Book 2 Part 1: Peering darkly through the mirror

Author’s note: Parts 1 -6 of this narrative comprises the first book of this story. It was not until I finished the Part 6 last Friday evening when I decided this would be a conducive layout for this book/serialization/writing experiment. As with most works, this one in particular has taken a life of its own as it continued to grow and expand with each part/chapter. I don’t know what I expected when I started writing this more than five months ago, but from my perspective, it has been fun to write.

I want to thank everyone who has given me kind words and encouragement to continue writing this novel without a name. Really, it means the world to me. Also for the record, I’m the worst when it comes to titles – just ask anyone who worked in newsroom with me. Many nights they heard me complain as I struggled to create a headline (I can imagine Jon Swaby nodding so rapidly it is about to give him whiplash). I don’t know when this blossoming behemoth will have a name in the near future...it will probably happen after I finish it. But if you are behind and wish to get caught up, the preceding parts of this narrative are located on the GCDW website under my blog.

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After the wreck, I don’t remember much until the following week. My memories before then are like flashes of a single frame. What I can recall after my car overturned was the sound of sirens, being lifted into the ambulance and a pinch of a shot in the arm which burned in my veins. I don’t remember the doctors, nurses or visitors. I can’t even recall my room in the hospital.

Two days later I was discharged. That morning my father drove me home and I remember it was raining. I can still recall the sound of wiper blades slapping beads of rain off the windshield while my father’s eyes remained transfixed on the road. I felt as though he wanted to say something, but thought better than to speak the obvious. The obvious was I had flat-lined on the scene. A shard of glass cut a deep laceration which extended the length of my forearm. By the time the paramedics arrived I was losing blood at an alarming rate. It was only by the skills of the first paramedic that I am able to write this today. I later learned she fashioned a tourniquet and gave me CPR on the scene. I flat-lined once more in ambulance, but was revived by two jolts to the heart. In truth, I owe my life to that paramedic, and what is worse – I don’t even know her name. I can just remember after being discharge the charge nurse say a name…Janice or Jamie? It’s funny how the people which most affect our lives can pass by as ghosts.

My first vivid memory was of my room. The blinds were shut even during the day. Even though I didn’t die, I felt like I was in a tomb. Every six hours brought a new pill. Some were red, others white, but still had the same debilitating effect. My mother was my drug dealer. She would enter my bedroom with a bottle of water and two curated tablets. Her eyes were filled with concern as she sat at the edge of my bed. It was always the same question – Do I feel any better? I would nod penitently while accepting to take the two pills. Sleep was never far behind. When I dreamed there was nothing but a black void. Nothing existed when I dreamed. Not even me.

But every time I closed my eyes I wished for Laura. That memory or dream never left me, and hoped I would see her once more. But she never came.

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It took about a week before I was able to freely move around my room. Each step took painful inertia and every time I walked, I felt each cracked rib reverberate through my body. It was hard to breathe. A lot of my time was devoted to weeks before the crash. I would analyze every situation and every memory in an almost obsessive manner. For hours I would stare off into nothing until I couldn’t take it anymore. This is when I started writing.

The earlier sections of this narrative were written during those drug induced days when it took great pains just to leave my room. Writing was cathartic, as a way to remember and to commit my memories to a physical form. I needed to remember or, at minimum, I needed a something real…tangible of what had happened. Writing made gave my memories life, because as a thought, it was almost indistinguishable from a dark reverie.

I had missed my opportunity for law school for the spring semester. It was the middle of January, and students have long since packed into the auditoriums, received their first disappointing grade and established a routine of late nights of caffeine or Adderall. Due to “extraneous circumstances,” or at least that is way it was phrased, I was invited back for the fall to begin my two year track. The one and a half month vacation had grown to eight.

Until the middle of February, I rarely left the house and few people stopped by to visit. Most of my time was spent in recovery, writing and researching information from the Laura Spencer case. On my desk rested piles of every single transcript from the case. Having a father as one of the few lawyers in the area provided certain advantages, and since the case is now considered cold, the release of the documents was easy enough. Although, he was curious of my request, yet he kept his comments to himself.

Perhaps I was afraid to leave my room. Looking back objectively, I may have developed a slight case of agoraphobia, though that is just speculation. Being alone with my thoughts did feed into my fear. My room was safe, whereas the outside world was trying to kill me. I saw the connecting thread in my journey for Laura Spencer – every forward motion was met with Newtonian resistance. But, as I soon discovered, this led me to believe I was on to something the day I was driving to speak with her mother. Every time I get close to the truth, I get pushed away with force. It was late one night when my suspicions were confirmed.

After a night of writing, I decided to turn in early. Some people count sheep before sleeping, I stare at the ceiling fan. I know it is odd way to fall asleep, but there is something soothing in the monotony. As the beat of the fan blades created a soft thud resembling a metronome the sound of a guitar started to accompany it. At first, long suspended chords reverberated off the sound board and filled the room. I knew the song well, except the musician played it at half the tempo, building space between the notes. After the first stanza, a voice accompanies the guitar.

There’s something happening here,

What it is ain’t exactly clear…

“Are you the man with gun, or am I him in this scenario?” I interrupt.

The Ambassador strums a long chord and waits for the notes to mute before responding.

“No gun, but yes, I am here to tell you to beware.”

The Ambassador sets the guitar back in the corner and rises from his seated position on the floor. He walks in silence towards the bed, conscious of the need for silence. I did not ask him how he got in the house. If I did, I knew I would only get a half-truth.

When the Ambassador reached me, he scrutinized my face and with frown said, “You’ve changed Jacobi.”

“I almost died.”

“Most people almost die every day and don’t even realize it,” he whispers waiving his hand. “Sometimes it is only a matter of minutes which separate life from death. It can be as simple as taking a right turn instead of a left or brushing your teeth 10 seconds longer which can unfold a series of events leading to death. Every day death is there, waiting for one slip or coincidence. It waited for you that day. But with a little luck it missed you. The point is you didn’t die.”

“I didn’t.”

“And is that not enough for you? To know you have lived?” The Ambassador pauses before continuing, “But that is not it though. It is more than your near-death experience which separates you from the past. There is something recessed in your pupils which shows an awareness, a deeper, darker understanding. Perhaps there is no going back. Have you glanced in the mirror lately? You may not have noticed it, but you are quite removed from the person you were a month ago.”

“You’re right. I’m different…changed. But I wonder who made that possible?”

“Who was driving the car?”

“Who handed me the note?”

“Not this again. We went over this already and that conversation is too dull to continue.”

Many thoughts wove within my conscious in that moment. Part of me wanted to abandon this journey. But I knew I was in too deep now. Like a fated beast, I was upset that my options only led one direction. And I think the Ambassador knew that. After exhaling, I gave up for the last time my ambition to stop. I would see this, wherever it led, to the end.

“I saw her. Laura. After the wreck I saw her in a room of grey at a table. We spoke and she was saying a name but I never caught it.”

“A name?” The Ambassador asked perplexed.

“Yes, a name. It began with a ‘b’ or ‘d.’”

With his hands clasped behind his back, he paced the length of my twice, lost in thought. He stopped once at the edge of my bed and raised his finger as though to make point before discarding it. Twice more he paced the room until slouching in defeat.

“There is no other way,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

“Stand up.”

“Why?”

“Do it,” he commanded, “This may hurt.”

A dark veil fell over the room, covering it in absolute darkness. Before I had a chance to breathe, a cone of light pierced through the veil and grew until it encompassed both of us in white light. I could feel every atom in body stretching and expanding. If I tried to scream I couldn’t. As the pain reached its pinnacle, everything stopped and it was then I felt the cold grass beneath my feet. I was alone again and front of me stood a tree covered in the throes of twilight as a dying sun set on the horizon.