Lucas and the other man watched as the children played.
They had seized the opportunity to conduct a little experiment while the minders were out of the room and had opened one of the large windows on the far wall. They had done this by piling up boxes of toys which they were now standing on.
They had tied tiny parachutes to several stuffed animals and we dropping out of the window. The lighter ones caused much delight as they slowly fell down toward the pavement. The children giggled madly. Aside from period bursts of this laughter, the children tried to keep silent.
The unmistakeable sound of one of the minders approaching ended their temporary enjoyment.
They gathered up the remaining toys and descended the boxes but did not dismantle the makeshift construction.
To their happiness, in was one of the more lenient minders that had arrived. They offered up little smiles to her kind face and she beamed back. They knew they would be allowed to continue playing for a while longer under her watch.
But as children do, they had already forgotten their last source of entertainment and began playing a simple game of catch.
They ran around in an ecstatic frenzy, seemingly forgetting the more hurtful aspects of their circumstance, if only for a while.
One child was tagged ‘it’ and he ran wildly after the others.
He set his sights on one boy in particular. There was no reason for this, he simply just did.
He chased him around the perimeter of the room, groping the air just behind his back as he failed again and again to snatch at his clothing.
The child he was chasing ran up to where the boxes were still piled up and climbed them. The chaser tried to reach up and tag his foot but the child kept lifting them as he did so, chuckling as he avoided each attempt.
The chaser began to slam his body into the boxes, they shook slightly but the child atop them still stood strong.
Another child joined him in the quest to get the boy down. They both began slamming into the boxes.
This time, the bottom box shifted slightly to the right and destabilised the pile.
The child atop them wobbled for a moment, trying to regain his balance.
Then he fell backwards through the open window down towards the pavement below.
The minder, who had looked up just in time to see the child disappear from sight. She began screaming uncontrollably.
A few miles away, another child lost consciousness.
Welcome to The Echo Room, the home of budding weird fiction
Thursday 16 December 2010
Friday 10 December 2010
LUCAS BROWN AND THE OTHER MAN PART 2
Then, Lucas and the other man were sat on the door step of a large house in the middle of the night. It was pouring with the rain, the fat droplets cascading down on to their heads but they did not feel a thing. They stayed unwaveringly dry and still.
An old, severely damaged car was creeping slowly up the road. It gently came to a stop directly in front of them. A man sat at the driving seat, a woman on the passenger side. They did not talk to each other. Their faces were wrinkled beyond their age and their pale complexions gave them a worrying look of ill health.
After a few minutes the woman turned to look at the man, he was lighting a cigarette.
“Are you doing it or am I?” she asked, the question clearly demonstrating her reluctance to be the one.
The man paused for a moment, exhaling. He didn’t face her and remained silent. He had made his decision and planned on keeping it. His silence told the woman he couldn’t do what was needed and therefore was asking her to. She was annoyed at his cowardice, it was as much if not more her burden than his.
She used this anger to force her out of the car.
As she opened the door and stepped out, the other man turned to Lucas.
“Do you recognise them?” he asked
Lucas thought long and hard and then shook his head.
“No, I have never seen them before.” He answered.
The woman lifted the hood of her jacket over her head and approached the boot of the vehicle. She opened it and dug something out: a bundle of blankets wrapped around
something small. She purposely did not look down at it.
She walked briskly through the heavy rain and up to the door of the building directly opposite Lucas and the other man. She paced the bundle down on the welcome mat and rang the bell. She didn’t wait for a reply. She turned and jogged back to the car to which the man had already re-started the engine. She got in and slammed the door. The
car sped away.
Then Lucas and the other man were inside the large building.
It was now morning, a pale light was shining in through the long row of windows on the far wall. They were standing in a large square room. On one side were shelves lined with toys and children’s books.
There was a door behind them, through it came the sound of many footsteps getting closer and closer.
Suddenly, the other man began to weep hysterically. He got down on his knees, pulling at his hair and crying out sounds that didn’t correspond to any language.
“What is it?” asked Lucas
The other man looked up at him, his face seemingly more wrinkled that it had been a moment ago, as if he had just suffered some severe trauma.
“Something really bad is about to happen here” he said.
An old, severely damaged car was creeping slowly up the road. It gently came to a stop directly in front of them. A man sat at the driving seat, a woman on the passenger side. They did not talk to each other. Their faces were wrinkled beyond their age and their pale complexions gave them a worrying look of ill health.
After a few minutes the woman turned to look at the man, he was lighting a cigarette.
“Are you doing it or am I?” she asked, the question clearly demonstrating her reluctance to be the one.
The man paused for a moment, exhaling. He didn’t face her and remained silent. He had made his decision and planned on keeping it. His silence told the woman he couldn’t do what was needed and therefore was asking her to. She was annoyed at his cowardice, it was as much if not more her burden than his.
She used this anger to force her out of the car.
As she opened the door and stepped out, the other man turned to Lucas.
“Do you recognise them?” he asked
Lucas thought long and hard and then shook his head.
“No, I have never seen them before.” He answered.
The woman lifted the hood of her jacket over her head and approached the boot of the vehicle. She opened it and dug something out: a bundle of blankets wrapped around
something small. She purposely did not look down at it.
She walked briskly through the heavy rain and up to the door of the building directly opposite Lucas and the other man. She paced the bundle down on the welcome mat and rang the bell. She didn’t wait for a reply. She turned and jogged back to the car to which the man had already re-started the engine. She got in and slammed the door. The
car sped away.
Then Lucas and the other man were inside the large building.
It was now morning, a pale light was shining in through the long row of windows on the far wall. They were standing in a large square room. On one side were shelves lined with toys and children’s books.
There was a door behind them, through it came the sound of many footsteps getting closer and closer.
Suddenly, the other man began to weep hysterically. He got down on his knees, pulling at his hair and crying out sounds that didn’t correspond to any language.
“What is it?” asked Lucas
The other man looked up at him, his face seemingly more wrinkled that it had been a moment ago, as if he had just suffered some severe trauma.
“Something really bad is about to happen here” he said.
Monday 6 December 2010
LUCAS BROWN AND THE OTHER MAN
Lucas and the other man sat on the side of a swimming pool, their legs dipping into the cool water. Neither of them had yet looked down, but what was reflected on its surface was not two but one person. That person resembled Lucas more than it did the other man, but it was definitely not devoid of either of their presences.
They sat quietly, staring straight ahead, not thinking of anything. The moment was not yet right to break the much needed silence.
When it was eventually ruptured, it was done so by the sound of tiny toes tapping on ceramic tile. These sounds were being made by a large group of children who were running along the other side of the pools perimeter. A woman was following them, shouting for them to stop moving so quickly for fear they might hurt themselves.
She was their teacher; they were a class of 8 year old students.
The group marched on, barely able to contain themselves from sprinting towards the inviting water. Within minutes they were all in the shallow end.
But one boy stayed behind. He was standing alone still wearing his light blue t shirt. The teacher called for him to take it off and join them but he refused. The little boy ran off, quietly sobbing as the others chanted a mocking song in unison.
“I didn’t want to take off my t-shirt” Lucas said to the other man
He was feeling calmer, so was the other man. They didn’t know why, but for the time being they were happy to sit and watch.
Nothing of significance happened after that. The children carried on, the young boy did not return to join his classmates.
“My mother had to pick me up, she told me it was nothing to be ashamed of.” Lucas said to the other man
The other man suddenly felt uncomfortable again, his vision blurring, the events before him losing focus.
“We’re here to remember, aren’t we?” He asked Lucas
“Yes” replied Lucas
They sat quietly, staring straight ahead, not thinking of anything. The moment was not yet right to break the much needed silence.
When it was eventually ruptured, it was done so by the sound of tiny toes tapping on ceramic tile. These sounds were being made by a large group of children who were running along the other side of the pools perimeter. A woman was following them, shouting for them to stop moving so quickly for fear they might hurt themselves.
She was their teacher; they were a class of 8 year old students.
The group marched on, barely able to contain themselves from sprinting towards the inviting water. Within minutes they were all in the shallow end.
But one boy stayed behind. He was standing alone still wearing his light blue t shirt. The teacher called for him to take it off and join them but he refused. The little boy ran off, quietly sobbing as the others chanted a mocking song in unison.
“I didn’t want to take off my t-shirt” Lucas said to the other man
He was feeling calmer, so was the other man. They didn’t know why, but for the time being they were happy to sit and watch.
Nothing of significance happened after that. The children carried on, the young boy did not return to join his classmates.
“My mother had to pick me up, she told me it was nothing to be ashamed of.” Lucas said to the other man
The other man suddenly felt uncomfortable again, his vision blurring, the events before him losing focus.
“We’re here to remember, aren’t we?” He asked Lucas
“Yes” replied Lucas
Wednesday 13 October 2010
THE JOURNAL OF LUCAS BROWN. PART 9
I don’t know how, as me even writing these words on this paper discredits what my eyes are telling me, but the book he is still sitting there reading is my journal.
And so, with these words ends the Journal of Lucas Brown.
I promised myself that I had read those words for the last time and threw the journal into the fire. I watched as the flames danced over its disintegrating corpse until it turned to dust, inconsequential ashes that would never mean anything again.
But then, just as I began to truly believe I was capable of forgetting my obsession, just when I was convincing myself that I no longer felt the itch that could not be scratched I found something.
A small black journal on my pillow in my new home, identical in every way to the one I had destroyed.
I had made copies of the original journal and sent them to everyone I could think of. Doctors, lecturers, psychologists and many more in the hope that someone could help me explain the bizarre world it described. Until then, until someone could resolve its meaning clearly, I had promised I would not give it another thought.
No word ever came from anyone.
But now, inexplicably it is back here, back in my room. I pick it up and sit at the end of my bed. I feel its familiar contours in my hands, the smooth leather of the cover grating against my skin in the same way it always did. I flick through its pages, take in the stale smell and noticing the scrawls that are as vivid in my mind as they are on the parchment.
I keep thinking I can hear something, but it sounds like it is inside my head rather than anywhere around me, like some kind of internal call, faint and muffled and audible in a way I can’t explain.
I have also started hearing a distant thudding. I thought it might be my heart pounding but it sounds so much more hollow than that. Could it be my heart? With all that has happened, I realise that I have somehow forgotten what a beating heart sounds like. I close my eyes and try to imagine it, to conjure the sound from within me, to focus on what must be pulsating within me but I can’t find it.
For some reason I’m compelled to look over at the far wall.
My vision fails me. Right in the middle of the white square is a foggy patch of what looks like black smog, preventing me from seeing what is behind it. I rub at my eyes with my knuckles hoping that this vision is some sort of temporary biological anomaly.
Nothing changes
I walk over and stare straight at it. It floats there with a dream like quality, at once appearing completely real and a complete fabrication of the mind.
I reach out and touch it.
It rushes into me like a current of electricity, fizzing up my arm and straight into my chest. I close my eyes. To my surprise it is not cold or uncomfortable, it fills me with a warmth that feels restorative, as if it is giving me something back, something taken from me a long time ago and never retrieved until now.
Then, just as I shed a tear at the joy of this feeling, the feeling of being complete again, it is gone.
I open my eyes and look down.
The black cloud has gone, showing the wall behind it. A cavity has been made, dust and pieces of brick litter the floor below it. I kneel down and peer into the hole.
Through it I see a man, his eyes and mouth are visible, his lips are moving frantically as if shouting but I hear no sound. I do not recognise him.
I hear a great fizzing in my ears followed by a sharp pop.
‘Hello’ the man screams
‘Yes, I can hear you, I can see you.’ I reply, putting my face as close to the wall as possible.
Oddly enough the man does not question my response.
‘You have to help me’ he continues, his voice cracking with desperation ‘I’m trapped in this room’
I then realise that the wall through which he is speaking has nothing beyond it. I am on the second floor and outside that wall should only be air, space.
‘I don’t understand’ I mumble
He doesn’t need to say it, I can hear it in his voice that he is as confused by the situation as I am.
‘Please help’ he pleads
‘Ok, were going to get you out of there’ I say, trying to sooth my voice down into a comforting decibel ‘What’s your name?’ I ask
‘Lucas’ he replies
My face sinks in disbelief, I feel sick.
‘Lucas Brown?’
‘How did you know that, who are you?’
I go to answer him, my name is on the tip of my tongue but it won’t go any further. I try to spit it out, to conjure what should be the simplest answer but it will not come. I am silent a moment while I contemplate my hesitation.
‘I have absolutely no idea what my name is’ I say.
Then everything is engulfed by a piercing white light.
And so, with these words ends the Journal of Lucas Brown.
I promised myself that I had read those words for the last time and threw the journal into the fire. I watched as the flames danced over its disintegrating corpse until it turned to dust, inconsequential ashes that would never mean anything again.
But then, just as I began to truly believe I was capable of forgetting my obsession, just when I was convincing myself that I no longer felt the itch that could not be scratched I found something.
A small black journal on my pillow in my new home, identical in every way to the one I had destroyed.
I had made copies of the original journal and sent them to everyone I could think of. Doctors, lecturers, psychologists and many more in the hope that someone could help me explain the bizarre world it described. Until then, until someone could resolve its meaning clearly, I had promised I would not give it another thought.
No word ever came from anyone.
But now, inexplicably it is back here, back in my room. I pick it up and sit at the end of my bed. I feel its familiar contours in my hands, the smooth leather of the cover grating against my skin in the same way it always did. I flick through its pages, take in the stale smell and noticing the scrawls that are as vivid in my mind as they are on the parchment.
I keep thinking I can hear something, but it sounds like it is inside my head rather than anywhere around me, like some kind of internal call, faint and muffled and audible in a way I can’t explain.
I have also started hearing a distant thudding. I thought it might be my heart pounding but it sounds so much more hollow than that. Could it be my heart? With all that has happened, I realise that I have somehow forgotten what a beating heart sounds like. I close my eyes and try to imagine it, to conjure the sound from within me, to focus on what must be pulsating within me but I can’t find it.
For some reason I’m compelled to look over at the far wall.
My vision fails me. Right in the middle of the white square is a foggy patch of what looks like black smog, preventing me from seeing what is behind it. I rub at my eyes with my knuckles hoping that this vision is some sort of temporary biological anomaly.
Nothing changes
I walk over and stare straight at it. It floats there with a dream like quality, at once appearing completely real and a complete fabrication of the mind.
I reach out and touch it.
It rushes into me like a current of electricity, fizzing up my arm and straight into my chest. I close my eyes. To my surprise it is not cold or uncomfortable, it fills me with a warmth that feels restorative, as if it is giving me something back, something taken from me a long time ago and never retrieved until now.
Then, just as I shed a tear at the joy of this feeling, the feeling of being complete again, it is gone.
I open my eyes and look down.
The black cloud has gone, showing the wall behind it. A cavity has been made, dust and pieces of brick litter the floor below it. I kneel down and peer into the hole.
Through it I see a man, his eyes and mouth are visible, his lips are moving frantically as if shouting but I hear no sound. I do not recognise him.
I hear a great fizzing in my ears followed by a sharp pop.
‘Hello’ the man screams
‘Yes, I can hear you, I can see you.’ I reply, putting my face as close to the wall as possible.
Oddly enough the man does not question my response.
‘You have to help me’ he continues, his voice cracking with desperation ‘I’m trapped in this room’
I then realise that the wall through which he is speaking has nothing beyond it. I am on the second floor and outside that wall should only be air, space.
‘I don’t understand’ I mumble
He doesn’t need to say it, I can hear it in his voice that he is as confused by the situation as I am.
‘Please help’ he pleads
‘Ok, were going to get you out of there’ I say, trying to sooth my voice down into a comforting decibel ‘What’s your name?’ I ask
‘Lucas’ he replies
My face sinks in disbelief, I feel sick.
‘Lucas Brown?’
‘How did you know that, who are you?’
I go to answer him, my name is on the tip of my tongue but it won’t go any further. I try to spit it out, to conjure what should be the simplest answer but it will not come. I am silent a moment while I contemplate my hesitation.
‘I have absolutely no idea what my name is’ I say.
Then everything is engulfed by a piercing white light.
Saturday 4 September 2010
THE JOURNAL OF LUCAS BROWN. PART 8
Then I was sat on my bed with a razor against my wrist.
A scene I remember clearly.
I pushed the metal against the flesh in silent desire, searching my brain for a reason to the flow that burnt like fire.
I found none.
I pushed harder and clipped through the first thin layer of skin, in no time at all a slow crimson cascade calmly erupted out of the small crack. I was surprised at how little the pain bothered me. I had decided to end my life, but a small part of me was still scared of the process of actually bringing this about. Now that I had tested the waters though, I realised that there was nothing to fear in the depths.
As I pressed the razor in deeper the door to my room was kicked down. My father burst in, his face more red than any I had ever seen. He wrestled with me, and as it always had been he won the fight and it dropped to the floor.
The same scenes happening again.
He sobbed and held me tighter than I had ever been held, crushing both my arms into my sides. Amidst his cries the word ‘why’ kept parting his lips.
“Dad, I don’t want to live anymore.” I said in a toneless voice that conveyed I was serious and confident in my decision.
We sat in that position for a long time. Not once did his grip soften. We talked about why I wanted to do this. My reasons seemed hollow and lifeless, something I felt only contributed to showing that my decision was the right one. He didn’t agree and tried to tell me of all the things I had to live for. Love, obtainable happiness and opportunity all made an appearance.
Then he said something that I don’t remember him saying. No, that’s not it. It’s as if I remember him saying it but I don’t understand what he means by it. I feel like I once knew the meaning behind these words, but it has somehow escaped me.
“Someone saved your life once before Lucas, don’t you ever forget that. For as long as you live don’t you forget that for one second.”
I looked up at him.
“That person didn’t get to choose, but you are alive because of them. Don’t make that for nothing.”
Then I was back in the room, sat in front of the mirror again, the small lamp still humming a faint glow.
Why don’t I know what he meant? I know in my heart of hearts that he spoke those words, that is definitely part of my past. What is this hole in my memory?
And then, the most peculiar and absurd recollection entered my mind.
I remember not wanting to take off my t-shirt at a swimming pool. I anticipated stares and laughter.
Suddenly, before I could dedicate any more time to trying to piece together this obscure puzzle, a noise louder than anything I can recall reverberated around the room. It sounded like something between a piercing scream and shattering glass.
I jumped to my feet and realised the mirror was gone. Instead, behind where it had been, the wall had developed an opening.
It was a small hole. I scurried over to it, pressed my body against the wall and looked through it. It was like peering through a misshapen letterbox.
Through it I could see a young man in a room not unlike the one mine had been before this all started.
I moved my mouth up to the hole and screamed, shouted until my throat was raw. Not once did he even flinch. He just sat on the edge of his bed staring at the floor.
The he picked up a small black book and began reading.
I don’t know how, as me even writing these words on this paper discredits what my eyes are telling me, but the book he is still sitting there reading is my journal.
A scene I remember clearly.
I pushed the metal against the flesh in silent desire, searching my brain for a reason to the flow that burnt like fire.
I found none.
I pushed harder and clipped through the first thin layer of skin, in no time at all a slow crimson cascade calmly erupted out of the small crack. I was surprised at how little the pain bothered me. I had decided to end my life, but a small part of me was still scared of the process of actually bringing this about. Now that I had tested the waters though, I realised that there was nothing to fear in the depths.
As I pressed the razor in deeper the door to my room was kicked down. My father burst in, his face more red than any I had ever seen. He wrestled with me, and as it always had been he won the fight and it dropped to the floor.
The same scenes happening again.
He sobbed and held me tighter than I had ever been held, crushing both my arms into my sides. Amidst his cries the word ‘why’ kept parting his lips.
“Dad, I don’t want to live anymore.” I said in a toneless voice that conveyed I was serious and confident in my decision.
We sat in that position for a long time. Not once did his grip soften. We talked about why I wanted to do this. My reasons seemed hollow and lifeless, something I felt only contributed to showing that my decision was the right one. He didn’t agree and tried to tell me of all the things I had to live for. Love, obtainable happiness and opportunity all made an appearance.
Then he said something that I don’t remember him saying. No, that’s not it. It’s as if I remember him saying it but I don’t understand what he means by it. I feel like I once knew the meaning behind these words, but it has somehow escaped me.
“Someone saved your life once before Lucas, don’t you ever forget that. For as long as you live don’t you forget that for one second.”
I looked up at him.
“That person didn’t get to choose, but you are alive because of them. Don’t make that for nothing.”
Then I was back in the room, sat in front of the mirror again, the small lamp still humming a faint glow.
Why don’t I know what he meant? I know in my heart of hearts that he spoke those words, that is definitely part of my past. What is this hole in my memory?
And then, the most peculiar and absurd recollection entered my mind.
I remember not wanting to take off my t-shirt at a swimming pool. I anticipated stares and laughter.
Suddenly, before I could dedicate any more time to trying to piece together this obscure puzzle, a noise louder than anything I can recall reverberated around the room. It sounded like something between a piercing scream and shattering glass.
I jumped to my feet and realised the mirror was gone. Instead, behind where it had been, the wall had developed an opening.
It was a small hole. I scurried over to it, pressed my body against the wall and looked through it. It was like peering through a misshapen letterbox.
Through it I could see a young man in a room not unlike the one mine had been before this all started.
I moved my mouth up to the hole and screamed, shouted until my throat was raw. Not once did he even flinch. He just sat on the edge of his bed staring at the floor.
The he picked up a small black book and began reading.
I don’t know how, as me even writing these words on this paper discredits what my eyes are telling me, but the book he is still sitting there reading is my journal.
Thursday 5 August 2010
THE JOURNAL OF LUCAS BROWN. PART 7
On my second venture I was even younger
A new memory. I am sure it is something that truly happened but it is a sequence of events that until now I could not recall.
Nothing was clear this time, there was no blatant reality to the situation, just an air of what was happened that hung in the air slightly, I occasionally felt its breeze and began to make sense of the situation, but these moments were fleeting and never lasted long enough to be truly graspable.
I was lying motionless, face up towards a whitewashed ceiling. I couldn’t move, I don’t know if there was a reason for this other than that I might have been too young to do so properly but I got a definite feeling of being impeded. As if there was a cause and my immobility was the effect.
Beep.Beep.Beep.
My little eyes could not see clearly, colors and shapes blurred together to form imperceptible masses with no finite boundaries. In the distance I could dimly see two of these masses, they were large and appeared to be standing behind some kind of screen. Although I could not make out their contours enough to say what they were, I felt a tremendous source of comfort in knowing that they were near.
Beep.Beep.Beep. Consistent and getting stronger.
Then I realized that I felt as if I had been asleep for a long time. No, it wasn’t that. It was as if I was alive again, as if somehow I hadn’t been and was now back.
The two masses stayed there, unmoving for as long as I was conscious, they emitted something, not a noise or a warmth, they were too far away, but they generated some kind of sentiment in me. I wasn’t afraid.
My little eyelids began to shut, weary and struggling to cope with their surroundings.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Strong and repetitive.
This visit has left me mentally exhausted. My body feels nothing close to what I could label tiredness, but my mind finds it increasingly difficult to remain active, to process the complications of what I am experiencing. Unfamiliar and unrequested thoughts fly around within its confines at an ever increasing rate.
As I sit in front of the mirror I realize I have less and less control over what I am thinking. This journal acts as a filter so I can put down what I know is mine. I cannot look away from the thick black, it draws me in with its vague promise of escape.
Is that really what it is offering me?
The next visit was a time I vaguely remember, another scene from a childhood almost long forgotten. It was now presented to me with all the clarity of a crisply projected movie on a gleaming silver screen.
The day progressed as it always had. My father and I set out to take one of our customary after dinner walks. We were never particularly close, and looking back I always thought my mother may have suggested, and then forced, him to take me on these outings in an attempt to hasten the process so vaguely called bonding.
The house we lived in at the time was surrounded by a great deal of nothingness, barren land once farmed and since forgotten.
We would walk up over a small hill and down onto a more aesthetically pleasing plot, grass sprouted sporadically at this time of year and looked an unusually vivid green against the otherwise dry backdrop.
We would walk through this plot and on to the only tree for as far as the eye could see. We would sit beneath it every time, we did not talk about whether or not to do this, it had become ritual, as soon as we got it to it we simply sat down as if it were a mandatory portion of our excursion. My father would then take it upon himself to do his fatherly duty of asking me how everything was. The conversation was always bland and stunted.
On this day though there was an uncommon event in our otherwise usual routine. As we arrived at our tree, we noticed that something was already lying beneath its sparse foliage.
It was a wild dog with a shabby coat.
I stood still, scared at my unfamiliarity with the beast. My father put his palm against my chest, letting me know he was there to protect me. We drew closer with baby steps.
I noticed a flurry of movement at the dog’s side, near its stomach.
4 pups sucked at its teats hungrily.
Then I noticed at the side of the tree was another pup, alone and not joining its siblings as they consumed vital life force. It was considerably smaller than the others, thing and weak looking, its eyes barely open as it gazed over at the flurry of activity it was incapable of joining.
We stood there watching. After a few minutes the pups had had their fill and began to run around the perimeter of the tree, playing with one another.
The mother still laid there, half motionless. The runt eventually picked up what little strength it had and struggled over to her. It collapsed at her side and begun to half heartedly sup milk. It could barely hold its own mouth open.
“Why doesn’t she just let it die?” I asked my father.
An older friend of mine had bred a family of hamsters. One of the litter was also a runt. The mother had rejected it due to its weakness and sure enough it had died.
This had upset me but my older friend assured me that it was for the best, and that this was simply the way that nature worked.
I gazed over and up at my father. His eyes were clouding with tears and his mouth wrinkled into a frown. It was a painful look I had never seen on his face before. He spoke without turning to face me, his voice quiet and cracked with something that told me my words had angered him,.
“Because, when you love something you don’t just let it die.”
A new memory. I am sure it is something that truly happened but it is a sequence of events that until now I could not recall.
Nothing was clear this time, there was no blatant reality to the situation, just an air of what was happened that hung in the air slightly, I occasionally felt its breeze and began to make sense of the situation, but these moments were fleeting and never lasted long enough to be truly graspable.
I was lying motionless, face up towards a whitewashed ceiling. I couldn’t move, I don’t know if there was a reason for this other than that I might have been too young to do so properly but I got a definite feeling of being impeded. As if there was a cause and my immobility was the effect.
Beep.Beep.Beep.
My little eyes could not see clearly, colors and shapes blurred together to form imperceptible masses with no finite boundaries. In the distance I could dimly see two of these masses, they were large and appeared to be standing behind some kind of screen. Although I could not make out their contours enough to say what they were, I felt a tremendous source of comfort in knowing that they were near.
Beep.Beep.Beep. Consistent and getting stronger.
Then I realized that I felt as if I had been asleep for a long time. No, it wasn’t that. It was as if I was alive again, as if somehow I hadn’t been and was now back.
The two masses stayed there, unmoving for as long as I was conscious, they emitted something, not a noise or a warmth, they were too far away, but they generated some kind of sentiment in me. I wasn’t afraid.
My little eyelids began to shut, weary and struggling to cope with their surroundings.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Strong and repetitive.
This visit has left me mentally exhausted. My body feels nothing close to what I could label tiredness, but my mind finds it increasingly difficult to remain active, to process the complications of what I am experiencing. Unfamiliar and unrequested thoughts fly around within its confines at an ever increasing rate.
As I sit in front of the mirror I realize I have less and less control over what I am thinking. This journal acts as a filter so I can put down what I know is mine. I cannot look away from the thick black, it draws me in with its vague promise of escape.
Is that really what it is offering me?
The next visit was a time I vaguely remember, another scene from a childhood almost long forgotten. It was now presented to me with all the clarity of a crisply projected movie on a gleaming silver screen.
The day progressed as it always had. My father and I set out to take one of our customary after dinner walks. We were never particularly close, and looking back I always thought my mother may have suggested, and then forced, him to take me on these outings in an attempt to hasten the process so vaguely called bonding.
The house we lived in at the time was surrounded by a great deal of nothingness, barren land once farmed and since forgotten.
We would walk up over a small hill and down onto a more aesthetically pleasing plot, grass sprouted sporadically at this time of year and looked an unusually vivid green against the otherwise dry backdrop.
We would walk through this plot and on to the only tree for as far as the eye could see. We would sit beneath it every time, we did not talk about whether or not to do this, it had become ritual, as soon as we got it to it we simply sat down as if it were a mandatory portion of our excursion. My father would then take it upon himself to do his fatherly duty of asking me how everything was. The conversation was always bland and stunted.
On this day though there was an uncommon event in our otherwise usual routine. As we arrived at our tree, we noticed that something was already lying beneath its sparse foliage.
It was a wild dog with a shabby coat.
I stood still, scared at my unfamiliarity with the beast. My father put his palm against my chest, letting me know he was there to protect me. We drew closer with baby steps.
I noticed a flurry of movement at the dog’s side, near its stomach.
4 pups sucked at its teats hungrily.
Then I noticed at the side of the tree was another pup, alone and not joining its siblings as they consumed vital life force. It was considerably smaller than the others, thing and weak looking, its eyes barely open as it gazed over at the flurry of activity it was incapable of joining.
We stood there watching. After a few minutes the pups had had their fill and began to run around the perimeter of the tree, playing with one another.
The mother still laid there, half motionless. The runt eventually picked up what little strength it had and struggled over to her. It collapsed at her side and begun to half heartedly sup milk. It could barely hold its own mouth open.
“Why doesn’t she just let it die?” I asked my father.
An older friend of mine had bred a family of hamsters. One of the litter was also a runt. The mother had rejected it due to its weakness and sure enough it had died.
This had upset me but my older friend assured me that it was for the best, and that this was simply the way that nature worked.
I gazed over and up at my father. His eyes were clouding with tears and his mouth wrinkled into a frown. It was a painful look I had never seen on his face before. He spoke without turning to face me, his voice quiet and cracked with something that told me my words had angered him,.
“Because, when you love something you don’t just let it die.”
Monday 19 July 2010
THE JOURNAL OF LUCAS BROWN. PART 6
And then I was a little boy again.
I stood in front of a large table littered with colour. Boxes wrapped with silky ribbons, small cups and paper hats. My chin barely came up above the cake before me.
All around me people were saying “Blow” along with “Make a wish”
So I did, I blew as hard as my little lungs would allow. All seven red candles went out and a cheer sounded in the room, then clapping, a hand on my shoulder warmly congratulated me.
I stared down at what I had done. Seven dead candles, evenly spaced on a brown chocolate circular treat.
Suddenly I was overwhelmed with the sense that there should be more candles, 14 in fact. Or maybe not, I either thought that or that there should be two cakes.
One for me and one for someone else.
“Happy birthday Lucas” was the motto of the event, it resounded constantly around me as people gathered around my mother who was serving slices of the delicious sweet.
I kept thinking they should be singing it to someone else.
The day progressed as it always had done. I ate cake, I played several party games with my young friends. Then, tired and weary, my parents put me to bed.
As I lay in my bed, eyes slowly closing, I felt the black creeping back in from the horizons of my vision. I tried to remain awake, willing my little body to fight the onset of sleep but it simply wasn't strong enough. The black leaked in more quickly, blotting out all around me until there was nothing at all.
It was just black, nothing more.
Then everything shook and the black began to part, shifting sideways and revealing a dim light.
I was back in the room, sat directly in front of the mirror. It still did not reflect, it was still just the pool of viscous unknown I had traversed.
The journal was still in my hand, so I chronicle the events that transpired on my voyage.
The room still has no door or window, the lamp is still the only source of light, the mirror still the only other object.
The only sense I get at this point is that there is someone, or something I need to find on the other side of it.
There is no question in my mind about going back in.
I stood in front of a large table littered with colour. Boxes wrapped with silky ribbons, small cups and paper hats. My chin barely came up above the cake before me.
All around me people were saying “Blow” along with “Make a wish”
So I did, I blew as hard as my little lungs would allow. All seven red candles went out and a cheer sounded in the room, then clapping, a hand on my shoulder warmly congratulated me.
I stared down at what I had done. Seven dead candles, evenly spaced on a brown chocolate circular treat.
Suddenly I was overwhelmed with the sense that there should be more candles, 14 in fact. Or maybe not, I either thought that or that there should be two cakes.
One for me and one for someone else.
“Happy birthday Lucas” was the motto of the event, it resounded constantly around me as people gathered around my mother who was serving slices of the delicious sweet.
I kept thinking they should be singing it to someone else.
The day progressed as it always had done. I ate cake, I played several party games with my young friends. Then, tired and weary, my parents put me to bed.
As I lay in my bed, eyes slowly closing, I felt the black creeping back in from the horizons of my vision. I tried to remain awake, willing my little body to fight the onset of sleep but it simply wasn't strong enough. The black leaked in more quickly, blotting out all around me until there was nothing at all.
It was just black, nothing more.
Then everything shook and the black began to part, shifting sideways and revealing a dim light.
I was back in the room, sat directly in front of the mirror. It still did not reflect, it was still just the pool of viscous unknown I had traversed.
The journal was still in my hand, so I chronicle the events that transpired on my voyage.
The room still has no door or window, the lamp is still the only source of light, the mirror still the only other object.
The only sense I get at this point is that there is someone, or something I need to find on the other side of it.
There is no question in my mind about going back in.
Wednesday 14 July 2010
THE JOURNAL OF LUCAS BROWN. PART 5
??????????????
I must have fallen asleep
I have lost track of the date and time. Before, when sleep was eluding me, I used the brightening and dimming of the room to gage when one day ended and the next began. When I fell asleep under the bed it was becoming light, now it is a pitch black that seems almost unnatural.
How long was I asleep?
I can just about see that I am holding the journal, hopefully these markings are legible and my hand is actually scrawling what I ask it to. I hope that it too has not succumbed to the engulfing otherness that seems hell bent on….well, I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
I realize now that this is the quietest and most still the room has been since this all started. Everything feel stale and inanimate, even the air, even me.
I edged my way out from my makeshift fortress slowly, none of my movements causing the record to start up again and the faithful dancers to answer the call. I got up to my feet, startled by the reversal of the maddening rhythm into a deathly quiet.
Cautiously, for fear on awakening the now sleeping giant, I tiptoed over to where I figured the light switch should be. I groped at the wall with my fingers, searching for the familiar square plastic signifier but to no avail. I ran the length of the wall with both hands, my search now frantic as my perplexity mounted. I realized that not only was the switch nowhere to be found, but my desk which normally sits against the same wall seemed to have gone.
For a moment I considered the possibility of complete disorientation, trying to assure myself I was actually not where I thought I was.
Then I tripped over something.
I recoiled in anticipation as my body thumped the floor in an unbroken crash, but nothing happened. No one came to dance, no one even sounded the music.
I gathered myself after realizing nothing was coming and searched for what had caused me to fall. Near my left foot I found something small, a base with an elongated plastic beck coming off from it. I shaped it in my hands, trying to
decipher it. Then I found a switch.
As soon as I pushed it a dim yellow glow penetrated the black around me. It wasn’t much, but it bathed everything enough for a pale visibility. It was a small black table lamp.
I have never seen this lamp before. It is not mine, I am more sure of this than I have been of anything since this ordeal began.
I gazed around at what I can only call my new surroundings, for so much has changed that I don’t appear to be in the same place anymore. The contours of the room are the same, but that is all that I can call familiar.
Apart from the bed under which I awoke, all of my furniture has gone. The only thing that is here is the package, which now appears to be roughly six feet tall and three feet wide. I was right.
It leans against a bare wall to my right.
Now that the dancing has stopped, now is the time to open it.
The paper covering whatever was inside was thin, tearing easily with the slightest tug of my hand.
Then, as more paper fell to the floor, I began to notice light bouncing back.
I tore at it more quickly, needing to know if what I had seen was correct. Finally, when the last piece which covered the part directly in front of my face had been shed I stood back to see what I had uncovered.
It was me, standing there, looking back at myself. The dim source of the lamp revealed it clearly enough. I was standing in front of a full length mirror, its dirty glass reflecting the scene of my existence.
But not quite.
It is me and is not me.
As I drew closer towards it I realized it was emitting a low grade hum, barely noticeable, yet definitely a constant drone.
Then, with my face almost touching the glass, the reflection died.
The mirror turned black, no light bounced back, I wasn’t there anymore, just black, a cruel almost viscous black like oil was all that looked back at me.
I reached out my hand and tentatively placed my fingers to it. My entire hand went straight through, passing past the dark into the unknown, feeling only cold and space. I pushed my arm in further seeing if there was anything to feel.
I found nothing.
Petrified by the unreality of these events, I turned and ran to the door, or rather where the door should have been, but nothing was there, only more blank wall. I circled the room realizing now that the window had also disappeared.
This place is a tomb.
I walked back over to what was the mirror, weighing up the decision that seemed to have already been made for me.
So, I clutch this journal to my chest in the hope that it can go through with me.
With no other option, I step into the mirror black.
I must have fallen asleep
I have lost track of the date and time. Before, when sleep was eluding me, I used the brightening and dimming of the room to gage when one day ended and the next began. When I fell asleep under the bed it was becoming light, now it is a pitch black that seems almost unnatural.
How long was I asleep?
I can just about see that I am holding the journal, hopefully these markings are legible and my hand is actually scrawling what I ask it to. I hope that it too has not succumbed to the engulfing otherness that seems hell bent on….well, I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
I realize now that this is the quietest and most still the room has been since this all started. Everything feel stale and inanimate, even the air, even me.
I edged my way out from my makeshift fortress slowly, none of my movements causing the record to start up again and the faithful dancers to answer the call. I got up to my feet, startled by the reversal of the maddening rhythm into a deathly quiet.
Cautiously, for fear on awakening the now sleeping giant, I tiptoed over to where I figured the light switch should be. I groped at the wall with my fingers, searching for the familiar square plastic signifier but to no avail. I ran the length of the wall with both hands, my search now frantic as my perplexity mounted. I realized that not only was the switch nowhere to be found, but my desk which normally sits against the same wall seemed to have gone.
For a moment I considered the possibility of complete disorientation, trying to assure myself I was actually not where I thought I was.
Then I tripped over something.
I recoiled in anticipation as my body thumped the floor in an unbroken crash, but nothing happened. No one came to dance, no one even sounded the music.
I gathered myself after realizing nothing was coming and searched for what had caused me to fall. Near my left foot I found something small, a base with an elongated plastic beck coming off from it. I shaped it in my hands, trying to
decipher it. Then I found a switch.
As soon as I pushed it a dim yellow glow penetrated the black around me. It wasn’t much, but it bathed everything enough for a pale visibility. It was a small black table lamp.
I have never seen this lamp before. It is not mine, I am more sure of this than I have been of anything since this ordeal began.
I gazed around at what I can only call my new surroundings, for so much has changed that I don’t appear to be in the same place anymore. The contours of the room are the same, but that is all that I can call familiar.
Apart from the bed under which I awoke, all of my furniture has gone. The only thing that is here is the package, which now appears to be roughly six feet tall and three feet wide. I was right.
It leans against a bare wall to my right.
Now that the dancing has stopped, now is the time to open it.
The paper covering whatever was inside was thin, tearing easily with the slightest tug of my hand.
Then, as more paper fell to the floor, I began to notice light bouncing back.
I tore at it more quickly, needing to know if what I had seen was correct. Finally, when the last piece which covered the part directly in front of my face had been shed I stood back to see what I had uncovered.
It was me, standing there, looking back at myself. The dim source of the lamp revealed it clearly enough. I was standing in front of a full length mirror, its dirty glass reflecting the scene of my existence.
But not quite.
It is me and is not me.
As I drew closer towards it I realized it was emitting a low grade hum, barely noticeable, yet definitely a constant drone.
Then, with my face almost touching the glass, the reflection died.
The mirror turned black, no light bounced back, I wasn’t there anymore, just black, a cruel almost viscous black like oil was all that looked back at me.
I reached out my hand and tentatively placed my fingers to it. My entire hand went straight through, passing past the dark into the unknown, feeling only cold and space. I pushed my arm in further seeing if there was anything to feel.
I found nothing.
Petrified by the unreality of these events, I turned and ran to the door, or rather where the door should have been, but nothing was there, only more blank wall. I circled the room realizing now that the window had also disappeared.
This place is a tomb.
I walked back over to what was the mirror, weighing up the decision that seemed to have already been made for me.
So, I clutch this journal to my chest in the hope that it can go through with me.
With no other option, I step into the mirror black.
Tuesday 13 July 2010
THE JOURNAL OF LUCAS BROWN. PART 4
March 30th, 2001
However bizarre my circumstances appeared before, they now feel like a pleasant precursor to my current situation.
This, quite frankly, is a nightmare.
The dancing has reached a speed so intimidating that to feel it swirl around me is to feel the very presence of death, or nothingness.
Nothingness sounds worse than death.
I pulled the blankets over my head in an attempt to conceal myself and make believe I am part of a different reality altogether but the rustling noise of the material against my skin made me sob uncontrollably which only pleased the dancing and caused it to accelerate even faster and wildly mock my despair.
I grit my teeth and rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a thud that sent the dancing and my mind into true turmoil, a swarm of restless bees filling my head and rampaging within its confines, smacking against the walls in quick succession.
Each one the same yet not the same.
I moved my hands and feet and squirmed under the bed, trying to find solace from the humming assailants. I lay there in the dark, stiff as a board. I did this for a while, trying to collect myself until the point where everything reached a level I dare say is manageable.
Then I remembered my experiment.
I wanted to check the package. I wanted to see whether I was right about its shifting, but I could not face the long walk to the cupboard. Instead, I shifted myself sideways as quietly as possible so that my head peered out from beneath the frame of the bed. The dancing stirred slightly but died down back to its usual steady murmur.
From my position, and there is no doubt in my mind about this, the drawer is now protruding outward, the package must be forcing it forward as it expands. I can see a bit of its packaging poking out through a slit between the drawer and the wooden unit holding it in place.
I don’t know how it happened, but I found my journal under the bed with me along with the pen I have been using to chronicle these happenings.
What does this mean?
I must get the courage to go over there, to open the package.
However bizarre my circumstances appeared before, they now feel like a pleasant precursor to my current situation.
This, quite frankly, is a nightmare.
The dancing has reached a speed so intimidating that to feel it swirl around me is to feel the very presence of death, or nothingness.
Nothingness sounds worse than death.
I pulled the blankets over my head in an attempt to conceal myself and make believe I am part of a different reality altogether but the rustling noise of the material against my skin made me sob uncontrollably which only pleased the dancing and caused it to accelerate even faster and wildly mock my despair.
I grit my teeth and rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a thud that sent the dancing and my mind into true turmoil, a swarm of restless bees filling my head and rampaging within its confines, smacking against the walls in quick succession.
Each one the same yet not the same.
I moved my hands and feet and squirmed under the bed, trying to find solace from the humming assailants. I lay there in the dark, stiff as a board. I did this for a while, trying to collect myself until the point where everything reached a level I dare say is manageable.
Then I remembered my experiment.
I wanted to check the package. I wanted to see whether I was right about its shifting, but I could not face the long walk to the cupboard. Instead, I shifted myself sideways as quietly as possible so that my head peered out from beneath the frame of the bed. The dancing stirred slightly but died down back to its usual steady murmur.
From my position, and there is no doubt in my mind about this, the drawer is now protruding outward, the package must be forcing it forward as it expands. I can see a bit of its packaging poking out through a slit between the drawer and the wooden unit holding it in place.
I don’t know how it happened, but I found my journal under the bed with me along with the pen I have been using to chronicle these happenings.
What does this mean?
I must get the courage to go over there, to open the package.
Monday 28 June 2010
THE JOURNAL OF LUCAS BROWN. PART 3
March 27th, 2001
The dancing stops so infrequently.
It waits quietly for a moment for any slight movement for it to pounce on or bounce off of. I try to stay still, lying flat on my back with my arms at my sides and regulating my intake of air until my breath is as shallow as possible.
Still, it doesn’t work. So I have to get up, try to walk through the dizzying cacophony it spills as it surrounds me with what feels like malicious intent, it wants to corrode my senses, to make my mind collapse in on itself.
I can’t help but think there is a connection between this phenomenon and the latest development that has occurred within the confines of this room.
It sounds impossible, but I am quite sure that the package I was delivered has grown.
On the desk where I placed it right after signing my name and inheriting its existence it waited for me to glance upon it again. It looks bigger, not by much, but it definitely is larger.
There is no return address on the package and the characters that make up what is supposed to be my name are barely legible, faint as if the pen was running low on ink and scrawled as if the hand that parted with them was unable to guide it steadily.
I will keep an eye on it.
March 28th, 2001
My experiment begins now.
I have to answer the call of certain necessities, namely going to the bathroom. I tiptoe as silently as possible, making sure the door is left open after every visit as to not awaken the groaning call of the rusted hinges. The toilet itself is becoming full with my waste, I refuse to deal with what I know will come with the noise of using the flush. My standards of living have been violated by this faceless intruder. No, that doesn’t make sense. I can’t rightly say it is faceless, or bodyless or that is does indeed have a face or a body or even a shape. I can’t fathom a word at this moment for what it feels like, I just know that it is there.
After my last visit to the bathroom I glanced over at the package again. This time, its shift in size was undeniable, it had expanded at least 3 inches since I lay quietly observing its behavior from my bed.
Back to my experiment.
I have chosen to prove to myself that the package is in fact growing, that my eyes are not to blame for this inexplicable metamorphosis. I have placed it in one of the drawers in my wardrobe. The ordeal this caused was awful but necessary if I am to prove this point. I closed my eyes and forced myself to follow through with it. I am sure I nearly lost consciousness, but I managed to open my eyes and do what I intended to. When I entered it, the package took up approximately half of the drawer. I will check in intervals of 2 hours for changes.
The clock next to my bed tells me it is 4 am. Sleep is out of the question, there must be a purpose or discoverable reason to this.
I need to know what it is.
The dancing stops so infrequently.
It waits quietly for a moment for any slight movement for it to pounce on or bounce off of. I try to stay still, lying flat on my back with my arms at my sides and regulating my intake of air until my breath is as shallow as possible.
Still, it doesn’t work. So I have to get up, try to walk through the dizzying cacophony it spills as it surrounds me with what feels like malicious intent, it wants to corrode my senses, to make my mind collapse in on itself.
I can’t help but think there is a connection between this phenomenon and the latest development that has occurred within the confines of this room.
It sounds impossible, but I am quite sure that the package I was delivered has grown.
On the desk where I placed it right after signing my name and inheriting its existence it waited for me to glance upon it again. It looks bigger, not by much, but it definitely is larger.
There is no return address on the package and the characters that make up what is supposed to be my name are barely legible, faint as if the pen was running low on ink and scrawled as if the hand that parted with them was unable to guide it steadily.
I will keep an eye on it.
March 28th, 2001
My experiment begins now.
I have to answer the call of certain necessities, namely going to the bathroom. I tiptoe as silently as possible, making sure the door is left open after every visit as to not awaken the groaning call of the rusted hinges. The toilet itself is becoming full with my waste, I refuse to deal with what I know will come with the noise of using the flush. My standards of living have been violated by this faceless intruder. No, that doesn’t make sense. I can’t rightly say it is faceless, or bodyless or that is does indeed have a face or a body or even a shape. I can’t fathom a word at this moment for what it feels like, I just know that it is there.
After my last visit to the bathroom I glanced over at the package again. This time, its shift in size was undeniable, it had expanded at least 3 inches since I lay quietly observing its behavior from my bed.
Back to my experiment.
I have chosen to prove to myself that the package is in fact growing, that my eyes are not to blame for this inexplicable metamorphosis. I have placed it in one of the drawers in my wardrobe. The ordeal this caused was awful but necessary if I am to prove this point. I closed my eyes and forced myself to follow through with it. I am sure I nearly lost consciousness, but I managed to open my eyes and do what I intended to. When I entered it, the package took up approximately half of the drawer. I will check in intervals of 2 hours for changes.
The clock next to my bed tells me it is 4 am. Sleep is out of the question, there must be a purpose or discoverable reason to this.
I need to know what it is.
Thursday 24 June 2010
THE JOURNAL OF LUCAS BROWN. PART 2
March 24th, 2001
Ever since the incident in the car park I have not been myself.
Something about those vibrations shook a part of my insides so that I am never comfortable, I feel uneasy and unable to concentrate.
Everything looks a little different. I can’t say why or in what way, but everything is definitely different.
The remnants of that period fear seem determined to not slip away, they still appear to be coursing through my veins and instilling in me a continuous dread of its return.
The rudimentary task of acquiring a pen with which to write these words was imbued with this foreboding.
I leant over my desk towards the shelf, hand outstretched towards the object. My fingers folded all too softly to pluck it with success and it tumbled down from the elevated wooden compartment. As it did so time seemed to slow down. I watched helplessly as it crashed to the floor, the fact it had done so reverberating around me in quick succession, one after another mimicking the sound that came before it but at the same time not being quite identical.
Why does that matter?
I know I need to keep using the pen, as much as it may scare me.
March 25th, 2001
I’m not myself again today.
But then I think I may never be myself as there is no way of me knowing what that is. This morning, as I lay upon my bed with the world spinning around me, bouncing back off of itself to torment me a knock at the door slowed things momentarily. I eagerly got up, rushing to the door in the hope that it would be some news, something that would set things back to the way they used to be, some kind of eraser that could blank out whatever caused me to fall into this seemingly reasonless yet somehow familiar spiral. Let me explain. I am completely in the dark as to the nature of my plague, yet I feel a deep seated understanding and this only makes me fear it more.
Back to the knock at the door.
There stood a uniformed man in light blue. He looked down at a clipboard in front of him and then straight into my face.
“Are you Lucas Brown?” he asked me
I almost collapsed at the utterance of my own name. I held myself up by putting my hand on the wall for support. He looked confused. I managed to force a nod in his direction so he handed me a piece of paper and asked me to sign it. My hand shook as I placed the ‘L’ on the page. I slowly followed with the pattern of letters I had been designated at birth yet they felt so alien. What do they mean? They mean nothing? They are at once nothing to do with me, mere scratching, and yet somehow indicative of my existence. I have been given symbols with which to state my being and it sickens and terrifies me. I dropped the pen, my hands unable to maintain a grasp, it crashed and caused the storm again, I was feeling intensely ill by this point. He picked it up and thrust the package into my hands, eager to get away from me.
I closed the door as quietly as I possibly could, but the slight click it generated still made me shudder.
I put the package aside, completely disinterested with what might be in it (I still have not opened it).
I could not get the sound of the uniformed man saying my name out of my head. I made the impulsive decision to shout out my own name.
It shot out of my mouth, so comforting at first, so beautifully familiar, but as it danced around the room it quickly became something else all together. It became someone else.
It is me and is not me at the same time.
I think I will lie down again, I can feel it watching me, the thing that is both me and not me. Maybe if I close my eyes for a while it will stop dancing.
I need it to go away.
Ever since the incident in the car park I have not been myself.
Something about those vibrations shook a part of my insides so that I am never comfortable, I feel uneasy and unable to concentrate.
Everything looks a little different. I can’t say why or in what way, but everything is definitely different.
The remnants of that period fear seem determined to not slip away, they still appear to be coursing through my veins and instilling in me a continuous dread of its return.
The rudimentary task of acquiring a pen with which to write these words was imbued with this foreboding.
I leant over my desk towards the shelf, hand outstretched towards the object. My fingers folded all too softly to pluck it with success and it tumbled down from the elevated wooden compartment. As it did so time seemed to slow down. I watched helplessly as it crashed to the floor, the fact it had done so reverberating around me in quick succession, one after another mimicking the sound that came before it but at the same time not being quite identical.
Why does that matter?
I know I need to keep using the pen, as much as it may scare me.
March 25th, 2001
I’m not myself again today.
But then I think I may never be myself as there is no way of me knowing what that is. This morning, as I lay upon my bed with the world spinning around me, bouncing back off of itself to torment me a knock at the door slowed things momentarily. I eagerly got up, rushing to the door in the hope that it would be some news, something that would set things back to the way they used to be, some kind of eraser that could blank out whatever caused me to fall into this seemingly reasonless yet somehow familiar spiral. Let me explain. I am completely in the dark as to the nature of my plague, yet I feel a deep seated understanding and this only makes me fear it more.
Back to the knock at the door.
There stood a uniformed man in light blue. He looked down at a clipboard in front of him and then straight into my face.
“Are you Lucas Brown?” he asked me
I almost collapsed at the utterance of my own name. I held myself up by putting my hand on the wall for support. He looked confused. I managed to force a nod in his direction so he handed me a piece of paper and asked me to sign it. My hand shook as I placed the ‘L’ on the page. I slowly followed with the pattern of letters I had been designated at birth yet they felt so alien. What do they mean? They mean nothing? They are at once nothing to do with me, mere scratching, and yet somehow indicative of my existence. I have been given symbols with which to state my being and it sickens and terrifies me. I dropped the pen, my hands unable to maintain a grasp, it crashed and caused the storm again, I was feeling intensely ill by this point. He picked it up and thrust the package into my hands, eager to get away from me.
I closed the door as quietly as I possibly could, but the slight click it generated still made me shudder.
I put the package aside, completely disinterested with what might be in it (I still have not opened it).
I could not get the sound of the uniformed man saying my name out of my head. I made the impulsive decision to shout out my own name.
It shot out of my mouth, so comforting at first, so beautifully familiar, but as it danced around the room it quickly became something else all together. It became someone else.
It is me and is not me at the same time.
I think I will lie down again, I can feel it watching me, the thing that is both me and not me. Maybe if I close my eyes for a while it will stop dancing.
I need it to go away.
Sunday 20 June 2010
THE JOURNAL OF LUCAS BROWN. PART 1
PREFACE
In submitting this to the wider world and minds a lot sharper than my own, perhaps more sense will be made of what has somewhat eluded me.
On 25th of November 2007 I moved into a small room that had been advertised in the local paper. It was on the third floor of an old building (my knowledge of such things isn’t great) and had probably once been the servants quarters. Stone steps led from the back of the main house beneath up to its sole entrance. I had only looked around the place briefly before agreeing a rent with the landlord. It only took me one car load to transport all my items, and after about an hour and a half the abode was kitted out to be something I would call my home.
I didn’t find it until the third day of my living there. Not having enough things to fill out the large chest of drawers, I had had no cause to open the bottom compartment. Why I did so that day is something I can’t figure out and if I think too much about it in relation to chance, fate and destiny my head starts to hurt in a way that makes me feel hollow.
Since that day, my life has been completely overrun by an unquenchable intrigue. It started as a casual curiosity; I would spend perhaps an hour of free time a day examining my bizarre discovery. Yet slowly but surely, I found myself drawn towards it in a way I cannot articulate. My curiosity snowballed into obsession and I found myself renouncing most other activities in order to spend more time investigating and contemplating the journal. Once I had read it, I never seemed to stop looking at everything around me through a lens that shattered every feeling I always thought was certain.
I have tried to find out more about the man that left it behind. The landlord claims the room has always been uninhabited since he purchased the house, that I am the first occupier under his watch. This completely contradicts the dates Lucas wrote on the first few entries to the journal.
I don’t know why, but the possibility that this is all some strange joke does not seem feasible to me. The feeling I get, the feeling I am getting now as I write this cannot be part of a joke. Lucas Brown left something behind, but it wasn’t a joke.
I have promised myself this is the last I will say on the matter. With these last words I move out of that place, both physically and mentally.
I hope.
March 22nd, 2001
At first, they fascinated me. I didn’t know why, nor did I particularly care, all I knew was that they held some strange significance. Back then, I found them so compelling that I would seek out locations whose contours would allow for such vibrations and shout out in open invitation. I attempted to beckon them forth from chasms, great hallways and anywhere else where a successful invocation looked possible.
But slowly, for reasons I cannot conjure, that all changed. It started with a gradual loss of interest. No longer would I troll for spaces in which to summon them (this wasn’t a conscious choice, I just found myself not doing it). The fascination began to leak out of my head, dripping away until I couldn’t even remember the joy they once instilled in me, and I didn’t seem bothered about trying to revive it. For once, I was comfortable in my own skin and gave my periodic fixation no further thought. They were now only slight echoes in my memory.
It was a strange reversal.
Something had happened to me which caused them to have an effect my former self could never have predicted. I had parked my car in an underground lot, It was dimly lit by the artificial glow of overhead fluorescents ( that seems significant, although I’m unsure why). I automatically went through the vacating routine, culminating in me slamming the heavy door. That was the trigger! It shuddered back at me through quivering layers. Surprised, I called out a frightened “Hello?”. That only made things worse. Several me’s (although not actually me’s) returned the question (greeting?) in quick succession, each delivered by a voice more faint than the last (or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was that the me it returned was being slowly extinguished, its cries becoming more faint as the universe suppressed its existence until it simply ceased to be.)
Or maybe it’s not that either.
At least here, in my writing, there is little chance of them coming. I dare not speak these words aloud.
Why do I find this so terrifying?
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