I hope this finds you well, Cyberspace.
JIM
He looked at the cover. it looked like it had been read hundreds of times. The title and author's name were faded beyond recognition.
"Go ahead...pick me up."
He jumped. There was nobody else around.
"Yeah...you. Pick me up. You won't regret it."
He watched his aching hand reach out and grab the battered spine from the shelf. It was much heavier than expected - he almost dropped it.
"Open me."
He glanced up at the concave mirror in the corner. The reflection showed only himself and the the book in his hands. His hand trembled as he peeled back the cover. The dedication simply read 'For Jim.'
"That's strange," he said aloud. His name was Jim. He turned the leaf - and he was shocked by the opening line of the story.
'The baby was brought into the world on a cold autumn night - October 25, to be exact, 1892.'
That was Jim's birthday, long ago as it was. The next page told of the death of the baby's father in a train accident - Jim's father had been killed the day after he was born in a train derailment. He slammed the book closed.
"Go ahead Jim; keep reading. Don't you want to know?"
Jim knew he should put the book back on the shelf - but he couldn't. His curiosity got the better of him. As he cracked the volume open again, he felt a strange sense of foreboding. He skimmed the pages, reading about his old relationships, his mother, experiences he remembered and some things he had completely forgotten. Before he knew it, Jim had wasted three hours in the book store.
"Go ahead Jim...skip to the end. That's the best part anyway."
That's exactly what Jim did. He skipped ahead to the last chapter. It told of Jim as an old man, bedridden and sick. It spoke of his suffering and eventual mental breakdown. He finally reached the last page of the story - only to find the last line trailing off in mid-sentence. Jim threw the book to the floor and angrily made his way down the aisle.
***
'Another long day at work,' thought the nurse as she made her final rounds. All of the patients were asleep now, and it was her job to go make sure everything was cleaned up. She always saved the library for last, and today was no different. As she was making her rounds, she stumbled upon a red book that seemed to have been written on a typewriter. It was laying on the floor, opened to the back cover. The only writing that was visible was a signature - 'Jim McFadden, memoirs, 1957.'
Peace and Love
The Critical Stranger
As always thoughts, comments and suggestions are encouraged and appreciated!
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