He always had more potential than the others.
His mother believed that one day she would see him on stage, surrounded by crowds of fans who loved him. She would be lulled into a life of luxury that he would undoubtedly provide, allowing her to retire early and grow old while sipping Yorkshire tea and watching Strictly Come Dancing.
Studying at school and of an evening was his basic routine, making his mother so proud to see her son taking initiative in his own life, and his grades were evidence.
Overachieving was his minimum.
Maybe he was thought of as quiet, but he didn’t seem to mind when the 100% was engraved onto his paper like the one he was bound to get on his tombstone. Countless tests lead to countless rewards that his mum stacked in his room as a clear demonstration of his determination. In theory, he should’ve loved his award ceremonies, it would’ve been a chance to finalise his work for the year, but the dread that followed with them only made him wish he could have it posted through the mail.
Regardless of all his accomplishments, it seemed the only thing that people could point out was his odd socks. At first, he thought of it as a statement, something he could try to sort out but simply didn’t for the sake of not doing it. For some reason, it felt slightly out of line to wear socks of different materials and lengths, patterns and writing; it gave him personality.
When he was older, he felt himself trying to outgrow his habit, but was only greeted by hundreds of socks with an opposing partner. He tried to rematch them for months on end but was on a budget for time with all his exams approaching.
His studies piled up and the pressure got heavier.
His school clothes were formal, fitting and proper, apart from his socks. His mother was proud of him, telling him that she would get him help to fix him, a therapist would buy him a matching pair. He didn’t want someone else to buy him a new pair because he would lose them again, he knew he would.
He would fix it himself; he knew he could. He could handle it.
Teachers, parents, classmates, friends, family started reminding him about his image. The image that he had spent so long creating.
His perfect image of the golden boy that he was.
A golden boy who couldn’t even match his socks.
By Katie Barber