LUCAS BROWN AND THE OTHER MAN PART 3

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.”

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.