The Book of Memories

The First Night

Your eyes flutter open to find a room that is not your own, in clothes you had not worn upon falling asleep. Instead of lying in a nice bed, you are greeted by the surprising comfort of a, maroon, velvet chair situated not too far from a fireplace. The glowing amber light reveals a man sitting in a similar chair. His face, oddly as warm as the fire, stares at you with a gentle smile; chills racing throughout your body. Unlike your demeanor, he is well kept: aged silver hair (swept to the right), speck less, and dressed in all white. The only comfort you can seem to find is the gentle blue of his endlessly observant eyes. Something about them is serene, docile, safe... Instincts return, head frantically moving, you see the wooden walls, the dust covered bookshelves, the many old trinkets, and various portraits throughout the room: the only light coming from various fires, may it be the one in the fireplace or the many on the candles. Standing seems to be impossible, and everything becomes freezing. Sweat dripping, heart beating as hard as punches, you're locked only in what you can presume to be fear. Freedom stripped of you, not by the old man, but by your own terror. Not a single sound, not even an audible grunt, could be uttered. Is it the light, airy, feeling or the same thing restricting speech?

"Hello there, and welcome," rich velvety words escape the old man's mouth.

Everything in you became still, and the panic has seemingly started trudging away. So kind, so warm, fear has no choice but to hide. He continued, "You might be wondering who exactly I am, where you are, and why you are here along with how. Firstly, you know the answer to the first question already. I am your friend. Whether I am the voice in your head, your subconscious, the thing that's watching you from afar, or something long ago from your past does not matter. All that matters is that I am your friend who, for the purpose of making things easier, can be called Mr. Story. As for this place: it is my home. That is all you need to know."

Processing the information, you ease back a bit into your chair, movement finally having returned, but now you are compelled to stay. Curiosity, comfort, a different kind of fear, motive isn't a concern. Coming close to such, and thus gaining your immediate attention, is the old man's wrinkled, callused, hand resting atop a withering green book, which seemingly possessed more pages than that of the total amount of knowledge stored in the former Library of Alexandria. It has no title, at least none that you are aware of.

"This book is older than what you may think. It has survived countless centuries before ending up in my possession, going from one place to another. Legends, written in this very book, say that it has survived the burning of the Library of Alexandria, and came from an era far before the Library's formation. Its name? It is a book simply titled, Memories. You might be wondering, what's so important about this decaying bundle of tree. Well, this decaying bundle of tree will provide you and me with many stories, for many nights to come. Every night, you will find yourself with me, here, in my home, and together we will sit down by a nice cozy fire and read one story. Once done, we will part ways until the next night, in which, we will continue. To what end is pointless. All that you should worry your head about is the words I'm about to utter."

He grabs a pair of glasses from his coat pocket, and rests them on the bridge of his nose. Before even grabbing the book of the wooden table next to him, he looks to you; slightly widen eyes with raised brows, his beautiful voice asks, "Would you like something to drink before we continue? We may be here for a while. If you ever get thirsty, at anytime, your favorite drink will be available to you on the table to your right."

You look over to see a simple mug filled with a strange black liquid. Lifting it, shakily, to your nose, you smell it. There is no scent. You look up to Mr. Story to find that he hasn't stopped looking at you yet. Compelled, and somehow comforted, by his mellow gaze, you slowly put the mug to your mouth, and let the mysterious liquid pour down your throat. As it passed your tongue, chunky and slimy, you find the taste to be the same as your favorite beverage. When you look back down, the level of the liquid had not seemed to go down. Naturally weirded out by the 'drink,' you put it back on the table, and rest on the chair as Mr. Story finally heaves the massive slab of pages and binding onto his frail lap.

He opened the book, and began flipping through pages, until he reached one near the start. He then goes onto say, "Since it is our first time, we will start with something palatable for beginning readers," he pauses to clear his throat.

To Be Continued...