The Blank Notebook

“The lights buzzed overhead as I scanned the shelves, I really liked that shop. I must’ve spent hours there over the years just browsing through all of the cool old stuff. I liked to go there to find one-of-a-kind things. But even just looking through the things I’d have no use for or couldn’t afford and imagining where they had come from and what their stories were, was a fun pastime for me. Actually, it was how I got a lot of my inspiration for my writing. I’d use it sometimes as an imagination exercise. I’d go in, and often it would be just me looking around, sometimes the odd person would be on the hunt for something specific but most times I remember it just being me. I remember this so distinctly because one time I actually started to get worried that I was completely alone in this place and had to go searching for someone actually working there. It was a family owned place so there was always someone there but they pretty much kept to themselves. Anyways, I’d go in and I’d wander the aisles aimlessly until something caught my eye. When I’d find something I’d try to picture stumbling upon it in its natural environment and from there I’d figure out the story happening with or around the object. Like, I don’t know say it was an old cast iron kettle that caught my eye. I’d see it suspended above a fire, warming its contents for the travelers seated around it. And then I’d ask things like how did they get there, where are they going, why are they there, and so on. You get it. I found it really useful. So I was there looking for a new notebook that night, my last one had filled up and it was rather plain so I was hoping to maybe find something with some personality. There were always lots of old stationary sets and envelopes and stuff there, so I was figured if there was one it would be in that section. There was one blank journal that was leather bound and was kind of cool but the pages weren’t very secure with its age, and the cover was torn in the corner, the handwritten tag said it was circa 1952. I liked it but I knew it wasn’t functional for the kind of writing I was looking for. What I needed was a cool, reliable nightstand journal. Not finding what I was looking for, I decided to have a look around anyway. The place was quiet, except for the buzzing of the lights overhead, as I scanned the shelves for my next great inspiration. But for some reason nothing was grabbing my attention in the way I hoped. I couldn’t concentrate. Giving up hope and deciding that Chinese take-out sounded like more fun than writing anyway I headed down the aisles back to the entrance. I opened the door and slammed into one of the owners carrying a big box of new inventory. Old books and even older newspapers scattered on the entrance floor. I bent to help the elderly man pick up his stock. Amongst the torn and tattered books was one with a black hard cover. It was blank on the front. Along the edge in gold type V.1 was etched into the spine. I flipped through it, and all of the pages were blank. Flipping it over, etched into the back cover, in the same gold type, was “Blank notebook.” When the man said he’d give it to me for $5.00 if I’d grab the rest of the scattered items, I did as he said and was pleased to have found my find. With my belly full and my edits for the night done, I retired to my bed and grabbed my new journal, ready to make my first official entry in it. I remember I wrote something to the effect of:

Monday, January 13

Today I purchased this new journal; a start a to new chapter.

And, a start to a best seller, hopefully. Haha.

Tomorrow I really need to get some work done – I have my meeting Friday,

and my editor has been on my ass. Still have three sections to prepare and edit.

Had Chinese food from the place downtown-not as good as the one on the corner. This week is important!

I awoke the next day, to an average morning. Did a quick workout, slugged back a coffee while watching the news, and then jumped in the shower to get ready for my day of writing and editing. As I sat down to write, I noticed the silence. And, felt so thankful for it. Usually my neighbor’s yappy little dog starts going haywire right about now when it’s master leaves, and doesn’t usually shut up until around 5 o’clock, when they get home. But that day it was silent and it was such a great day of writing. It was just after five when I heard the scream from behind my living room wall. It startled me so much I dropped my coffee. I was cleaning myself off when I was startled yet again. The pounding at my door sounded urgent, like my neighbor was in trouble. I ran to open the door. The neighbor screamed at me and pushed their way into my apartment, crying hysterically. I thought for sure someone had attacked them. I motioned toward the couch and locked the door behind us, a little frightened myself. The neighbor told me that they had just found their dog stabbed to death, brutally, when they got in from work. Before I even knew it the crazed dog-mourner was accusing me of killing the dog and threatening me with the police. As I looked her over I noticed she was clinging to a bloody piece of paper, I took it from her and, smeared in the dogs blood were the words “Shut up! Some of us are writing.”

I was outraged. I bring you into my home when I think you’re being injured only for you call me a dog killer. Good-riddance!

I couldn’t handle anymore of the crazed non-sense of dog murdering so I threw the neighbor out of my apartment. The whole night was ruined and it had been such a great day. I spent the rest of the night in a funk just hanging around my apartment.

When I finally started to come down off my rage and insulted binge, I was tired.

I headed to bed and wrote something like:

Tuesday, January 14

Got a lot done today very productive. Very strange day though as my neighbors dog died apparently and they accused me of killing it. Threatened to call the police on me even. No police have shown up yet though, thankfully, like I need to deal with that. Judy called and said she’d be in town on Thursday night and needs a place to crash, even though she told mom two weeks ago to tell me she’d be in town next Monday. Guess I know what I’m in for work wise that night.

There was a pounding that woke me from a dream that I can’t remember, but I felt thankful to be woken from. I stumbled to the door, I checked the clock and it was almost noon. I wondered how I slept that long. There was a police officer was standing in the doorway. I laughed and said come on in and I’ll tell you all about it. The officer listened as I told my recollection of the evening before. When I finished, the officer looked at me skeptically. He then told me that my neighbor had called the station the day before and that another officer was sent out that morning to deal with the matter. But no one answered the neighbor’s door or phone, all morning. And, the officer wanted to know if I had spoken with them or knew where they might be.

On Wednesday I know I wrote:

Wednesday, January 15

Didn’t get much work done today – apparently my neighbor is missing now and I have a bad feeling that the police think I had something to do with it because I agreed that we had an “altercation” the night before. I almost feel suspicious about her doing this on purpose because she thinks I killed her dog, but I know that sounds crazy. Judy is supposed to arrive at 3:00 pm tomorrow, even though it is 3 hours earlier than she told me yesterday. I’m sure she’ll be 6 hours late.

And then, Thursday came:

Thursday, January 16

Well Judy was 6 hours late and now is almost 9 hours late. I’m worried but I’m sure she’s fine – just typical of her to not even call to let me know. Meeting is tomorrow and this week has been kicking my ass. So not looking forward to having to explain myself to my editor. Dreading tomorrow.

I’m telling you every detail of what I remember. Ok? Because I think I may be losing my mind! I don’t know if these words will still be these words tomorrow. Every entry that I wrote in that notebook isn’t there anymore. It is like some cruel joke, or terrible nightmare. When Judy never showed, and my neighbor went missing, and then my editor never showed up for our meeting, I was relieved, yes. I had been dreading those things. But I swear I never hurt them. I’ve never wanted to hurt them. I admit, maybe sometimes I’ve thought negatively – yes- but I never wrote those twisted fucking ramblings that you read, I swear to fucking god I never wrote them. “

July 17

I knew they’d never believe me. They have a journal - in my handwriting - describing the plans of three murders and one dog-murder. The therapist here has been making me keep this journal for a month now. At first I really didn’t want to, actually it took her nearly three months to get me to write anything. For the last month, tired of her, I’ve written small, sarcastic entries just to try to piss her off, she already thinks I’m bat-shit crazy so why not. I didn’t realize her plans for the journal until a week in though. She came for our “session” and asked me to tell her what I remembered writing. She was pleased that I remembered every sarcastic thing and called it progress. I notice though, every time I bring up the notebook, the looks of pity and disbelief on her face. She thinks I’m the crazy one. I told her that I think I have to write in the other notebook if she wants what I write to change. But I guess I’ve learned that I should be careful what I wish for.

“Over the months in therapy I’ve come to terms with what has happened; at least to some degree. I understand that I took the lives of people that were close to me. To this day I don’t remember doing it. But I understand that I did. My therapist has been working with me to try to remember and has explained how repressing memories is a rather common symptom after traumatic events. It is my understanding that this is what she believes I am dealing with, and I’m trying to move forward with that understanding, but it is, it is so awful. I try to picture myself being capable of doing that and I can’t. I can’t. I’m so sorry for what I... might have... for what I obviously... what you all believe.... for it. I’m so sorry for it. If it’s true that I did this then I am so sorry.”

“After the Judge thanked me for sharing my insights with the court. They said this has been a very unusual circumstance from what they could gather. And that he, himself had not yet seen this notebook. And asked if it were present in the courtroom. After the Judge flipped through the book all hell broke loose in that courtroom. There wasn’t one thing written in that book.”

October 7th

This is my first Journal entry on the outside. My therapist wants me to keep it and it honestly scares the hell out of me. (Yes, I’m talking to you READER!) So I’m supposed to try to work through my thoughts and feelings since all of this has happened, as part of my sentence. So far, on day one, I have no idea what to say, or how to feel. I feel more out of touch than I did when you had me locked up in the loony bin, I probably shouldn’t write that, but it is true. So, my goals of these entries are to try to start to make sense of the idea of my freedom. I spent so many months convincing myself that I had committed murder, so now being back in the regular world, feels like a dream or a scam. It has been the strangest year of my life and I cannot wait for the year to be over. Trying to make sense of reality is really hard. I’m finally able to start to grieve the loss of my sister, and the others. I know that I am sitting in a café; I’ve ordered 2 large cappuccinos since I sat down. And I know that I am writing right now. My problem with reality is the wonder if tomorrow I’ll be told that I instead ordered teas and read the newspaper, oh and with an extra side of murder. And, further that then I’ll start to believe that, only to have that reality all torn away as well! I’m getting away from the point. I think that for today I won’t think about how this could’ve all happened. How in the court room the notebook turned out to be blank, despite what everyone else read and what I remember writing, BLANK. I don’t know what happened, and I don’t know if what I’m writing will be what I’ve written by tomorrow. And, I don’t know what I am supposed to do with the notebook, that was returned to me as my property since its not evidence anymore.

#FlashFictionTuesday