Chapter 2
Arthur
I feel the bile slowly rising in my throat as we pull up outside of the gate surrounded by endless large stone buildings. I originally chose Twerton Mill as my student accommodation because there’s a bus stop that goes directly to the university which is perched right outside the front of the building. My parents made sure I knew that they weren’t overly happy with my decision to live off-campus and continued to reprimand me, saying that I should have picked the accommodation that sat on the campus grounds to avoid being late for lectures.
“You know you won’t be able to cope if the bus doesn’t turn up and as always, we’ll never hear the end of it,” my dad muttered when I first received the email confirming my accommodation back in the summer.
If it wasn’t obvious already, my dad made next to no effort to understand my anxiety, instead seeing me as a burden at every angle. I was actually proud of myself for steering away from my comfort zone for once by picking an accommodation closer to the city centre. I knew it was going to be tough, but I wanted to try and push myself to go out on my own and explore the city, to try and seize the fresh start I desperately needed this year. That being said, in this moment right now, I definitely didn’t feel like taking over the world, I felt like spewing the contents of this morning’s breakfast bagel into a plastic bag. I can barely open the car door because my hands are so clammy.
“Hurry up and help your mother and sister with the bags,” dad shouts from behind the open boot of the car.
I would if I didn’t feel like I was going to spontaneously combust dad.
Eventually managing to open the door, I go and grab my bags, juggling them in some sort of weird balancing act. The further I get to the main reception desk, the more nauseous I feel, especially considering there’s a huge line of other students and their parents pooling out of the front door, their faces crippling with fear.
That’s the thing, people always say that you’ll have the best three years of your life at university, but what if that’s not true? What if that’s just a lie by the higher education sector to mislead you into applying so they get even more money? What if I failed my course and all of it was for nothing? What if I-
“HELLO, earth to Arthur!,” my eleven-year-old sister Libby shouts in my ear whilst madly clicking her fingers in my face. I’m suddenly aware that in the time it took me to have an inner breakdown, I’d already reached the front of the queue where a blonde woman greeted me, sporting the cheesiest grin ever.
“Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life!”
Wow okay, bit intense.
She practically lobs my key fob at me as she enthusiastically cheers, “Room G02!” as if she’s sorting me into bloody Gryffindor at Hogwarts or something. Overly extroverted people like that scare me, part in parcel because I know there’s likely a 99% chance they’re going to attempt to talk to me and although I don’t want to come across as a boring asshole, I just can’tconverse with people like that, my anxiety won’t do me the honour of acting like a normal person for long enough.
Quickly taking the key fob, I try to avoid any further conversation with her as I head out of the door and over to Block A. Luckily, I’m living on the ground floor, so there is no need for making multiple trips up and down in the lift. To be honest, even if I lived on floor 5, I would happily struggle up and down the staircase, there’s no way in hell you’re getting me in a claustrophobic metal box that can break down at any given moment. We enter the lobby area and immediately spot the wooden door with the large silver letters, ‘G02’ on the front. My heartbeat is deafeningly pounding through my ears as I press the key fob over the lock. As it opens, we find a long winding corridor filled with about 5 flats in total. My room is number 1 and the first in the corridor. I unlock the door and am immediately greeted with a small room, featuring teal-coloured walls, a small double bed, a wooden desk, and a sparkling ensuite with a walk-in shower. It’s definitely not home, but I feel much more comfortable in here than I anticipated. I’d been doing so much preparation and research on university accommodations online that I’d made myself crazy and had ended up falling down a rabbit hole of absolute horror stories. I’d seen one where someone turned up on their first day of fresher’s week to a room filled to the brim with thick black mould, (and other foreign substances found under ultraviolet lights that I don’t even want to think about). Turns out, when they asked reception if they could change rooms, they were told that there was nothing left and that they basically had to suck it up or leave. You can imagine my sigh of relief when I realised this wasn’t the case for me, I think I’d genuinely take that as a sign from the universe that university clearly wasn’t for me and dart straight back home.
I place my bags onto the bed as Mum, Dad, and Libby all try to squeeze behind me into the room. “Right, here’s the deal,” Dad says clapping his hands together, “we’ll help you put away your food in the kitchen, but sorting the room out is all on you,” he gives me a brief shove on the shoulder. “I’ve been the designated driver for the past hour and a half and honestly all I want to do is go and have a fat coffee.” As much as I appreciate Dad driving me all the way here, nothing is ever done just because. There’s always some sort of ‘you scratch my back, I scratch yours’ sort of ordeal and I can already tell that he just wants to get in and out, and likely as far away from his burden of a son as possible.
As we all head down to the kitchen at the bottom of the corridor, I mentally prepare myself for the possibility of meeting one of my flatmates. It sounds pathetic, but I never joined any of those Facebook groups where you find your flatmates and start group chats with them before meeting in person. It would have made my life a hell of a lot easier if I had just put myself out there and got an indication of the sort of people I was going to be living with for the next year and possibly more, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. So now, the likelihood is that they’ve all bonded and I’ve already ruined my chances of making friends at uni before it’s even started. I kick myself repeatedly for being like this, the constant self-sabotage is so exhausting but it’s like my brain has no other function, this is the default setting and I just have to cope with the consequences.
The kitchen is empty, much to my relief, so at least I can start unloading the food shop we bought enroute from Tesco without fear of having to make any awkward small talk, especially with Dad lurking around. I’d never hear the end of how pathetic I sounded or how I needed to ‘speak louder so we can hear you.’ I don’t know if he actively goes out of his way to embarrass me or if it’s just like breathing, a natural rhythm of his that he’s not even aware he’s doing half the time. Alas, we managed to get all my food unloaded into the biggest cupboard, (yep, I’d read yet another article in my long, long list of research that arriving early and snatching the best cupboard space was paramount at uni), in just under 15 minutes.
Dad glances over at me, “All sorted now. we’re going to go and grab a coffee and head off, I don’t want to miss the rugby later.”
Of course, Dad, I wouldn’t want you to stay a moment too long.
Mum gives me a sympathetic look as she edges over to hug me. I can see her desperately trying to sniff back the tears that have already begun to prickle from her eyes. She’s definitely more accepting than Dad surrounding my anxiety. That being said, it still doesn’t stop her from saying nothing when dad is blatantly belittling my worries. I wish she’d found the strength to stand up for me for once. I can see why though; she’s afraid of him getting on the big ol’ defense. Don’t get me wrong, my dad would never lay a finger on her, so it has nothing to do with that and more to do with the fact that my dad has his own unresolved issues that he doesn’t address. I’m not trying to make excuses, shitty behaviour is sometimes just that, shitty. But I do wish in all honesty that he’d recognise when he’s coming off as an ass.
“Please remember to call me love, I don’t care when I just want to know that you’re safe,” Mum whispers into my hair with her arms still wrapped tightly around me.
I give her arms a reassuring squeeze, “You know I will Mum, promise.” Almost as soon as she lets go, I’m suddenly winded by the weight of Libby hurtling herself onto me. The thing about my little sister is that although she likes to act tough and more often than not enjoys testing my patience with her ever-growing attitude, she’s an absolute softie on the inside.
“I’ll miss you A,” I hear her sob into my t-shirt.
“Don’t worry squish, I’m sure you’ll still find a way of annoying me over Facetime, it’s impossible for you not to” I say, ruffling her hair. This earns a flicker of a smile as she pulls away from me with bloodshot eyes.
Dad shifts uncomfortably on the spot before giving me a, (somewhat), reassuring half-smile. “Good luck Arthur, study hard, but party harder.” In his own way, I imagine that translates to ‘Good luck son, you’ll do really well, and I’ll miss you,’ but I’ll take what I can get, to be honest.
And just like that, my family walked out the door. It’s now just me, myself, and I on a random Saturday in an eerily silent box room, nearly 60 miles away from home.