A Sentence Worse Than Death
George was having the worst day of his life.
It had started with the barn—decrepit, drafty, and filled with all manner of horrors he refused to acknowledge. Then came the bathroom, or rather, the absolute lack thereof. Then there had been the incident at the bar—an event so mortifying, so unspeakably humiliating, that he had mentally exiled it to the deepest corners of his psyche, never to be unearthed again.
And now, he had received a letter.
He had spotted it upon his return to the barn, sitting innocuously on the wooden table in the attic. A crisp envelope, his name written in his father’s elegant, precise handwriting. For a single, fleeting moment, he had allowed himself to hope.
Perhaps his parents had come to their senses. Perhaps this had all been some ghastly clerical error, a mix-up so absurd that they were already booking his return passage home, penning their most sincere apologies for the distress they had caused.
Perhaps, by some miracle, he was being rescued.
With trembling hands, he tore open the letter.
My dearest George,
I trust your travels went smoothly and that you are settling in well with your uncle and cousins.
George’s eye twitched. Incorrect.
Your mother and I are delighted that you will have the opportunity to experience a simpler way of life for the summer.
He froze.
For the summer?
We have always felt that your schooling, while excellent, has not given you the chance to develop practical skills or meaningful connections. You are a bright boy, but it is important to understand the world beyond books—its people, its customs, and, dare I say, its eligible young ladies.
George’s stomach twisted into knots. His vision blurred at the edges.
To that end, we have arranged for you to remain with your uncle for the entirety of the summer. We trust that by the time you return, you will have gained a great appreciation for hard work, self-sufficiency, and perhaps even a meaningful connection or two.
We expect you to behave as a guest in your uncle’s home and make an effort to learn from this experience.
With love,
Father.
The letter crumpled in George’s trembling fist.
The entire summer.
Not a week. Not a few days.
Months.
Months of this—of waking up to the scent of hay, of trudging through dirt roads, of bathing in what was essentially a glorified watering trough—an undignified, appalling excuse for hygiene that made him question whether he had, in fact, been exiled to some prehistoric era. Of existing in a world so backward, so primitive, so utterly devoid of reason and logic that people did not even know what an outlet was.
He was going to die.
Slowly, mechanically, he sat on the edge of his bed. He gazed out the window at the endless fields, the horses grazing as if nothing was amiss, the dirt roads stretching into the horizon like some cruel, infinite punishment devised by fate itself.
This was not his home.
This was not his life.
But it would not remain this way.
No, he would find a way out. There had to be a train station, a coach, some means of escape hidden within this wretched, backwater purgatory. He would write to someone—his parents, an old professor, anyone with enough sense to realize the sheer travesty of his situation. Or perhaps he would simply walk. Walk until the dirt roads turned to cobblestone, until the air no longer smelled of livestock, until he saw a single, blessed streetlamp glowing in the distance. He would not die here. He would not rot away in obscurity, forgotten in a place that time itself had forsaken.
No, he would escape. Somehow. Some way.
And yet, for the foreseeable future, it was all he had.
George exhaled shakily, pressing his fingers to his temples. He felt faint. He felt ill. He felt like screaming into the void until the universe itself rearranged reality to correct this egregious mistake.
But no.
He had two choices.
He could dissolve into a wretched puddle of despair, surrendering himself to the cruel whims of fate.
Or…
He could survive.
His back straightened.
Fine.
If he was to endure this barbaric exile, he would do so with dignity. He would wake up each morning with grace, eat whatever primitive slop was placed before him with poise, and endure the lack of modern conveniences with the unwavering composure of a man who was definitely not having a nervous breakdown.
He was a Wasteman. No, wait—he was a gentleman.
And a gentleman did not crumble under adversity.
He would not be defeated.
He would be miserable, certainly. But not defeated.
And maybe—just maybe—he would find a way to make his parents regret ever sending him here.