Ashley sat and read. He loved reading. It was a pleasure unlike any other. He had many pastimes, many hobbies, and friends enough to ensure he was never bored. He enjoyed them all, but reading was in a league of its own. He felt his knowledge being expanded as he devoured page after page, paragraph after paragraph, the words creating a picture in his mind as clear and as sharp as any screen. He was reading The Great Gatsby, not usually his genre, but it was a classic, he'd reasoned, and that's how he'd found himself hanging off of every word, despite the book being based almost a century before he'd been born. Despite being largely unable to empathise with the troubles of the characters, the human side of the story captivated him. He was in his parent's garden, in a large wicker chair, a cushion that was far too thin underneath him. The sun was positioned at the perfect angle to catch the pages. There wasn't even the slightest of breezes to stir his dark hair. It was midsummer in England, and despite his father's Greek heritage, the heat was making him uncomfortable. He sat shirtless in a vain effort to stave off the sweat, but all that resulted in was the reddening of his shoulders under the glare of the sun. The garden was quite small compared to the house, and he was only about fifteen or twenty feet from the back doors, which led to the kitchen. He could hear the radio, and its words threatened to spill over onto the page, distracting him.
His parents weren't even listening to it, as they were too busy tending to his younger sister, who'd been playing out on the estate with her friends, and skinned her hands and knees when she'd fallen over. She'd stopped crying, and now all Ashley could hear was her gasps as the soothing cream was applied. He'd stopped running inside in a panic, scared for his sister's health, after the first several hundred times this happened, as during the holidays it was an almost daily occurrence. Next door's dog started snaffling at the fence. It barked. A lawnmower started up. He tried to focus his mind on the letters. Some people started laughing uproariously a few gardens over. A car beeped it's horn. He gave up, snapping the book shut and heading into the cool of the house. His eyes took a brief moment to adjust to the relative dim, and during this time he slipped his shoes off, padding across the room to the fridge. The dog panted, and thumped his tail a few times at the sight of him. Alice, was sat at the table examining her hands. He opened the fridge door, and took out the juice. The radio blared a relentless barrage of advertisements out at him. Jangles and offers and enticements. Meaningless, paste-pudding drivel, designed to capture the attention of the slow and dim-witted. They stopped as he unscrewed the cap. Both his parents were stood side by side at the stove, steam rising up past them from an assortment of pans. He took a long swig of the juice. Orange pulp rushed into his mouth, cool and refreshing.
"Ashley! What have I told you about drinking from the bottle? Get a glass, you heathen" His mother said, turning around just as he lowered the drink from his lips.
He said nothing as he returned the bottle. The radio was playing the news now. The disasters in the east were continuing. The east was a long way away, though, and no one here had anything to worry about. The authorities would keep them safe. More political unrest, practically worldwide. Politicians lying. Countries at each other's throats. It was all "we will not negotiate with" and "troops pushing into" and so much so the last ten years stereotype. Apparently Ashley and his dad were thinking the same thing, because at that moment he spoke.
"Stupid. We've got no business there, and no it's not a matter of domestic security, we're over there!"
Ashley had developed a political opinion of his own in these recent years, and now that he was a legal adult he "had the responsibility" to vote, although sometimes it felt like it was his and his father's vote against the countless racists, homophobes, and bigots that populated this tiny, densely populated island they lived on. It was depressing to think about.
He went back outside, stepping into the dazzling light, leaving his sister to inspect her knees, his mother to cook, and his father to argue the world's issues with the unhearing radio.
YOU ARE READING
The Hand and the Hatchet
AçãoA survivor known only as Bell is betrayed, and fights his way across post-apocalyptic England to take his revenge, fighting not only rivals and bandits, but his own demons.
