Being a Barrow - A Sequel to Barrow's Boy

Monty

     Breathe in.

     Feel the air reaching you, a salty scent from the sea engulfing it. Pay attention to how it travels down your throat, warm from the afternoon yet somehow still refreshing. Let it fill your lungs and enter your chest like every other time you've done this. Do not open your eyes. You do not need to see the world right now to remember you are alive. Life is in you, not them.

     Breathe out.

     Let it fill you with relief rather than emptiness. Remember that, within seconds, you will breathe in again. This is not your final breath; it is only one of thousands that you have taken and will take. Your friends are talking. Listen to them. Hear their voices, and let the sound of them sink into your memory. You know Dansworth's voice better than almost any. It is loud and boastful at times, it commands that you listen, and his laugh can cut through a room better than a blade can cut skin. His laugh draws joy as easily as that blade draws blood. Ashton replies in a much calmer tone. His voice has always been modulated, the type of pronunciation that seemed rehearsed, perhaps like a politician. And yet there was always a kindness in his words, unmistakable amidst whatever he was saying. And do not forget Barrow, with his Northern accent. His was harder to define; it could change based on his moods. His accent seemed stronger when he was excited, like now, or stressed, but Monty had heard it almost disappear when he spoke in certain situations.

     Monty opened his eyes, staring at the clouds in the sky as he heard Theodore's story. He was lying on the ground, head resting against the blanket his father had laid out. His knees were propped up, feet flat on the blanket, and he'd kept his hat on at an angle. They had just gotten this man, Peter, from Alabama, in it. Monty had been listening the whole time, he was sure of that, and yet he wasn't sure if he could recount the events if he were asked.

     Somewhere between his breaths and his thoughts was an aching in his bones—fatigue that he couldn't get rid of, no matter how much he rested. And he rested, his mother was making sure of that.

      As Teddy seemed to finish his story, Monty slowly moved to sit back up. As he did so, he felt someone gently place their hand on his back and opened his eyes. The world was slightly blurry without his glasses, but he could see more than well enough to know that the person touching him was Ashton. Dansworth reached over, fixing Monty's hat so that it sat properly on his head. Monty wanted to say something, a thanks perhaps, but the words wouldn't even form in his throat. Dansworth didn't seem to care.

     Dansworth had never cared about little things like that. It was one of the many reasons that Monty had attached himself to him years ago.

     When Monty started at Winchester, a meagre twelve-year-old, ready to prove himself after years of looking up to his older brothers, he had done so with set goals in mind: get good grades to make his parents happy and get on the rugby team. He'd loved rugby since he was a kid, playing makeshift games with his brothers on their lawn. And he was good, and he knew that. If he could make the team, Monty was sure that he would one day be playing for England.

     Well, he did want friends as well, but it was hard. It seemed like everyone here already knew each other somehow or that they had befriended each other faster than Monty could even learn their names. And sure, his brothers were there, but they were older and had their own lives there. Monty knew that he wasn't their priority, nor should she be. His mother assured him that his own friends would come, but he wasn't so sure. It wasn't like he could predict the future.