Edmund Capell lives in Barkingside, a little rainy town in London that is nearly as gloomy as his life. It was as if that depressing location was exactly the place of the entire world where he was destined to be born in, a very blue little town for in which lives a very blue little man.
Every day Edmund would come home from the office, tired after sitting for ten long hours each day in the same cubicle in front of the computer working hour after hour in order to make someone else a few coins richer. He'd take his shoes off at the door and walk straight to the bedroom, take off his clothes, fold them very neatly and put on his silk pyjamas. He liked the feeling of the silk against his skin, it was one of the few pleasures of his life. He thought it was pathetic, that something as simple as the feeling of the fabric of his clothing against his body represented one of his biggest pleasures.
After changing, he'd go to the kitchen to pour himself a nice warm cup of earl gray tea, walk over to the marvelous library, big enough to take half of his living room and search through that seemingly never-ending pile of books for the one that would keep him company that evening. Once he located that one book he felt like reading, he'd sit in that living room near the window on the same ochre little piece of furniture he has sat on for the last 20 years and let his imagination take him through the pages of a wonderful story.
Edmund, "such an old and dull name", he always thought. The name of a 17th century's Shakespearean character or a 18th century's, well, common man, a man no one would have remembered once gone, a man whose existence in this world would have made as much effect as the sound of a tree falling in the middle of a forest, with no one around to hear it fall. He hated the fact that his mother had have chosen such a name for him, mostly because there was no better name in the world that would have fit him, ironic, mothers do know everything, don't they? Is as if she knew, from the moment she held him in her arms that Edmund would be exactly who he turned up to be: a little bold man with an unexciting life.
Edmund had a very interesting and objective view of the world because he never got to be a part of it, he was there, he existed, he had a job, a house and a cat, but he had no one to notice him, no one to remember his birthday, to cast him a smile or even notice he was there, much like a ghost.
He read a lot, the books where his best friends and with his friends he learnt about the world, about the mankind. He learned about him. He somehow fully understood who he was and who he was ever going to be, a quality most people have yet to master. He realized he wasn't afraid of the dark he feared what might be in it. That he wasn't afraid of being alone he feared the sudden realization that he wasn't. That he wasn't afraid of dying he feared not knowing what comes after.
Edmund tried several times during his youth to scape his humdrum fate, to have friends, fall in love and live life as a regular person, but somehow he'd always find himself in the same boring routine, alone, without even the single energy or will to masturbate at night. What a dreary life that was, very dreary.
So he went to Rome and back, he'd fought lions, traveled to the center of the earth and went mad over his obsession with the capture of a white whale. He'd survived shipwrecks, fell deeply in love hundreds of times, he'd been a penniless peasant and a king. He'd killed those who'd dare to harm him and finally died an awful death as a soldier during the Second World War. Oh what an exciting life he had lived thanks to his friends! Such wild adventures and epic romances.
That was until the sound, what a sad sound it was, the sound of the alarm clock that pulled him away from his exciting life each night at nine telling him it was time to go to sleep, he wouldn't want to be late for work, would he? So he'd close his book, go to bed, sleep and wait for it all to start again.
Edmund had come home from work, he changed into his pyjamas and went into the kitchen to pour himself a nice warm cup of earl gray tea. He walked over to the marvelous library, big enough to take half of his living room and searched through that seemingly never-ending pile of books for the one that would keep him company that evening. Once he located that one book he felt like reading, he sat in that living room near the window on the same ochre little piece of furniture he had sat on for the last 20 years and let his imagination take him through the pages of a wonderful story. But this time, the sad sound of 9pm the alarm clock would not bother him.
Edmund Capell lived in Barkingside, a little rainy town in London that is nearly as gloomy as his life was. It was as if that depressing location was exactly the place of the entire world where he was destined to die in, a very blue little town in which once lived a very blue little man.