Jonathan Smith was a very ordinary 18-yearold boy. He lived in England with his parents, who were also extremely ordinary, except for their dream of having a house in the woods. One day, they decided to move away from everything they knew, to start anew in between Sweden and Norway, in a newly instated country called “Smalland”, which were, to be honest, a very small and elongated country. Even though it was very small, Jonathan found that everyone had begun moving there apparently, though mostly rich families who were fleeing from the media in the USA.
Jonathan and his parents went and built a house in the woods just outside of a little town called “Derigesby”. The town was growing, and when they had finished building their new home, there were over 3000 residents who had moved in. It was almost like a small New York or something, Jonathan thought. Since there were no school in Derigesby, the kids mostly hung out around the city with their friends, but since Jonathan had moved from England as the only human being under an age of 20, he was somewhat lonely in comparison to most of the others his age. Most of the others had moved from the US, so everyone spoke American English, even the ones who came from other places. Must have been because of TV influence.
It didn’t take him long time to figure out how to speak with an American accent though; he considered this one of his “superpowers”, the ability to fit in perfectly in any environment. The main reason he fit in so well everywhere, was his enormous amount of ekstraverage, as he called it himself. No matter how you looked at it, he was so average it hurt your brain when you thought too much about it. He was 1.763 m tall, had a lifeless shade of brown colored hair, pale skin and dead-ish gray-brown eyes. He had graduated school with average grades and was now trying to figure out what he wanted to do with his life. He had no special interests out of the ordinary, well, maybe except his middle-age weapons collection, which seemed like the only thing of value in his life at the moment, but it wasn’t as if anyone knew anything about it. Until one day, someone did know about it. Her name was Maria Cooper, a very ordinary name as well, and she just sort of followed him one day, asking him if he wanted to hang, and he did, since he would like to make some friends for once in this miserable little, but still growing, town. Maria was pretty cool about hanging with him, even when she discovered the trapdoor to the basement room where he kept his collection. She actually thought of it as really cool, said she too had an interest in medieval tools of torture and warfare, and from that day on, they had decided on being friends. Noone else really seemed to care much for hanging with Jonathan, but as a month went by he had begun to remember their names, not that anyone ever remembered his as anything else than just “Jon”. He got a lot of that. “Hey Jon” “How’s it hanging, Jon?” “We cool Jonny?” “Do you play ball J?”
“Do you wanna come to my party Saturday Jon?” he had looked up at this one. Seemingly, it was a blond guy with a leather jacket. If Jonathan remembered correctly, his name was Jack… or maybe something completely different, but who cares.
“Sure, when?” he tried playing it cool, which was not that hard considering his power of ekstraverage, which had helped him get to know people in the first place. Apparently, his British accent had gotten him more noticed, so he quit the American act to try to make an impression, and to his surprise, that was when people began noticing him. Of course, most of them knew by now that he lived with his parents in the forest, in a weirdly big and lonely house, when taken in perspective to the close packed rows of identical houses in the boring-district, where most of the not-extremely-rich lived, which were the ones that had noticed his accent.
“Starts at eight, mate!”
“See you then, pardner!” he purposely made a crummy American pronunciation of the word ‘partner’, as an internal joke between the Jacket and himself, to act as if they had something.
Jonathan sighed of relief when Jacket was gone. He had noticed pretty quickly, that this whole community was pretty darn empty on the insides of their heads. Even his parents were getting seemingly dumber by the minute, just by spending time at the new mall or worrying over the news. Some of the bigger news were that there currently was a Phantom thief roaming around the rich district not far from where Jon and his parents lived. Darn, now even the narrator called him Jon.
The thief was apparently stealing from everyone, and would go after anything. He would use a rope or a line to walk in between buildings on his nightly routines, which he didn’t care to take down afterwards, thus leaving some evidence for the police. Yep, Jonathan had heard almost anything there was to know about this case, not that it interested him much.
It was just another plain Friday, in his plain boring life, that would probably look to be as boring in 30 years, maybe with a boring wife and a couple children too. There is no way he could have predicted how his life was just about to turn.
After having spent the day with Maria at his house, they went out for a walk in the pinewoods. Everything out there seemed quiet and peaceful, almost dead in comparison to the hectic every-day in the streets of mid-city where Maria lived with her dad. Her mom had died when she was 10, quite a tragic story about a terrorist attack where Maria had witnessed her mother die while pleading that they could kill her daughter instead. The incident had left Maria quite scarred, not because of her mother’s death, but because of what she had said about Maria. Even worse now was that her father were almost never home. He was constantly at work, or so he claimed. Maria had shared her theory of him having something with a lady from a café at main street with Jonathan, who acted as if he actually cared by responding with an optimistic “Aha” and “I see”. He knew he was an idiot, a boring one too, that he would never really get to have a nice life and that he had lost every friend he had ever got. His way of saying goodbye to the ones home in England before leaving for Smalland, was to leave each of them a letter where he told them his honest opinion, such as “You whine too much” or “I have always hated your optimism”. He was beginning to think about what to write to the people here in Derigesby when he left for something better.
Because he would, some day, he was sure of it.