Safe Travels

New Home

The first thing I had to do for my passport was get a haircut that was more "normal" and take out my nose piercing. My mother made me wear a light pink blouse with black polka dots. I had to beg her to let me wear my favorite black skinny jeans and combat boots.

Four weeks later, on my seventeenth birthday, I was shipped off to live with my uncle Thomas, whom I had never heard of, in London. I couldn't really complain, I'd always wanted to see Europe, but going away so soon after getting out of the hospital didn't sound too great. I wanted to be in my bed, curled up with a stuffed animal while I was hopped up on the anti-depressants the hospital gave me.

The airport was busy. Just looking around made me dizzy, so as soon as I got to my terminal I sat on the floor and closed my eyes. I was so relieved when my flight started boarding that I almost ran towards the boarding area. I got a couple of odd looks from flight attendants, but they didn't have social anxiety. Just thinking about how many people were around me made me want to vomit.

I slept most of the ride, only waking up to go to the bathroom or get a drink. I wasn't really hungry, my nerves were getting the best of me and it was all I could do to breath. After what seemed like an eternity, we landed.

• • •

London was both exactly what I expected and not at all what I expected all at the same time.

The architecture was beautiful, a mix of modern and old. The people looked the same as any westerner, but they walked differently than an American. It was... Happier to me. I already felt a little better.

When we reached our destination, my good mood was suddenly dampened. What if Thomas didn't like me? What if he thought I was odd? What if he was homophobic and kicked me out? What if he didn't like that I had piercings or that I dyed my hair black? I wanted to vomit all over again, but I mustered up all my strength and carried my luggage to the front door of the apartment building.

I pressed a button to be buzzed in, and when the doors opened I felt my mood get even worse.

This place was a dump. This was like looking at Alex's apartment building in A Clockwork Orange. Trash was everywhere, the wallpaper was peeling, and the whole place smelled like piss. As I walked up the stairs to the sixth floor (there was no elevator) it got even worse. The stains were more common, the stench was worse, and I'm pretty sure I had broken pottery lodged in the soles of my boots.

Finally I came across apartment 608 and knocked on the door. A tall man with dark hair, a lean build, and an unshaven face opened the door. He was dressed in a paint stained white v-neck that stuck to his frame and baggy pants that had more holes than my dad's walls. I took a wild guess and figured it was my uncle.

"Oh. Uh- Morgan right?" His voice was deep and scratchy, with an English grace to it.

"Oh no it's um, it's Megan actually." I nodded awkwardly and tried to smile.

"Right. Well, come in. It's a bit of a mess, my apologies."

Actually, the apartment was pristine, a definite improvement from the hallway. The furniture was all very modern and places just right. Paintings that were stunning, yet oddly impersonal, hung on the walls. The biggest flat screen I had ever seen was mounted opposite the big couch. It was like looking around a showroom.

"It's really nice" I mumbled awkwardly.

"Right, thanks. Um, let me show you to your room."

He led me to a room that was off in the corner of the apartment. Inside were a bunch of paint supplies, canvases, half finished works, and a futon.

"This is where I keep most of my art stuff. When Mary told me you'd be staying here it was such short notice that I didn't really know what to do with it all. I uh- I hope you don't mind."

I smiled a little, and this seem to calm him a little. He visibly relaxed and cracked a little smile too.

"No, it's fine. Thank you."

I knew eventually we'd have to move all this stuff. I couldn't live here for god knows how long and breath in the paint fumes every night. As if reading my mind, Thomas muttered something about getting a storage room for his unused art supplies.

After giving me a tour of his amazing apartment and offering me food, I collapsed onto my futon. My eyes scanned the ceiling, taking in the beauty of the mural painted on it.

It looked almost like a bible scene. Two sides were engaged in a bloody battle. One side was light, their clothing golden like the sun and their weapons elegant and tasteful. The other side was dark, their clothing was ragged  and bloody and their weapons were crude. There was so much detail on each side, it was nearly impossible to pick out all the little pieces in the painting.

In the very middle was a phrase that was hard to read but still legible. It was simple yet poetic and nearly brought tears to my eyes.

"The battles of the mind are like the battles of old; the good and bad fight brutally with hearts of stone."