Excerpts from the Life of Linden Rand

How We Open Ourselves

Something that I always found myself admiring about the youth of the world was how open they let themselves be to others. Most of us, save for those few exceptions to the rule, like my little brother, underwent some kind of transformation, which upon reflection I realise is a crippling deformity that closed off our hearts, or at the least guarded them 'better.' We reach an age and suddenly our sense of shame gets in the way, our fear of putting our hearts, our souls, on the line becoming more prevalent than the sense of adventure that comes with the territory of being a child. Is that why some consider that presumptive nature, the belief that we'll never be rejected, childish?

Elijah never had this problem, and though I didn't envy him for it at the time, it became clear to me by the end of my college years, if not by the end of that holiday, that I had spent far too much time worrying about what the other people thought of me. I would never admit this, of course. As far as anyone was concerned, I was this impervious wall that would never be breached by projectiles as fickle as beliefs founded by seemingly insignificant people who didn't even know me enough to form a full opinion of me. I suppose I learnt too late that their opinions were as insignificant as they themselves were, in the grand scheme of things, but not Elijah. He had this sense, this very adult understanding, ingrained into him permanently, and that was one of many reasons why it was my job to look out for him.

In retrospect, however, no one could have kept him on a leash that second night of the holiday. He ran around with the other children, some of whom were older than I was, dancing enthusiastically as he made his way through the building, the others quickly learning to follow. Elijah was their shepherd, and he was absolutely revelling in the attention of his flock. I stuck as close as I dared, though always maintaining my distance a little, not wanting to cast a pall over the light that radiated from him.

Elijah was always one of the spectacles of the room, and not just because of the energy and liveliness that he brought to the table, but because he had clearly done better in the looks category. Elijah's hair was always a lighter shade of blonde than mine, and though thirteen year old Elijah hadn't quite settled into the mullet that became synonymous with his very being, the origin points of this style were certainly there. His face was more defined than mine was, even at that age, and he was lucky in that it never slipped into gauntness. People followed him because he was someone you could follow as easy as breathe, and I think that was good for him, but at times it could do questionable things to his ego, which was surely more inflated than mine was at that age.

The clubhouse wasn't worthy of Vegas, by any means, and it just about befit what one could expect of a recreational hub in the early twenty first century. It had all the standard amenities: pool table, air hockey table, coin push and a House of the Dead machine that was out of date at its inception into the arcade video game world. Vending machines were littered around the building, at least three of which were out of order and two of which were depleted of any stock to mention; getting a Coke out of one of those machines would be a lottery of a childish sort. The creamy wallpaper was crumbling away, and the bristly carpet was stained with all manner of liquid mess: milkshake spillage, dollops of ice cream and what, in one corner, looked nauseatingly like dried vomit. I privately wondered whether the clubhouse had been torn out of some backstreet in another unholy borough of London and thrust directly into the campsite.

None of the other kids noticed any of this much, if at all, and resolved to party in their youthful way as if this was their last night to live, and I hand it to them all this time later that they did well for themselves. They were never starved of something to do, even if the money had run dry and the drinks were either flowing down their throats or seeping into the carpet, which already sported its fair share of wounds. Elijah led everyone, including myself, into a small auditorium, which was spared from the blaring of the overly familiar and thoroughly Elijah music, and gathered the rickety chairs from the sides of the room into lines, facing the pitch black windows.