The Tragedy of Eden's Gate

1 - Welcome To Hell

I've always hated Eden's Gate.

Alright, that's rather dramatic.

What I mean is— I've hated Eden's Gate for as long as I've known about it. Which is, to say, not very long at all.

It's a tragic place full of tragic people. I'm serious— I've never seen so many miserable, sullen faces in all my life, and I've been through the hell that is college. People wander vaguely from store to store, gazes locked forwards, lost to their own worlds. Their expressions are blank, tinged with a melancholy sort of fog, and even as we drive past, they do not spare the car even a fleeting glance, nor a shred of attention. It's like we've stumbled upon an apocalypse.

The car journey has been long and unforgiving. I've lapsed into silence, languid wax against my seat, as I gaze out at the streets, studying my new home and judging it at face value. My mum, who up until this point has provided a steady stream of one-sided, upbeat conversation, falls quiet and joins me in my assessment of the place. She turns the radio down and, I have to admit, I'm glad of it. They've blasted the same eighties classics for the duration of the drive, and I'm just about ready to lose my mind.

We warily look out at the town. Home. For now, at least.

It's a ghastly place. All cobbled alleys and run-down storefronts and grey skies. I mean, the weather can't be helped, but the place looks as though it was left back in the era of those awful songs and time hasn't quite caught up with the rest of the world just yet.

And, I figure, it wouldn't kill them to invest in a few flower boxes, or something. Anything to add a bit of colour. A pop of something interesting. But all we get is grey, grey, and more grey.

The problem with Eden's Gate, I decide, is that it could be picturesque, if only a bit of effort went into the place. We drive over a stone bridge, and a fast-flowing river weaves a ribbon through green-dusted forests and nestles right up to a low brick wall bordering a few houses, a quaint bakery, and a little library. The wall is washed with mottled algae and dried mud where the waterline must've risen, but it holds firm; a damp sentry acting as floodgate.

The cottages are gloomy and the stores dilapidated, and any hint of tranquillity gets swept away in the river the further into Eden's Gate we venture.

"This'll be fun," mum says, determination like a plate of armour coating her voice. She taps the steering wheel with her fingers and nods. The pretence cracks and I watch as her shoulders sag. "Holy shit, it's miserable here."

She's got that right, but we don't have a choice.

And, I muse, it has to be better than home.

The drive has been uneventful, until now, and I dislodge my glasses to rub at my stinging eyes. Serves me right for staying up all night packing. I delayed it for as long as possible, hoping for a better turn of events. The backseat is crowded with hastily packed bags and suitcases all shoved into whatever crevice they happen to fit in. It's a fine art — making a puzzle of your own belongings — and yet the masterpiece will be destroyed soon enough when we open the back door. Then it will go from a puzzle to an explosion.

We've left a bad situation for a bittersweet one; swapped them out like some horrible game we can't quite understand the rules of. We have no choice but to make do with what we're given, even if it's overshadowed by a gloomy circumstance and an even more gloomy town.

"It's not that bad, Theo," mum jokes, giving me a rallying nudge.

In an effort to follow her cheerful lead, I cover my eyes and pretend to weep.

The phone chirps directions at us in an electric voice; eternally energetic as it leads us towards a dismal new home.

We don't need the directions anymore. Or, at least, mum doesn't. She's been here before (as have I, but I was only small and my recollection is blurry at best), but she likes a job to be finished, and she will let the phone direct us until the very end, lest the house has grown legs and wandered off.