PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I turned the corner hastily, as not to be seen at a glance by his wandering eye, and rushed onward toward the door, which I reached soon enough. I stepped inside to find but a note, rustling slightly in the strong breeze flowing through the open window, held down by a pebble. I lifted the pebble with my left hand as to pick the note up with my right. I then lifted my left hand, and unfolded the note. Which I discovered was a black piece of paper, after checking both sides. I thought this mysterious yet dropped it and walked on into the kitchen, where I then stopped as I reached the door, and lifted my hand to open it. Locked. I tried harder a second time to pull the handle but still the door did not move more than a half of an inch, banging back into the door-frame as it did, causing the wood to begin to dent, and as it continued, to gradually break away.



It was the dark night of October the second, I had written. For to keep a log of such a life was unheard of, such were my reasons for beginning to write such a detailed script. Not one I can clearly remember to this day, however. Though still one I would have visions of, or simply second encounters, living memories, for my beliefs had become somewhat separated from those around me. For I had awoken that morning, Tuesday October the second, to discover that it was but two hours later than usual, and that at that precise moment I had made an appointment with a Mr. White, whom I telephoned as soon as I had dragged myself away from the comforts that surrounded me. I made my way to the office, and arrived sincerely apologetic. He made an attempt to smile, yet the warm look in his eyes gave me some comfort. I unlocked the door yet had some trouble opening it; of course Mr. White aided me in my struggle. As we made our way into the room, he halted as I stepped briskly onward toward the window which had been left open from the day before, a fact I thought mysterious as the past day had been a bank holiday, one on which I would have worked but had decided to take a holiday for some time alone, and shut it. I offered Mr. White a seat, as I then settled in my own. When offered a drink he declined, yet chose to begin the account of which he seemed rather unsure. Still, I maintained my calm expression, as I noticed he had attempted to. He went on to explain about his wife, her sudden death, and lost baby. He shuddered slightly as he told me the details, and described to me what it was like to wake up one morning and discover your wife and baby lay dead next to you; an indescribable feeling, and it clearly showed. We talked long into the afternoon, frequently encountering uncomfortable silences during which I would clear my throat, and ask Mr. White if he was sure he wanted to carry on telling me. He insisted he was fine, and said what he needed to.



I clambered slowly to my feet, leaning against the wall with the weight of over half of my body, as not to plunge into the darkness of that I had just encountered. I passed the note, though as I did it came into contact with my right foot, and stuck to the small amount of cold sweat such nightmares must have caused.  Leant over the table, I reached out for my foot, which I soon enough got hold of, and removed the note. I held it before my eyes again, as if expecting something new to have appeared, some force to have arrived and left its mark. My reasons were not false.





September the fifth, thirty years since that during which I was born. Although, it was not as much of a day of special treatment, enjoyment, friendship and family that I had expected. The phone call I received in the morning, I had written, was one that informed me of a fact which did indeed contradict my wishes for the day. Still, I scurried off to work, regardless of what had happened in my personal life, be it a large, saddening loss of someone who featured greatly in the memory of all those years ago or not. For this morning I had too meet a Mrs. Fair, who had recently suffered the loss of her son. On the front line invading a country, allied with the Americans, one of which shot him down. The explanation given by the officials, she told me, was that it is a confusing and fast-moving atmosphere, and that it was easy to make such mistakes.

I arrived home this night, to discover that I had an answer phone message, an appointment to be made for the second of October, a certain Mr. White, who had suffered the loss of a heavily pregnant wife, and the baby she was carrying, only a few days ago. I sat alone for a while, in the darkness of the main room, reflecting upon the day.



I made my way up the stairs, suffering from some discomfort, still supporting my weight upon the walls, unsure to a degree of what was happening. I turned when I reached the top few steps, and managed to make my way to the first bedroom. The door had been left ajar and required but a slight push in order to be opened further. I stepped inside gingerly, though I thought this odd, I should have been certain of what the room contained, sleeping there every night.



The sun had begun to set an hour or so earlier, and the sky was left with but an ambient glow, A deep night sky surrounded by this fantastic burning ember, moths reflecting the dim remainders of the evening light, fluttering to every source of life, before darting off into the mist. I decided to take a walk, taking the risk of him seeing me yet it was a worthwhile journey I could make. I tapped my way up the stairs, still wearing my suit as I was as I arrived home that day, and entered the first bedroom, stepped over to the mirror, combed my hair back away from my face, and wiped my right eye. I left the room hastily, picking my coat off of the hook as I did so, and tapping once more down the stairs. I picked up my keys off of the table before opening the door, stepping out, and shutting it behind me. A smile not of happiness but of relief spread across my face as I began to stroll leisurely along the road, my hands in my pockets, towards the riverside. As I went on, I couldn’t but help to think of my mother; who had been diagnosed of a fatal brain tumour. It was feared that she could die at any moment. For I did not think much of my personal life and problems, I usually lived within my work, almost living in others’ lives, as I took on the painful struggle to try and help these poor, lost souls regain their places both within their minds, and within society. I had been walking now for a total of around ten minutes, although it felt more like an hour had passed in the time that I had been wandering along the riverbank in this oddly cold, or so I had thought, night of August the first. A night of deep thinking was this, a rare occasion, although I quickly began to think again about upcoming appointments with clients, Namely a Mr. Fort, whose previous appointment I had not attended due to apparent “family issues”, or something of the sort. A reason, anyway, that I knew was completely false. I did however know the true story, one which had occurred a few months previous, one which I was sure I would never forget, one that would influence my thoughts and my actions. And, true to my word, as I remembered the day while walking back to the house, I began to run, I began to run faster than I ever had, what I was running away from was not completely clear, neither was what I was running toward. Nothing but the house was in the direction I was facing, and as I reached the door I leant up against it, my nails scratching the surface and slowly digging into the paint as my hands glided along it, my weight fully leant off of my feet, which now felt like they couldn’t hold my weight at all, couldn’t hold the weight of not only my body, but of my mind, my heart, and my professionally contained sadness, soon to show, I was sure.



It was getting dark outside, and I had been straining to stay sitting on the bed for so long that I couldn’t help but fall back, as I did so the ceiling then came into view. Not as light and calming as it once had been. So empty, so fresh, so new. New thoughts and new aspirations, new dreams, nothing was old, and the past was gone. Or at least it was, I thought, as I lay and stared, relaxed my body finally - I didn’t want to move again. Even if I wanted to I didn’t know if I could. So many thoughts - such little time. Even though I would be lay there forever, there is still a time limit to everything; as I had always said. And now that it had come to it, I knew. He was after me; he had always been after me. He would hunt me down soon enough. He would do to me as I had to him. There was no escape, not this time.



I walked into the room with some caution, I wrote, Monday May the thirteenth, a date I will never forget, to discover that my desk had been somewhat rearranged and the window had been left fully open. I thought this odd, as I had never been able to open it myself before. I closed the door and stepped back as I did so, leaning against the door as I shut it. It was then that I began to scan the expanse of the room, to find not a single person. I moved slowly toward my desk, at which I then sat, battling to figure out what had happened, and trying to sort out the mess which this thing must have created. I heard the creek of the door as my back was turned, inspecting the positions and condition of the remaining books, a few of which were missing.

“Missing these?” it was a voice that darted through me, a gunshot. I turned with caution. For he was back, like he’d said that he may never have been, like he said that he was going, that he was leaving, that I would be alone. Although, he had given me some comfort, or at least an attempt. I stood and leant against the desk; though still I remained in partial shock. He made his way over toward me, and I turned my head to the side. He told me not to be afraid of him, that he was back, that we would be happy once again, that he would never go again, never have to leave, and neither would I. I continued to stare intently at the ground, for I knew I would have to keep calm. As he edged ever closer I couldn’t help but to reach out and do something. I could wish not to, but I still would know it had happened, though they would not. No-one ever would, for it would be a secret, a secret to keep, a secret to swear by, live by, everyone has to have a dark secret somewhere, as I had discovered with many clients. I was not to worry, if I were to it would make me simply un-professional. In my job, it was to keep secrets that you were there, to help but not to tell all. For no-one would ever read my logs, I was sure. And if they ever could grasp them, I would be far from alive first. The only decision I then faced was that of the creation of an alibi. Or was it really required?



I remained in my position, as I had thought I would, deep in the memories of him, of mother, of clients, and discovering those of self, or the lack of them. However, those dependant upon me were thankful I was sure. That fact in particular, it was, that struck me, a knife to the heart. A fatal blow to the head. I saw his face again, reflected in the corner of my eye, in the darkness of the night, in the shadows, in the corners, in the moonlight. He had come for me again, as I had known. For what I did I was eternally apologetic, yet truly guilty? Yet worried, frightened? More realisation of one’s self came after such an event, which I had found overcame these feelings. Yet, one could not take a gun wound to the heart without a hint of pain, and I was sure not to, as he took my hand for the final time.