Luck of the Draw

I wouldn’t call myself “unlucky,” but as of late, I’ve had more than my fair share of displeasing circumstances—today in particular.

For instance, this morning I was awoken by the radiant sunlight bursting through my curtain—its warmth gently caressed my face which sent my heart skipping the next three beats as I sprang from my bed in panic—my alarm!

It clearly hadn't gone off because I get up before sunrise specifically so that I have time to get ready before I catch the bus—was my alarm even on? Wait, where is my phone…?

I could hear the airbrakes blowing out as a large vehicle came to rest downstairs outside. No, no, no! The bus!

Pants, shoes, phone—it’s dead. Fantastic. I grab my notebook and pen and bolt out the door and down the hall of my apartment building towards the bus that’s leaving me behind.

The walk to the next bus stop is about a mile; at least the weather isn’t harsh and the sun is out.

I didn’t like taking it—the notebook with me because I have an irrational fear that someone will try to read, steal, or otherwise plagiarize my work in some way. The substitute bus approached the bus stop just as I reached it.

“Hey there newcomer, welcome aboard!” the bus driver said cheerily.

“Yep” I replied as I flashed my bus pass and sat down.

I rode the bus past the next three stops. As the bus comes to another screeching halt on its route, my stop, I step off the bus to the right and the glass doors of the building adjacent to me explode—no, shattered; glass was flying everywhere—banging, crushing and screaming; I raise my hands to protect myself—people were running and pushing and I was in the way. One—no, two people slam into me, knocking me flat to the ground.

Not knocked out, just stunned and sore—shocked really, I couldn’t really process what’s going on—gunshots; my ears are ringing. I have to get out of here.

I’m strong but not that strong; I struggle to push both men off me and I notice my notebook on the ground next to me. And a gun. There’s a gun—what, whose is that? I I reach for my notebook and run the opposite direction as fast as I can—I don’t even know what the hell just happened or why but I am not about to stay around to find out.

That was insane.

What just happened? I reach down and touch my abdomen; it’s intact. I lift my pant legs—no injuries. I wasn’t shot. I’m okay,

I take a big breath in and breathe out slow. This is a good day because I’m okay. I reach into my pocket for my notebook; this is the perfect time to write too, might as well take advantage of the opportunity. I open up to a fresh page somewhere arbitrarily in the middle and notice that the way the pages fall closed don't’ seem quite right. It’s different. It’s really different actually. These pages are yellowed too.

I’m not crazy, I know my journal. The pages aren’t aligned like I remember. Maybe it’s the adrenaline or stress—it feels different. I flipped back to the beginning of my notebook and tried not to panic again when I saw nothing.

I mean nothing.

It’s gone. It’s all gone—the words, my words aren’t there.

How is this possible; am I in a parallel universe, did someone play a practical joke on me? Am I being Punk’d?

The pages are blank.

How did the ink vanish like that, it makes no sense? Am I hallucinating—was I somehow drugged?

Confused and also frustrated, I keep flipping through the pages one-by-one and then all of a sudden I see words, it’s some kind of writing. But it’s soggy looking, almost as if the pages had been sitting in a tub of water. I bend the book back and hold the protruding page up to the light and It becomes clearer after I stare at it for a moment; it's a name, location, date, and time.

How weird.

The date is today, the time is fifteen minutes from now, the location is a twelve-minute walk from me and I have never seen that name before in my life. I’m feeling a little cracked out on adrenaline, nervous, tired, frustrated, confused but also curious. So curious—who is this person and why is their name in my journal?
 The only chance I have to find out what any of it means disappears in fifteen minutes. I reach for my phone—remembering that it’s dead and I left it at home.

“Maggie Carmichael”

I have never seen nor heard of her before.

Not a former teacher, friend, nor friends parent or acquaintance. Whatever. I walk to 2389 Trinidad Street and it’s a bank.

I should be at work right now. I am supposed to be at work right now and this isn’t a good reason not to be there, but none of this makes any sense. I want my words back.

So her I am, I’m just standing outside a bank with a dumb look on my face holding my notebook. I look at my watch; one minute until…something happens with Maggie Carmichael? Maybe I should go inside.

I enter the bank and there are steps leading into the foyer of the bank from the lobby entrance. The ground is marble and every step echoes back at me. There aren’t many people inside but there are four tellers and three people sitting behind desks. One of the names on a desk reads “Maggie Carmichael, Accountant.”

I slowly start walking towards me. She’s older, her golden-gray hair is neatly curled and pinned back to keep out of her square-rimmed glasses. She smiles and waves at me to come over. She’s just being polite I think, but I’m drawn towards her and she extends her hand out to shake—we exchange names with a quick hand embrace and then we both sit down.

“It’s so good to meet you Jack, so what can I do for you?”

“I—I’d like to um…open an account” I said a little unsurely, because I was unsure. What am I even doing here. I definitely didn’t want to nor need to open an account.

“Oh, um—ooh” Maggie says as she places her right hand over her chest, “I think—I think I may be having a heart attack.” She kind of sank down in her chair, leaning over a bit before falling out to the ground.

“Help! Someone call 911—I don't have a phone! Please someone help!”

The other two desk workers came running over, one man and one woman. The woman, Margaret, according to her name tag, began performing CPR while the man called 911 from his phone. A small crowd formed around us from the people who were in the bank but none of them could do anything for Maggie.

I felt so helpless just standing there watching Margaret perform CPR. The paramedics finally showed up after what felt like an eternity. They assessed her, performed CPR and loaded her in the ambulance.

“Is she going to be okay?” I asked one of the paramedics as he was getting into the ambulance.

“Truthfully? We can’t get a pulse but we can’t call it” he said shutting the door and driving off.

What just happened. What the hell just happened. This woman just what—died of a heart attack spontaneously in front of me? But how was it in my journal?

I open my journal to the page I’ve had earmarked all day and Maggie’s name is gone.

No trace. Completely gone just like my goddamn words.

As I am staring at the page devoid of content, letters start emerging on the page. Just like Maggie’s name—except this time, it's my current location, the time is in two minutes and it’s my name.

My name.

How is this possible—what is going on right now?! Is this some kind of disappearing ink trick? Is there a serial killer on the loose?

What does this mean—am I next, does this mean I die of a heart attack? I need to get out of here.

I exit the bank and check three times before crossing the street to the park and running as fast as I can to the middle of it. I don’t know what is happening but I never go to the park and this is the least likely of all places I’d ever go, so I should be safe there right?

I bend over to rest my hand on my knees and catch my breath. When I stand up that’s when I see him—the guy from the bus stop with the gun. Tall guy, mustache, dark hair and dark eyes and a firm build—leather jacket.

Oh god, this is it. He kills me—this is how I die. He’s come to kill his witness.

“You have something of mine” he says pointing at me.

“I’m sorry—what? What do I have—what’s yours?” I say backing up fast the direction I came as he keeps advancing towards me.

“That notebook!” He says now pointing more directly at my hand.

“What?”

“That notebook—it’s mine.”

“That would explain a lot actually” I said looking down at it.

“Yeah? Read anything interesting in it?” he lures.

“There was a woman’s name and then it disappeared.”

“So then you know what it is” he says with a smile.

I didn’t really know what it was. The journal seemed to predict the time, location, and death of a person but it was just that one name so it can’t be for everyone? I opened the book to the page with my name and stared at it a moment before looking up at the guy again.

“I don't understand how this even happened—are you death?”

“Sort of. You shouldn’t have seen me at all—that’s my bad and what I get for trying to double up two souls at once.”

“Two souls?”

“Yeah, you and that sad bloke who got shot and fell into you.”

“I didn’t know he was shot—god, that’s just my luck.”

“Well he was shot, and instead of you then getting shot by accident, I just knocked you over and myself into your plane of existence. Then you took my notebook” he says snatching my notebook. He quickly flips through the pages before shoving it in his pocket.

“How was I supposed to know it was yours?”

“You couldn’t—but I’m going to do you a huge favor right now” he says smacking my real notebook onto my chest with his palm; I closed my eyes from the force and fell back. When I opened my eyes to stand up, it was dark all around me and I saw headlights coming at me.

Everything went black.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in a white room in a bed surrounded by hospital equipment. A man in a very nice suit was sitting next to me reading my notebook.

A strange man was reading my notebook. This is like a nightmare come true.

“Jack, is this your writing?”

“Who are you—where am I?”

“Tell me—did you write this?” he asks again.

“Yes! I wrote it—so who are you? Why am I here?”

“Well Jack, I’m a music producer and I hit you with my car the other night. I felt terrible about the whole ordeal—you were sitting in the street. Anyway—I came to see how you were and this notebook was sitting at your bedside and I hope you don't mind—but I read through it. It’s great stuff. How would a $20,000 signing bonus sound to produce your lyrics and make some music?”

“Where’s the pen?”