Before The After (Tom Hiddleston Fan-Fic)

September 2013

Kate's Perspective

Hopping and shimmying into black skinny jeans that are a size too small and pulling a tye-dye T-shirt over my head that's three sizes too big, my morning begins as it always does: with my alarm clock not waking me up. Broken again, the decrepit thing sits solemnly on my bedside table as I scream and curse abuse at it.

I rush to the window and make sure that the sun still isn't up, relieved when I find it still pitch black outside. But I know that it won't last much longer so I've got to get a move on. A parka is also included in today's ensemble. London starts its chill pretty early in the fall.

Searching through my cluttered little flat--which, by the way, has been condemned by a number of firemen as a fire hazard before-- is always a bit of an adventure. I've been known to find all sorts of things I've 'lost' in the contents of random bins and tubs and crates. My hands reach inside the clay pots I crafted last week for my keys and wallet, and I quickly stuff them in my pockets. If I don't put them on my person immediately they're liable to be misplaced again within about ten seconds.

Kicking away a box of supplies, I finally locate the culprit of my search: my huge purple bag cowers in a corner near my single window. Stained and worn with so many years of use, the poor thing has been stitched and sewn back together so many times it looks more like quilt than a bag. But the damn thing has been in my life for as long as I can remember, and I'm just not ready to replace it with piece of overpriced, retailer garbage yet.

Dumping materials I know I'll need inside, I only reach for a handful of my better synthetic brushes, rolling up some tarp for the grass and packing one of my smaller easels. When I can't find my beloved pair of Toms, I reluctantly pull on my infamous paint-splattered combat boots.

Finger combing my hair, I've learned is better than yanking a comb through it's thick roots. After that's done, the wild mess of hair goes into a tight ponytail, and God willing, no tendrils will escape their confines. Last time I got paint in my hair, I was washing it out for weeks.

I run back to my bedroom to catch a glimpse at the clock. It's five o' four-- I have little more than an hour. I stuff my iPod and earbuds in the back pockets of my jeans, purposely leaving my phone there on it's charger in the wall. No distractions.

Trotting down the stairs with my bag in tow, I check my mailbox briefly, emptying its contents for later perusal before I walk over to the door of the building and close it softly behind me.

It's so dark outside I almost can't see my feet in front of me. But it's a promising morning. Popping in earbuds that have a bit of some of Tupac's best hits, I take a deep breath and slowly begin my walk to the local park.

I moved to melancholy, but busy mega city of London about six months ago in April. It was on one particularly uneventful trek in the quad to a core class that I changed course and headed straight to my advisor. I, Kate Jocelyn Reynolds, had decided to drop out of school just one month before I started summer classes for my senior year in college. I was trading the busy and studious life of college education for the life of an aspiring painter and photographer--for the life of an artist.

But I didn't mind all that much. New York had been a little too cramped anyway, and California a little too sunny. I've lived on both coasts but have always remained unconvinced the U.S was my home. So after couch surfing and wandering around from art gallery to art showcase got a bit exhaustive, I left the land of opportunity, keeping the "united", and just swiping the "states" out for a "kingdom".

But what soon-to-be twenty six year old woman has all their shit together this early? Granted, I should have a general idea, but, I mean, it wasn't mandatory, was it? I was allowed my reasonable doubt. I smiled as I remembered the conversation I'd had with my godparents before I left the U.S.