Shrouded in the bleak light of a barely started essay, the words never came. Above him, whining, yellow, lights kept him company within the library, in the silence of the night.
‘Who cared about the materials of a composite bow? Who cared about the use of chariots in ancient Mesopotamia? Who cared that, no matter how impressive, the Indians rode their steeds without a saddle, whilst shooting bow and arrows?’ It didn't matter how, inherently, interested he was in the answer, Otis was never going to be compelled to write yet another assignment.
“It’s a respected degree,” his grandfather had said, “shows you’ve got something between the ears.”
The endless lectures on the value of a history degree and the respect it would wield in the world of work had been relentless. Otis remembered the pride his grandfather had spoken with, the first time it had felt like he’d accomplished something. It felt like he had found his calling. After fixating on myths, legends, and champions of war this degree should have been a godsend ad yet academia tortured any delight out of it. It wasn’t about the story anymore, nor the underdog, or the overwhelming empires. It was a painstaking review of the literature and the tiniest details.
Otis’ current assignment, which involved discussing the materials of the Greek's arsenal in comparison to the surrounding terrain and thus what it meant about the foreign policy, at the time, was relentless. Dying in the fine minutiae of unending detail, the prospect of having a degree pushed him on.
Frozen, Otis huddled in an oversized hoodie, within an oversized coat, like some wintry cocoon. There was something about the building that devoured any sense of warmth, as the minutes ticked by. Finally, when the hypnotic pixels read ‘03:02’, he relented. Another night spent all too enticed by dreams of myths and magic he made the decision to call it quits. Other than a student loan frittered away on the vending machines his achievements ranked close to nil.
Rising from his seat his bones creaked. Resonating throughout his quiet corner, Otis’ ankles cracked and his neck popped, as he unfurled himself. Thinking back to the stories of old, the sensations always felt like a sense of hidden power. He imagined the Norse giant Skrymir had felt the same sense of strength when he awoke from his slumber, unaware that he’d taken three strikes from Thor’s hammer. Short-lived though it might be, Otis basked in the feeling.
The little cubby-hole was a home away from home. The night-dwellers within the library were unseen to each other but this was his territory. Fairly well hidden, the desk was set back into the brickwork, by about two feet. A small sepia-tone lamp lighting the little alcove. It reminded him of his grandfather’s office, the closest thing he had to a home away from home.
Weaving through shelves of aged books it all blended into one beige and brown nonsense. He traipsed through the library, his steps loud in the quiet space. The usual security guard shared the same look of abject boredom and gave him the same gentle nod, he did every night.
‘He must remember me, by now,’ Otis considered briefly.
Within the frigid night air, it was strangely freeing in the night. Even if he wanted to skip back to his house he could, most people would assume him to be drunk, drugged, homeless, or all of the above. Liverpool wasn’t known to be the safest of cities but it felt harmless enough to him.
By the time he made it back, Otis was cramping from the cold. He couldn’t help but tense as he walked, bracing against the chill. The wind would always slither through the chinks in his defences, no matter how he scrunched into himself.
The cold was still infused into his bones as he stared into the loading screen of ‘StarCraft II’, his fingers still numb against his keyboard. It would take time for his fingers to feel less like hard rubber but that gave him the excuse he needed to settle in for the long haul. With the aim of constructing buildings and using those buildings to spawn different units, nothing was more addicting than amassing an army that would annihilate the opponent. General to his own swarming horde Otis treasured this time, watching evolution in fast-forward. It was a taste of Godhood; a taste of power sorely missing from his life.
The first game ended quickly with a predictable defeat, but it was an excuse to load up in the hopes of a win. It was gaming law; ending on a loss wasn’t an option. By the time he finished it just ticking past 5 a.m.…
Bleary-eyed, the emptiness of the house snuck up on him, again. A couple of washed-up plates and a crumpled rucksack propped up on the table were the only things that gave the room any character. The slight whine of something electronic and the occasional passing car the only disturbances. He had his in-game armies to keep him company and the emails to his grandfather but he was devoid of proper company.
He wasn’t meant to be on his lonesome. His oddball housemate had gotten a girlfriend, though where managed to find a member of the opposite sex who could tolerate his neurotic tendencies Otis had no ideas. Apparently, Joseph hadn’t heard of nor given a cursory glance to the “bros before hoes” idiom found at the heart of the supposed “bro-code”. Otis couldn’t bring himself to blame the lovesick prick, even if it did hurt to be cast away. Nonetheless, this left Otis in a mediocre rented house with nothing, but video games and the occasional streamed lecture to keep him company. Of course, he had online friends, but that didn’t make the social abyss any better. He was still alone; still a loser; still wishing he was anywhere else, doing anything else.
‘Fuck you, Jacob,’ he thought, again.
Ending another night of self-pitying exasperation, Otis sent himself off to bed. Trudging up the thinly carpeted staircase it was then that pain erupted from his hand, suddenly and without warning.
Breathless under the torment, Otis was unable to withstand the pain. He collapsed and tumbled down the stairs, lucky not to brain himself as he fell. Bracing against the pain, all he could do was clench back a scream and grunt as he took the brunt of his fall on his wiry limbs. He writhed against the pain; guttural groans all he could muster.