Excerpts from the Life of Linden Rand

To Define A Moment

To define singular moments in my life where I was really changed irrevocably has always been a difficult process for me, in part because of how much change I've gone through, but also because each action I've taken and each scenario I've been put through has had some sort of effect on the ebb and flow of the intricately weaved fabric that is time itself. How does one define a moment as life changing? Does it come down to how important the particular moment had on the foreseeable future, or indeed the future in its entirety? Is it as simple as those big decisions that we seem to undertake as people at some inconsequential moment in time, and if that is the case, is it right to disregard these moments in such a blasé manner?

There are times where I've wondered if my time in the New Forest in that hot summer of 2015 really had that much of an impact after all. In the short term, and to call it the short term is a gross understatement considering how long that summer really remained relevant, for certain, but would I have figured myself out given a little more time? Would I have come to my realisations, my so-called damning conclusions, in just two years, when my eyes were first graced by those iridescent eyes pertaining to the emperor himself?

I remember the beginning of the trip almost as clearly as I remember the details of actually setting foot inside the camp itself for the first time, and this is a true testament because my memories of my teenage bedroom have only grown foggier, the many days strumming away at the guitar and tickling the back of Tabby's neck blending into a day, or perhaps one afternoon mixed with a particularly endless night. The sun had crept up on me that morning rather like the shadows that enveloped me on my midnight walks, slowly pushing its way past my windows and casting a golden shine over my features. My bare chest might've been glowing that morning; I remember how pale I was back then. Angelo would've killed for that sight, had he known me.

I don't remember how long I had been awake for. Those were the days where I was more than eager to let time pass me by, because what could be better than my escape from Alistair and Jane approaching with what I hoped was particular haste? I spent that morning leaned against the wall, guitar against my thighs and fan blowing towards my shirtless self, making those slowly growing hairs on my arms stick up like soldiers, gently playing the time away with melodies that I had both picked up and made up. Tabby had curled up next to me on her blanket, spine bent out against one leg, purring away merrily. I liked to tell myself that she purred along to my guitar and I stand by that to this day.

There was eventually the four light taps on the door that preceded the entrance of none other than the Matriarch herself, in a frantic desperation to start pulling together my belongings for the trip. She had rifled through my closet hurriedly, searching for summer appropriate garb and not the "usual stuff you wear. I'm sorry, Linden, but even you've got to admit that it's not exactly holiday-friendly." I had to bite back my words on how "jeans and long-sleeved shirts will protect better against stinging nettles."

Jane didn't look great that day, and whenever I thought that, I meant it in the most purely observational way possible. Jane didn't look bad at all, and I can see how she would have had her appeal back at a young age, but the many years of having to put up with a bastard like Alistair hadn't been kind to her. Her eyes, which were this cloudy hue, looked battered, beaten down; old long before their time. Jane was a natural redhead, and she wore it like a badge of honour, maintaining it well despite how her life was falling apart around her. Was it fair of me to believe that of her?

We were on the road by eight, give or take. Elijah and I were practically nestled against each other in the back seats, and I liked to tell myself that it was a show of solidarity, but the reality was that the car was really cramped for the journeys there and back. Alistair had cranked up one of Radiohead's albums, perhaps to spite me for all my late night music playing. If there was one positive thing I had to say about Alistair, it was that he had great taste in music. If Jane's sour expression was anything to go by, it'd be safe to assume that she disagreed with my assessment. Someone could've given her a black death and she wouldn't have made that face.