Samuel Good

Anamnesis

Her hands were beginning to shake as she looked down at the small black notebook placed before her. It laid there unopen, its spine was creased and deep lines were beginning to crack along its centre. Beside it, a single grey pen shared the otherwise empty desk. The window directly behind the desk let in streaks of purple twilight through the spaces between the dusty blinds, gently lighting up the small study with the fading memory of a bright autumn’s day. The lady sat upon a mahogany chair with only a stiff cushion for support, its original colour had faded beyond recognition. She drew in a pained breath and gingerly pulled herself towards the desk before placing her shaking hand over the pen, and then leaned back into the few creaky splat rails that remained on the seat. Her gaze never left the notebook as an excitement began to grow within her at the idea of opening it for the first time and putting her pen to paper, anxiously awaiting the words that would begin to flow from her mind and onto the pages. The notebook would be her portal to limitless possibilities; in it she could write her hopes and dreams, her most secret thoughts; she could be pensive or careless, explore new ideas, justify her beliefs or simply jot down words without aim. Above all, here she would find something that would finally understand her, and see clarity in her thoughts. The anticipation was becoming too much, the lady slowly wrapped her fingers around the pen, grasping it awkwardly, and with her other hand placed her thumb on the edge of the cover, ready to dive into the notebook’s crisp paper and unleash its fragrance of almond and vanilla. As she was about to flip onto the first page, the lady paused and observed her pale hand slightly hovering over the coal black cover. The hand was thin, its pearly white skin was taught over skeletal fingers. The lady studied it in shock; dark blue veins rose and fell over its bony ridges, and countless brown spots dotted its wrinkled back. Nervously she turned her eyes to the other hand only to see the same image. Fear and confusion gnawed at the back of her mind, and her heart began to pound as her breath quickened. She could feel a familiar anxiety growing; her eyes began to dart back and forth, when finally they looked past her hands and fell back towards the notebook. A calmness slowly returned as she saw its blackened leather, and her breathing slowed. She became excited at the idea of opening up its cover, wanting to revel in the freshness of its pages and then to simply write.