Arthur opened his eyes in a sudden wave of panic. A bump on the road made the car jump and woke him up in cold sweat. He was laying in complete darkness, in the trunk of a car. It took him quite a while to realise what was happening; no, he wasn't being kidnapped and no, he wasn't about to be dumped in a forest and murdered in cold blood. He was hitchhiking - from a small town in Poland to Berlin, from Berlin to the city of stars, to the city of romance, to his biggest dream - Paris. Now, he didn't speak French. In fact, the only things he knew how to say was "je suis fatigué" and "je ne comprends pas" which was, to be fair, fundamental. The young man sighed deeply and tried to brush his long blonde hair back which didn't quite work out because of the obvious lack of space in the trunk. He always imagined what Paris would be like, and the closer he got, he panicked that it might not live up to his expectations more and more. For him, it was a big city glowing like a thousand fireflies stuck in a mason jar, full of weird, futuristic and controversial people who expressed their love of fashion and underground cafés every chance they got, but most importantly full of opportunities and new experiences. Truth is, as much as he loved (or should I say tried to love) his hometown and Poland in general, he wanted to get away. Start a new life, make new friends, live a life full of adventures and never settle down. "Live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse" as people used to say it.
"Fuck," he whispered to himself as something hit his head, "seriously?"
Arthur moved his guitar away from himself. That was his plan. The plan everyone mocked. He ran off to Paris to play guitar and become a famous rockstar. Sure, saying it like that may make it lack credibility, but the boy wasn't stupid. He liked good music, and knew all the chords to his favorite Pixies songs, and if the music part didn't work out he had his breathtaking looks; blue eyes, blonde hair, nicely sculpted face. Who in their right mind wouldn't hire a cute boy with a guitar, he often asked himself. But in the very back of his mind, there was a shadow of a doubt. He pushed the "logical thinking" part as far away as he could, but he didn't manage to tame it. And he was afraid. What if this won't work out? How can he come back home? Why did he even do this? After all, he was just seventeen. He barely had any money. He didn't even speak french. Even if he tried to act calm, the only thing he actually wanted to do was make the drivers turn the car around and go back home to live his boring life in his boring home in his boring hometown in gray, boring communist Poland. That would be the safest option. The less stressful one. But he was so far into this. Did he really want to give up now? No. No, he did not.
