Careful With That Axe, Eugene

The Only Chapter

One, two.

One, two.

One, two.

One, two.

I count each of my slow steps meticulously, being careful not to miss a single one. If I miss one, I will get frustrated with myself. And if I get frustrated with myself, my mind will wander. I can't let my mind wander. When I do that, I remember. Remembering is bad. It hurts. The past should stay in the past.

Especially now that I've been given this fresh start.

I continue to count my steps, one, as I walk along the hard pavement, two. I know where I am headed, one. I used to come here a lot, two, but I've not been able to for the past ten years, one. As I approach the building, two, the familiar sign welcomes me, one. I take one more step, two, then I stop walking. I would have stopped walking straight away, but it feels wrong to stop walking when I've only counted one, and not two. Two is a good number. I like the number two.

I take a deep breath and smile, looking up in the drizzling rain to the building's sign, reading the letters in gold font that I have looked upon so many times before.

Caerleon Local Museum, it reads. Entry free.

My smile tentatively spreads wider across my face. Now that I'm here, I don't need to count my steps anymore. I'm safe here. There are many, many things for me to focus on inside this building. I don't need to concentrate on something as bland as my footsteps anymore. Content, I walk inside, freeing my steps of the numbers I gave them on the long walk here and feeling grateful for the shelter from the freezing rain outside.

Caerleon. That's my home town. Most people's hometowns are boring, but not mine. Mine has a history. A history that stretches back hundreds and hundreds of years to when the Romans first invaded Wales and built their cities here. Some of the ruins still remain here, if you look closely enough at the many fields surrounding the sparsely placed houses on the few winding streets. Then, of course, there's the sense of wonder and magic that has managed to weave itself into the fabric of every standing structure, first brought here by King Arthur of Camelot. After all, legend has it that Caerleon used to be part of the legendary kingdom of Camelot itself. Such a rich history cannot be left untold. That's why my town has a museum. And that's why I love it so much.

The museum attendant, dressed in a very bland, slightly creased beige shirt, doesn't look at me at first as I cross the threshold into the museum. But when he does, he takes two glances. His face has a look of surprise and recognition smeared on it. Why is he surprised? I've seen this man many times before, albeit a very long time ago, and he has seen me. What is so surprising about me?

Oh.

Oh.

He's not surprised. He's scared. Of course!

I almost laugh at myself. My ability to recognise facial expressions must have been getting a lot worse lately, if I couldn't recognise something as obvious as fear.

I think he mutters a frightened hello, but I'm not interested in answering him. He always had been a boring person, when I used to know him. So, I just walk straight past him, my eyes fixed on the much more interesting historical artefacts ahead. I could look at them all day. I couldn't look at a boring man's face for that amount of time.

My feet know this place better than my own home. I've been here so many times in the past that I know it inside out. Familiar tapestries line the walls, delicately embroidered by some artists that lived and died hundreds of years ago; striking pictures of bloody medieval battles and wars that took place on my town's soil in another age; glass cabinets guarding delicate artefacts and skeletons and coins and weapons. I know each one of them well. Happiness swells inside me. I haven't forgotten a single section of this room in my ten year absence.