There’s this one night and I was awake. People are awake during this hour but they pretend they’re asleep. It is the hour where we open our eyes in perfect consciousness, like we’ve never been where we are but somewhere else entirely before we opened our eyes. So much so that we lead ourselves to believe we can cover this consciousness away like a secret. From infants to ancients, this hour doesn’t let anyone escape from that one heartbeat of a second that brings back terrors, joys, fears and unknown and strange forms which we may have been living with or will live with. These images, sounds, memories whatever you want to call it are scraps from a book. A story book you hold within you. They are stories yet to be told or have been telling itself to us or will be told to us. We ignore it. Shut ourselves into slumber once more to forget these glimpses of stories that could’ve helped or hurt us and change our lives.
One night it was cold but you feel warm in the inside. You feel a fever coming in. You were working your ass off the whole day. All you want to do was leave this world and forget its noise and pollution. All you want to do is to shut yourself down like a robot, if it were only that easy. Yet you pick up this book. You think it will serve as the off switch. Innocent adult that you are a kid may have figured this was a bad idea. The book is heavy, closed in a latch of red and a tiny gold plated metal to serve as lock. The latch is unmistakably hand-sewn because of the bad work and the thread is falling off. The hard leather bound gives off that smell you have been addicted to as a kid much like pesticides and nicotine. So you unlock it, touching the cold metal until it clicks off, give it a wave to sway all the dust inside out your bed. Anyway you don’t want tiny insects lurking in your bed, you barely clean your room. You get a sniff off the rotten yellow pages that give off that vanilla aroma everyone’s talking about. Old books are the heroine of bibliophiles. Vintage wine for both of us, yes I’m talking to you. We are the only talkative beings in your room, aren’t we? Cut me some slack and turn to the other page.
Yes, perfect we are here, where your story begins. Yes, this is one of those stories you leave behind to go to sleep and forget. This is the story you ignore every night so you can live out your life peacefully. This is the pest that surrounds your bed to give you nightmares and false hopes in dreams because you fail to admit that they are here, waiting to be written by you, by us. I am here to help, to guide you and make you feel as if I am writing your story but instead you are. This will ease the burden from you. It is deathly to write The Story, I tried and I’ve failed. Now I’m here to cut myself out of this misery and you from this wall that separates you from the truth that your life is meant to be. No matter what you just did, you opened the book. You opened My Story. Now you will not stop until you will be able to write the story you’ve been hiding from yourself, keeping it away because your parents think your “Imagination is just way to active” or “Yes, kiddo. Water can turn into wine. But only Jesus can do that. We can’t. You can’t” Enough of that crap! You are old and helpless. You’ve been living your life how you thought you want it to be but that’s not what you want. Your story is what you want, what you need, what you crave. The life you will always wish to have but cannot pursue because you have no clue how to get there. Now we will make sure that won’t happen. With my glorious service you will not suffer my fate. You will not have to stop your life and live in seclusion to write your story and live it. I will be your hand. I will serve you. You owe me. I’ll tell you how but we have to move. This is going nowhere and my introduction has gone too far from point. Oh well, continue and start reading unless you want me to jump off of this page and turn the sheet for you.
Love, Sebastian.
P.S. When you hear something that you don’t usually hear, ignore it. I get hungry occasionally. Writing your story can get a bit sweaty, you know.
YOU ARE READING
Just Another Creepy Sh*t
Short StoryA bunch of weird stuff transferred from brain to fingers to keyboard to screen. That's pretty much it. Entertain yourself, Like imagine stuff.
