tweed blazer emphasised his athletic build, to which those in line with stereotypes would consider a near-contradiction of society.
Both the reaction and the distraction were the reasons for me noticing that, after helping me up, he still had one hand on my waist, lingering as if I were at any moment to fall back down like paper in the wind. After sadly removing the hand, after noticing my line of sight, he carried on his tirade with another breath.
"I didn't realise that simply by walking in a straight line towards my intended destination I would end up being cut off by some insane woman with killer eyes and being forced to endure her stereotypical ramblings." This sentence more calculated than the last; rolled off his tongue as if he were born with those very words in his mouth.
"If you are finished, I am now going to excuse myself from your haphazardous presence to go back to my lecture. And if in the future you are wanting to do a re-enactment of what bomb's effect on a library is at least let it not be Lowry, let it be someone more worth the turmoil such as the ramblings of Kesey or Dickens," and with that he gathered himself in a sentinel-like stature and left my life.
It was in this moment that I thought that he would leave without looking back, never to be seen again. It would be later revealed that I was wrong in this supposition and that I would seem in on many other occasions throughout my life; each encounter increasing his mysteriousness and his charm.
