The Book

THE BOOK






I awaken in the darkness, confused and scared. A lone candle sputters fitfully on small dark table against the far wall, casting murky light on the stone floor and walls. The room is small and uninviting. I cannot remember how I came to be here, but my body is stiff with neglected care.
I shiver at the cold stone under my body. With an unnatural effort, I struggle to sit up. I am hardly able to keep my head aloft; it bobs against my chest before I can steady it against the roughly chiseled stone wall. I am eye level with the lone candle and beside it I can see a book, and even from across the room, I see its cover is thick with dust. As unused as I feel.
I search the room for something familiar, something that will lift the fog, which is thick in my unsteady head. I am sitting on a slab of granite that juts out from the wall. I can see the outline of a door to my right; its stony surface is nearly seamless in the wall. I hear a sound, scrapping I think, coming from the door, faint, like the whisper of breeze. It’s persistent and rhythmic.
I can’t remember this place. It’s foreign to me –but not…something at the edge of my awareness…a sensation of déjà vu. But the familiarity is gauzy and fades like mist in the blowing wind.
Other than the dark table and the items on it, I am alone. The noise at the door is unchanged and gnaws at me like a rat. My teeth chatter, but I am numb to the cold. I fight the sense of panic rising like bile in my body. My stomach is a tight knot. Where am I? I want to scream into the darkness. But, I fear my own scream will only drive my terror. As I sit, staring at the flickering yellow flame, another question arises in my mind and threatens to squeeze off the air in my lungs, like an iron vise around my chest. Who am I?
I lurch forward, nearly falling off the slab of cold stone I had been on. The panic of moments ago seems a babe in light of this new horror. I hear a raspy wheeze and nearly scream, when I realize it’s my own labored breathing. Hunched over, my elbows resting on my knees, my jeans as dingy as the room, I close my eyes and think. Despite the cold, I feel a trickle of sweat trail down my temple. No thought comes. My mind is but a shadow of thought. I open my eyes and welcome the stale light.
After a few moments, my breathing settled, I try to rub the ache from my legs. My legs feel deadened, but I stand anyway. Swaying unsteadily, my arms out to catch my fall. I don’t fall, though. When sureness of foot comes, I take a tentative step toward the light. Halfway to the table I stop and turn to the door. It stands frameless, the seam gone in the gloom. I reach out, feeling its rough, chill surface. The sound of scrapping is louder now that I am nearer, but, still no louder then the footfalls of a cat. By the dim light of the candle, I can see no handle or latch. Nothing in which I could open the door. I trace what I think are the edges of the door and feel a faint breeze, damp and cool. I place my ear to the breeze, feeling the sweat there freeze into a sludgy substance on my face. The sound is no louder with my ear pressed to the door; still a persistent tapping.
By the time I reach the table, my legs tingle like a livewire running through them, I can smell a faint, sweet odor on the air. Lilac, I think. I gasp, realizing, the smell was familiar. “Lilacs”. I say to the cold air. I am relieved by the knowledge and breathe deeply the sweet aroma.
The book, a muted brown under a film of gray, is large in size; a tome, but thin, I imagine it contains few pages. The candle half gone with globs of wax down its side. I blow on the cover, dust billowing forth and I sneeze; plunging the room into temporary darkness, the wick of the candle sputtering, the flame turning a bright ember, before flickering back to life. It’s soft yellow glow glinting off two faded letters on the cover of the book. J.B.
I look at these initials for a long time, not really seeing them. Again, there was that faint flicker at the edge of my mind. These letters had meaning for me, but what, I don’t know. I trace each letter with my finger, feeling its slight depression and curves. My finger came away dusty. I fear opening the book. Afraid of what might be inside, although I am unsure where this fear comes from. It gnaws at me, like the sound still scrapping at the door.
With reluctance, I open the book, my finger pensive on its corner. The smell of Lilac wafts up from the book. My nose wrinkles, the nearness of the sweet aroma is almost too much. The first page is blank and lying between the cover and first page, a crushed, but fresh
looking Lilac. Its purplish flowers look bruised in its current state. As I stare at the flower, the sense of déjà vu is almost tangible. Like a heartbeat inside the room. Of the room itself, maybe. The longer I stare at the flower the stronger the feeling and the more I want to throw the flower or set it alit in the flicker of flame. I don’t though. I turn the page.
There are no words on this next page, only a photograph. A man stares up at me, dark eyes turned upward in a smile. He appears plain to me, but I assume he would be pleasing to some women. I begin to turn the page, uninterested in this man. There is no sense of knowing when I look upon him. I stop, something in the photograph catching my attention. Not the man, but the house behind him. A brick house, plain as the man, but familiar. A Lilac bush grows lush, under the large front window. No emotion comes up though, other than the feeling of knowing. I’ve been there. And as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I know it’s true. A piece of the puzzle. I look around the room again. It’s all a piece of some puzzle.
Another photograph stares up at me on the next page. A woman this time. As soon as I see her face on the photograph, I see it in my mind. A jumble of pictures flash in my head. Her face in my mind is nothing like the one staring at me. In my mind, it’s twisted in emotion. Is it rage? Fear? I don’t know, but the flash in my mind brings on a bout of dizziness. I clutch the wooden table for support, nearly upsetting the candle. When I realize the lightheadedness isn’t ebbing, I stubble back over to the slab of stone. I barely make it before slumping heavily down. The knot in my stomach has now been replaced by a lurching, queasey feeling. I lean forward, my head to my chest. I notice for the first time my grimy T-shirt. Dark finger smudges dominate the front, yellow stains spread from under my arms. How long have I been in these clothes?
When at last the queasiness settles, I sit up. The odor of from my shirt is rank. I wipe an arm across the dampness of my brow. The cool air does nothing for the feverish chill I feel. A thought occurs to me and I shamble over to the table. The book is still open to the women. I risk another look. No flashes of memories come.
She is beautiful. Blonde hair cascades down her shoulder, blue eyes smiling up at me. Another flash of memory, her face twisted, this time I think it’s in agony. I close my eyes, jerking my head away. The memory fades into the shadows of my mind. Without opening my eyes, I turn the page back. Then I open my eyes, staring at the plain man. I study the picture, the man, the brick house looming in the background. I look over his face, my left hand then my right, caresses each contour of my own face, while my eyes follow each of his. Am I him? Is she my wife? I move slowly, trying to see my own face with my fingers as I examine the man in the photograph. My face is course with short hair. His is smooth. Could this be me? But, my own nose feels bigger, bulbous. The man before me has a hooked nose, puny compared to my own. The man’s thick hair is curly and extends partially over his ear. My own hair is cut close and as rough as my face. I am not him, or he me, I think.
I grab the corner of the current page and finger the next. Turning both, so I don’t have to look at the woman, I come to the second to the last page. The back cover is a black border against the white of the page. Again, another photograph. This one of two small kids,
sand caked; their bathing suits cling to their bodies. A half constructed sandcastle lies at their feet. The white sand and blue water, reflect the warmth of the day. I feel envious of the openness of the picture more than the warmth. I still wipe sweat from my brow, smudging dirt on dirt.
Both kids are pale blonde. They would be called toe-heads and I imagine they burned in the sunlight of that day. Such fair skin. They look no more than five or six. Twins. One boy, one girl. If one had not had longer hair and a one-piece bathing suit, I would have mistaking both for boys. I don’t know them. Just a couple of kids.
Although there were no flashes of memory or emotion at the sight of these kids, I feel something bubbling just under the surface. Anger. But, why? There’re just children. Try as I might at first, to subdue, then understand, the anger, I can’t. It remains, festering like a boil under the skin.
One page remains. I was pretty sure that meant one picture remained. But, I wasn’t ready to move on. So far only one picture had provoked any memory. Although, it left me dizzy and breathless, I had to know why. The anger I felt looking at the kids could just have been my own rage at the strange place I found myself. I thought this book had the answers to: Who am I? Why am I here? I had to know and I thought whoever put me here had left this book for just that reason. I knew that I had not locked myself in here. But, who did? That may be an even better question. I turned the page back and wait for the storm to come.
As the images come, I close my eyes; not against them, but to add to their clarity. I grasp the table. The images are the same. A snapshot of her twisted face. Agony. Rage. Both seemed etched in the lines of her face, the downward turn of her mouth. I open my eyes.
Blue, smiling eyes look up at me still. The twisted face in my mind is gone. Unlike the other photographs, I see no background. Only her face and a pale blue shirt. The first three buttons undone, revealing the swell of flesh. More images strike like lighting, if I hadn’t been clutching the table, I think I would have crashed to the stone floor.
I see her face in my mind. This time it’s like a movie instead of a snapshot. I am looking at her from above, as I did when I looked upon her picture. She twists beneath me, my body crushing against hers. My hands visible before me as they slap and tug at her. Her clothing, a shredded mess of cloth clinging to her body. I shut my eyes, rubbing my fingers over them. The images won’t stop. The movie plays on. I hear no sound, in this movie of my mind, but I don’t need to. I watch in horror at the atrocities I inflict on her.
“Stop!” I scream into the emptiness. It plays on. Tears stream down my face to drip on the photograph. I scream again and again. My voice reverberating off the stone walls to assail my ears. My throat and head ache, but still it plays on. In my mind I see her lifeless body beneath me. Blood glistens on our bodies, in the moonlight coming from the window. I know the blood is all hers. And in the mind movie, I feel ecstasy over the sight of it. In the time of here and now, I feel sick, but am unable to retch. In the instant I see her naked body, slick with blood, and writhing under mine, I am cured of my amnesia. Everything floods into my mind and I stumble backward, losing my grip on the table, my hands slippery with sweat. I strike my calves on the hard slab of stone and sit down with a thud. The air in my lungs whooshes out. I gasp for air, as darkness crowds my vision, I struggle to remain conscious. And still the movie plays on, tormenting me. But, I know what happens now. I’ve seen it before.
I get up from the bed, warmth dripping down by body. A litter of debris clutters the floor. I see myself picking up my clothes, slipping them on over the glossy surface of my body. The clothes feel damp and sticky almost instantly. I am both men at the same time, but really only one. I am here in the coolness of my stone prison and there in the warmth of my wickedness. Again, the sensation of ecstasy flows through me, threatening to arrest my movie self in rapturous joy, a juxtaposition of the retching fit I am having in the present. The mind movie continues as the coughing subsides. I am walking down the hall. Light from a bedroom ahead illuminates my way. I pause in the doorway. I squint into the brightness, my hands gleam red in the bright light giving off from the hanging lamp. When I see what I saw on the bed, I scream, falling to the cold floor on all fours. My movie self, though, looks on with a feeling of indifference, and I feel if I don’t stop this madness, I will die. The blood in my head pounds with such force that I squeeze my temples in fear that the vessels there will burst. But, they don’t burst.
I can see the twins, lying wrapped together in a soft pink comforter. Their normally pale skin is now as white as the pillow their small heads rest on. I had brought death to them. I had killed these three people. Was I in prison? Had I been caught? Knowing what I had done, my stone hell seemed a fitting punishment. That’s what I thought then.
I turned from the bedroom, shutting the light off as I did. I jump; both mes in both places. The plain man stands before me, tottering on the top stair. His eyes are wide, the pupils, big black voids against the white. His arms are held out straight, a small black object, shapeless in the dim light, is held tightly in his hands.

With a sinking realization I knew now, and then, what the object is. Now, I frown, then, I smiled. The man mouthed one word. His face was tight with rage and terror. BASTARD! His mouth moving slowly, I can see it as if a camera has zoomed in. Strings of saliva connecting the corners of his mouth. Before the me in the hall had yelped, I knew how this movie ended, and in that instant, nothing made sense.
With a blinding flash of light and a snap of pain, the movie ended. In the room I fall back against the wall, my head striking the rough stone, with a thwack sound. Pain blossoms in my head, but it paled in the face of my discovery. I rub frantically at my forehead, sagging in relief at only feeling a sweat slicked brow.
I lurch unsteadily toward the table and pull the candle close. In a rush, I flip to the last page. I can feel the blood drain from my face as I stare at this last picture. I know the minute I see the photograph it’s of me. A crime scene photo, the typing on the bottom reads: Santa Maria Police Dept. -00459 Upstairs hallway. Jack Bradshaw. December 25, 2002, 2:25am.
I slump to the ground, my mind reeling, the book in my hands falls into my lap. Through confusion, I look down at myself looking up. My eyes are vacant. A red pool of liquid frames my head; there is a black spot in the middle of my forehead. I am dead. If this is a prison, it’s a prison for the dead. How can this be? I slip deeper and deeper into confusion and shock. I don’t want to be dead. How can I be dead? I am here, breathing and sweating. How?
I look up at the door. The sound of stone grating on stone echoes off the walls, bringing me back to reality. It’s deafening. I scramble to shut the book still lying on my lap. A part of my mind tells me this is a ridicules act. Whoever holds the key to my prison knows my sins. But, I slam the book closed and throw it against the wall, where I know the door will block it from view when it opens.
I climb to my feet, not wanting to meet my visitor from the cold ground. I am ashamed at what I am and hang my head as heat from the doorway bakes in. I lift my head, confusion at the sudden warmth. The air coming from outside had been cool, but now, now it blasts in like a furnace. I can feel my skin turn red from the heat of it. And I scream into the face of darkness. Because it is my own.

THE END