The Missing Book

The soft light of dawn forces me to open my exhausted eyes. Phlegm congeals in my throat as I reach for a sip of water. A whiff of stale sweat creeps up my nostrils from the left side of my bed, taunting me with a memory I fail to recall. Why were teddy bear blankets invented? I’m sweltering. I shout out, making sure Charlie isn’t still here. Relief cloaks me as there’s no response. Good. I didn’t need the headache of him buzzing around today. My inauthenticity towards him and our “relationship” causes a permanent thumping in my temples. Regardless of my ability to remain detached, I know his needs grew daily. My mouth tastes of ass. I clamber out of bed, desperate to reach the bathroom.

Sitting on the toilet, head in hand, I can’t wait to take myself back there. My place, where the colours swirl and dance around me. There is only one way to get there. A strong damp scent is rising from somewhere. I really need to wash the bathmat. My heckles go up. Danger. Sliding my hand down the side of the toilet basin, my fingers find my hidden Stanley knife taped to the cold porcelain. I launch the knife across the room with as much power as possible to muster in such a compromising position. The knife skims the curtain, landing with a thunk. Reassured there’s no intruder, I continue to bask in my hazed thoughts. Wipe, flush, wash; I grumble to myself about the inconvenience of human necessity. God, I feel like shit.

Charlie is a widow. His ex-wife died under, “mysterious circumstances”. A fit, healthy, 25-year-old woman, one slip and she was gone. Allegedly. I mean, how does a man not hear the thud as she knocks herself out, the crash as she falls? I miss her.

I stagger back to bed, collapsing in a heap, pins and needles tingling in my calves. A low growl echoes from my stomach, I roll my eyes. The cupboards and fridge are well stocked, but everything has to be prepared. I don’t have the energy. My arms ache. My whole body aches. Every step is a bone-shattering reminder of the previous night. A foggy memory pounds at my brain, a door jammed shut. What the fuck did I do last night?

The stagnant scent rising from my sheets is making me nauseous. Hoisting myself up, my body feels heavier with every movement. I strip my sheets, open the windows and light some incense. Better already. Making my way outside, I light a half-smoked joint. Thanking myself for leaving this little pick-me-up, my mind drifts to Charlie. As a respected mediator, Charlie is incredibly successful. His freelance services are booked months in advance. He has contracts with some fancy law firms, often working out of their offices. I assumed he’s gone there today to throw his weight around and come to whatever conclusion he felt would benefit him. A woman has more chance of winning the lottery than a mediation session with Charlie. I felt sorry for his clients. I feel sorry for anyone who has the displeasure of being around him.

My tongue feels permanently stuck to the roof of my mouth. An impossible thirst has its hands around my throat. I splutter as I down my third pint of water. This can’t be from the weed. An inkling of what is to come scratches at my inside. The cramps start soon after, my little gremlin tearing at my womb and shredding it to pieces. Rummaging through my drawers I find a single sanitary towel. Sitting on the toilet once again, I stick the pad to my designated granny pants of the day, shedding a tear of frustration. Just what I need. I was going to take my trip sooner than planned. But first, Aldi.

After fumbling with the front door, I stagger inside laden with stuffed bags for life. The pain gnaws at every joint, muscle and bone. I hurriedly pack away my weekly shop and grab my meal deal alongside a multipack of mini rolls and a litre of orange juice, before I collapse on my sofa. Reaching forward, I fumble with the coffee table. With a flick of a latch, an ornate hand-carved wooden box reveals itself to me. I grapple with it. Inside is my liquid gold, a glass medicine bottle, unlabelled. It’s time. If I can ever open it. Six drops under the tongue should do it. My tolerance is rising faster than I care to admit. A few months ago, two would have been more than plenty. Leaving my snacks for my return, I begin the journey.

An hour later, I’m watching the room fade away from me. Giggling, I relax. Falling back, down into the sofa, into the ground. I enjoy my ride, slowly spinning and waving at non-existent passers-by, down to the depths of my living room. I surf waves of blankets, travelling from distant lands to fairy tale worlds and not worrying about reality. Neon signs in unknown languages guide me through twisted streets and alleyways, with brick walls towering over me. Sweet spices writhe through my nasal passage, down my throat. Spinning around, shop windows are stacked high with pastries, doughnuts and cakes delicately decorated with piped pastel flowers. This world was blanketed in blues, greens, purples and pinks.

Abruptly, my mood shifts. Claustrophobia is suffocating me as the wall tilts in my direction. I stare at the bookshelf in front of me and watch as the titles of the books twist and shift. The answers are in the books. Paint dribbles down the walls, dressing the room in black and red. Find the answers in the books. I detest the popcorn ceiling in this ex-council home and the trip only amplifies its vileness. Uneven blobs of crud covered in chipping magnolia paint morph into holographic orbs, creating their colony in the ceiling. Mocking me and my mind, my goals. I need to find the answers now. My feet weigh me down, but my footsteps are weightless. What books? The soft, rhythmical patter of my bare feet across the heated tiles leading through the living area to the kitchen reverberates off the walls. Got to find the answers.

She comes to me, not fully, but sometimes she shows herself. She drip-feeds me information, or at least my subconscious allows me to open up and process what I already know. Go to the bathroom. Are the answers there? I scurry up the walls, feet padding along the vibrating floor panels and burst in. Darkness engulfs me and my heart beats out of my throat. Turn the light on, dickhead. Chuckling to myself, I flick the switch. Holographic images pulsate around the room as I shrink down into the floor. The toilet. The toilet. Hauling myself onto the seat, I rest my forehead on the sink. I’m unsure how long I’ve been here, watching the water twist and contort into whirlpools. My forehead is icy cold. But fuck, I’m so hot. I strip off my jumper and catch a glance of myself in the mirror. A bright red mark stamped across my face. Zooming into it, the cogs turning in my head, an epiphany hits me. I’ve seen that before. Crime scene images flash in front of me. Her head wound.

Focus. I blink, and I’m in her bathroom. I watch myself sitting on the toilet, scrolling on my phone and rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. The door swings open, I scream but my body doesn’t hear me. He grabs my hair and smashes my skull into the sink. Wincing, I close my eyes but can’t escape the events unfolding before me. Hooking his arms under mine, he hauls me into the bathtub. He then removes my clothes, placing them by my feet and blocking the drainage hole. Water blasts around the shower, and he begins to wash my clothes. Her body, my body, pale and drained of life. Crimson pools surround me as I watch him place the shower head into its holder. His face has no features, yet hers is full of things I never noticed. My long hair flows with the running water and the spotlights glare off of my gold nose ring. The shadows of a lost soul.

A few hours later, tucked up in a blanket on the sofa, I’m comforted by familiar sights and stationary furniture. My eyes scan the rows of books tightly tucked in their allocated positions. With a turn in my stomach, I notice a gap. Shooting up, I examine the gap further to ensure this isn’t just another hallucination. I stick my hand in and out of the hole multiple times, fear runs her hands along my spine. I fight the urge to vomit. It slowly dawns on me which book is missing. Blood floods my head, my cheeks burn, and I sink onto the floor. Shit. With no need for a suspect list, my mind returns to last night, and I failed to recall my movements, unsure of what was real and what was fantasy. Had I revealed my hand? My head is spinning, my stomach is cramping, and my mouth is dry. I try to ground myself. Five things I can see... Books. Shelves. Pen. Crystal. Candle. God, this is so cringe. Four things I can feel... Wooden floors. Fluffy jumper. Suffocating socks, and shelves digging into my back. Three things I can hear… Humming lamp, tap dripping, breathing. Two things I can smell… Chocolate and wet cardboard. One thing I can taste… Metal.

I take deep breaths before realising I have knocked over a glass onto a stack of papers, and melted chocolate is smeared across my sofa. A small price to pay for my trip.

Back to the task at hand. The book. My book.

The book in question was my insurance policy. From the outside, it appears to be a first edition clothbound Hans Christian Anderson’s Fairytale Collection. On the inside, I had used my trusty highlighters and love of code to create an encyclopedia of all the secrets my “boyfriend” had “entrusted” me with. Entrusted was a loose term, as most of the information I have collected was uncovered by overall stalker behaviour. It was all justifiable though.

Perhaps I had moved the book for safer keeping into my art studio? I knew I would never move it, the thrill of the book being in the same room as him kept my adrenaline pumping. I live for it, knowing I have all the power while he looms over me. I could feel his heaving chest and throbbing veins as he sweats profusely whilst I work my magic. He believes he is untouchable. For my birthday, he gave me a portrait of himself regally bestowed upon a grey horse, baring his teeth and surrounded by apex predators. He had wanted this painting to grace my hallway, but I’d persuaded him it would go in my studio to “inspire” me. The man repulses me. He only messages me if he wants food, sex or something cleaned. No one understands or knows I am simply acting as his submissive maid with benefits. I believe he believes he loves me. Whatever that means.

The journey is a short walk down my long winding garden path. On either side is a meadow of wildflowers and long grasses. Pollen tickles my nostrils, and I pause to witness the birds singing. The soft breeze blows my worries briefly away, and the sun beams down, warming my neck. A sense of calm overcomes me, and I enjoy the moment. Breathing in and out, allowing all stress to leave and clear my mind.

I finally reach the studio, and upon unlocking the door, I’m met with a metallic tinge in the air. Curling my lip in disgust, I step in. On a large island in the middle of the room, the countertop is scattered with half-finished crafts- a barely started punch needle kit, a nearly their embroidery kit, knitting needles drooping with half-finished scarves and paints scattered across the faux marble. I need to tidy up more. Actually, I need to finish some of these. As I fiddle with the needle kit, my foot brushes a cold squishy object.

Blood drains from my face and neck, and flashing images cross my mind.

I took the drops. He came over. I rolled a zoot. He declined. I drifted off. He snoops? I woke to catch him with the book in his hand. He threatened me. I retaliated. How did we end up here? I peek down, scared to confirm what I already know. His fingers still gripping the spine, I rip the book away from him. A silent scream lodges in my throat. I claw at my hair with my free hand. Unable to look away.

Fuck. This was not how it was meant to be.