‘Me’ by Anushi Fotedar
This book. It’s about me, I know it. A year ago, around a month after my daughter’s funeral, I found it in one of the dozens of boxes full of her belongings one night. I had opened it, expecting it to be a diary of some sorts, but it was a story. You wouldn’t expect it from the cover, you know, what with the intricately carved rose thorns and lack of title. But that’s all it was. A story.
At least, that’s what I had thought. That night, I had cracked open the dusty cover, hoping to immerse myself in a world that snatched me away from the dreaded claws of reality. I read the first chapter. It was a plain enough story, a man in his early thirties messing about with his wife and daughter. But as I kept reading, I couldn’t shake the creeping feeling that the book was about me. It had to be.
I mean, really, how is it that the protagonist had black hair and grey eyes and a daughter called Natalie and a wife called Hannah and they split up and his daughter died in a car accident? It was my daughter’s way of reaching out to me, this book, her way of telling me she was still with me. I just had to hold on, she was saying. Just hold on and wait for her. Of course I would, I told her. I’d do anything for my darling Natalie.
So hold on I did, and here I am. Here I am, with the book split wide open on the kitchen counter, words spilling onto the blank pages as I watch with morbid fascination. For the book is not complete; oh, no, it writes as I read, and it only ever writes so much. I cannot reach the ending, how much ever desperately I try. I want to reach the ending, I really do, but I wonder sometimes. If I knew the ending would present itself when I turned the page, would I turn it? Would I continue to lick my finger and flip the page, to read and to know and to understand?
His fingers tensed around the curl of the page, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. He hadn’t turned the heater on. He really ought to have had done so, for it was the chilly month of October. A dangerous month it was, October. A month where the cold seeped in slowly, quietly, unnoticed, muffling the hideous screams of the summer warmth as it slowly sucked the air out of its lungs. With a clench of his jaw, he slammed the book shut.
I slammed the book shut, my jaw tightly clenched. I was used to this, it knowing my every move, my every thought, my every emotion, but it never felt any less obtrusive, no matter how much I read. Sometimes, the book wrote only up to the day’s events. Sometimes, it showed me the next. Sometimes, it showed me nothing it all. It was unpredictable.
But whatever the book showed me, I read. I had to, or else Natalie would feel upset. She’d left me this book so I could read it, after all.
~~~
It’s tomorrow today. I’m awake again. I’m still tired. I drag myself out of bed and make some coffee. It tastes how it did yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. I take a shower and change my clothes, walking the twenty minutes to my office. My coworkers still give me odd glances whenever I walk into the room. A hushed silence falls, as if all the joy in the building has been smothered under a thick blanket.
I hate it.
I hate it, and I wish they would stop. I wish it would go away, the constant glances and muffled whispering.
But of course it doesn’t.
So I do my work and I go home, and then I make some more coffee and take another shower. I grab the book from its place on the shelf next to Natalie’s picture and I open it. I begin to read, humming absentmindedly to myself.
The workday had been gruelling and he wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the comfort of his bed, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open and read. As he read, he couldn’t shake the creeping feeling that he was being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and an irrational fear took hold of him. He turned around, peering outside the windows, but the cold streets of London were empty at this time of night. No one was there, and yet. And yet. Something told him Death was crawling closer and watching him with a delighted grin on its face, and all he could do was watch.
I shift uncomfortably, willing the words on the page to go away. I wasn’t being stalked or anything, and I hadn’t really thought anything about anybody watching me until I read those words. Well, now it’s all I can think about. I turn the page, then curse. It’s blank. Of course it is.
I go to bed, practically threatening myself to sleep. I have a fitful dream, a dream where I’m being chased by something but I can’t seem to turn around and look at it because that would be very, very wrong. I wake up in a cold sweat, and then forget all about it the next morning.
~~~
I’m reading the damned book again. I’ve been doing my best to not read it, because it keeps putting ideas in my head — strange ideas that don’t belong. I’d always been convinced Natalie wanted me to read the book, but I’m not so sure now.
He remembered when Natalie was six, and they were running away from her mother, who was chasing after them both with a slipper in hand. Round and round in circles they went, all over the house, giggling and laughing, until they eventually collapsed on the floor, their breathing laboured and their eyes twinkling with mirth. Hannah’s grip on the slipper tightened as she caught up to them, huffing. Soon she was yelling the house down about paint splattered on the walls and idiotic childish behaviour, waving the threatening slipper over their heads. After, they had dinner and cuddled together, lulling each other to sleep.
I couldn’t read the words on the page anymore. Everything was blurry and the words were bleeding into each other and I tried to blink the blurriness away and water was pouring out of my eyes but why was I crying? Nothing was making sense, except for one fact — I had been a fool to question whether Natalie wanted me to read this or not. These memories, these moments, so carefully woven in time, were her way of comforting me, of telling me she loved me. She was here, and so I had to be too.
~~~
My skin itched terribly. I tried to scratch it, but the itch just wouldn’t go away. The harder I scratched, the harder it itched. And I wanted to stop scratching now, because it hurt, but I couldn’t. I had to scratch it, you understand, or Natalie wouldn’t be able to understand how much I loved her. It hurt, but I would tear the world apart for her, so this pain was bearable. Anything was bearable if it was for Natalie.
After carefully tightening the bandages around my wrist, I pulled out the book from the shelf and sat down with a mug of hot chocolate. Natalie had always loved hot chocolate, so now I made it a routine to drink some every night before bed. I sipped at it slowly, routinely turning the pages, my heart clenching at every turn, anticipating the blank page that was soon to come. So far, however, it kept going, detailing the events of tomorrow.
Try as he might, he simply couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was following him and that it was creeping closer. Yesterday, even at work, he had felt its presence breathing down his neck and sharpening its claws, but when he had whipped around, no one was there. He brushed a hand across his nape, the ghost of a breath still lingering.
I nervously licked my lips. The book was right. Of course it was; it always was. Today, at work, I had this uncanny feeling of something watching me again. I think I have a stalker, but I can’t be sure. This presence, it keeps following me and it won’t leave me alone, no matter how much I try to run and to hide. It’s creepy and relentless and I want it to go away, I really do, but something tells me it isn’t going to.
~~~
This morning, I dash straight to the book. I don’t have work today, so I needn’t mindlessly go through the daily routine of a weekday. I carefully open it on my lap, biting my lip in anticipation.
He bit his lip, fingers trembling as they caressed the dog-eared pages. His eyes widened as he realised the book was writing as he was reading it, the words appearing on the blank pages like blood soaking through paper. This had never happened before. Suddenly, his hairs stood on end and he startled, turning to look behind him. A shadow... there was a shadow. The shadow was watching him, tilting its head as he tilted his, copying his every move. Its gaze pierced through the man, and the man knew. He knew that the shadow wanted him dead. The shadow wanted to kill him, and it would succeed.
The book plopped beside me unceremoniously as I fell on the floor, pulling at my hair.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to draw in a breath, but my lungs simply refused. They were pushing the air out, they were trying to kill me, it was all the shadow’s doing, it wanted me dead, I was going to die—
I choked on a sob and rolled myself into a ball, rocking back and forth, willing the trembling to go away. Please, go away, please, leave me alone. Please.
~~~
I don’t want to look at the book. I know what it’s going to say. The shadow keeps pressing on me, watching me with a predatory glint. It’s going to kill me today, I know it. I open the book, flipping a page. I flip another. I flip another.
It’s blank.
There’s nothing written on it.
I feel the panic rising up my throat as I hysterically turn the pages, only to be met with emptiness.
I turn around, to stare at the shadow on the wall. It’s watching me, still. It’s always watching. I fall, crawling away and begging and mumbling incoherently. The shadow does not care. Instead, it mocks me, crawling back too as if to call me a coward.
I watch as the shadow walks to the kitchen, picking up a knife. I watch as the shadow sharpens the knife, humming to itself. I watch as the shadow watches me, staring at me. I watch as the shadow walks to Natalie’s room, as it sits on her bed. I watch as the shadow raises the blade to my neck.
I watch.
I watch.
I watch.
At least that damn book is over.