Spectrophobia

23: Epilogue

I switched off the television. The remote that sat in my hand dropping slowly onto the ground as my thoughts charged at me head on - like a raging bull.

Shit...

I couldn't help but feel slightly guilty of this horrible situation. But I had a job to do. But perhaps - maybe it was good that this had happened.

Well, it was too late to act the hero now. When you do this job, you have to learn that sometimes you just can't be there to help everyone. Get over it.

I stood up from my cushion and walked up the stairs to my - temporary - bedroom. It was small, enough to hold a bed, table and chair. But really, that was all I needed. Enough to live on my job at least.

I clicked on the lamp that sat in the puddle of paper mess and planted myself in the chair opposite the piles. Pushing aside random sheets of the paper, I found the hardened edge of my hardcover book and drew it out under the snowy pile of scrap paper. This caused a bunch of paper to cascade down either side from its messy pile. Whatever, I could deal with those later.

I opened the book. Its page creased open, the scent of a fresh newly bought book erupted from between the white sheets. I pressed my palm firmly on the page to keep it from springing up and annoying the piss out of me when I began to write. Then I fished out a pen from somewhere in the messy pile.

From watching the news, I knew the police would be trying to cover up the story. I know they had a chat with Jane. The lovely sane girlfriend. She would tell them about me. About the crazy shirtless guy who had been politely invited into her home.

Shame, she was a rather nice lady.

Before I could begin writing, I started to daze off in wonder. I wondered about the possibilities that could occur after I finished writing what I wanted. I took this time to sweep my gaze around the room.

I would most likely have to leave all this mess behind. All the beautiful paper spilling from the desk to the floor and stuck scrunched up to the walls. All the handsome books that held copied works and information regarding my work. It would all have to be buried under ash. Ever single piece of evidence that I was ever here; living and breathing; would have to vanish along with myself.

I sighed deeply.

I would miss the bed. It was much more comfy than the previous one, and much more comfy than the floor or a couch. I would also miss the generous neighbours of Harriet who left their leftovers for me to try - for me to microwave and eat happily and heartily.

Moving my gaze back onto the fresh produced sheet in front of me - I began to smile.

Raymond Newman was free. In a better place now. Far away from his pain.

I know that, I know that very well.

With all these thoughts circulating my mind, I found the next words I could use to start this new documentation of my most recent work.

Of the house with the mirror.

I pressed the tip of the pen onto the paper and began to write.

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