Reclamation

Warm hands woke me from the slumber that bound me. How much time had elapsed since I coalesced into this form? Months? Decades? The sands of time flowed beyond my reach, close enough to remind me I was cut off from the corporeal world but too far away to affect me.

I had no eyes, yet I knew it was a woman who stirred my awareness. I had no ears, yet I heard the woman’s voice, so full of annoyance as she said, “What a ridiculous poem.”

Its words were so familiar to me, burned into my subconscious to forever remind me of the fateful day I’d been made into this nothingness of existence.

Let your desire be known and of it, you shall own. Sacrifice is the trade and with it, your wish is made.

Those same warm fingers traced the words that held me in place, communicating in their gentle strokes a longing so deep that it became tangible. I had no mind of my own, yet I knew what she wished for.

I wish I could pay off my mortgage.

A simple wish, one born of stress and a burden too heavy for the woman to bear. Her acknowledgment unwittingly fulfilled the terms of the bargain, granting the wish in exchange for a sacrifice she had not fully understood but could not undo.

Relief replaced my desperation the moment I felt her soul filling the void mine left behind, becoming the source of power for the wretched curse that had held me captive for so long. The freedom I had so greatly longed for overwhelmed me, drawing a cry from foreign lips in a voice unfamiliar to my equally foreign ears. Feminine fingers I had never laid eyes on flew up to stroke my face as tears pooled in my eyes.

I was alive again.

Air filled my lungs, the sensation like a balm against the claws of darkness still clinging to my mind. Panic threatened to overtake me as I glanced frantically back and forth, taking in the sight of a room I’d never seen before. Life had been returned to me but it was not one I recognized.

The house I found myself in was a modest one with signs of many occupants scattered around. Unwashed dishes cluttered the sink and crayon-colored pictures clung to the refrigerator. Coat hooks hung on the wall next to the door lined with jackets and an umbrella dangling from its strap. Another glance at a long wall showed framed pictures, ones I found myself drawn to.

Many faces stared back at me, a tribute to a family’s journey through life. The number of children grew with the photos, as did the ages reflected in their faces until I reached one showing two teens and a child smiling proudly next to a handsome couple. Staring at the woman’s face, I leaned in closer and then pulled a handful of my hair into sight, seeing it was the same color as the mother’s hair.

Denial surged bright and hot within me. I was not a mother. I wasn’t even sure how to be a woman. How could I stay in this place, forced to fulfill the obligations of this body’s previous owner when I had my own life to live? Nothing about those children or the man whose arm rested so fondly across the woman’s shoulders called to me. I felt no need to carry out the responsibilities of a life I had not created and did not want.

Turning my back on those accusing faces, I rejected their claim over this body’s future and returned to the table. I refused to look back at the photographic evidence of the ones abandoned by the woman’s ill fate with the black book.

The black book.

It sat innocuously on the dining table, appearing completely harmless with its worn binding and wordless cover. The innocence it so falsely exuded was the greatest trap for a curious mind, a trap I would not fall victim to again. I wanted to burn it, to rid the world of its existence and the despicable crimes it had committed against humanity for countless years, but I refused to touch it. Terror of its never-ending hold over my soul stayed my hand. Destroying it would require touching it and that was something I could not bring myself to do.

Wrenching my eyes away from the book, I noticed a purse with shopping bags lying next to it. My growing desire to flee drove me to dig through the purse until I found a wallet. Inside, there was a small sum of cash and a photo ID reflecting the face of the woman in the family photos, the face that now belonged to me. The debit and credit cards inside would hardly be useful without their codes, and I did not want to leave behind a trail that could be followed.

Looking down at my clothing, I finally took stock of what I wore. The fitted pants hugged slim legs beneath a plain blouse shaped by a soft midsection with a light jacket completing the ensemble. I stretched my fingers wide, staring again at the delicate hands I now possessed, such a stark contrast to what I remembered from before.

Stuffing the cash and ID into one of the jacket’s pockets, I walked briskly to the front door, opening it quickly to escape the tendrils of guilt that threatened to keep me rooted to a home I would never call my own, a home that was now paid off thanks to the woman’s great sacrifice. Instead of giving in to the emotion tightly gripping my chest, I made haste down the street as I looked for any signs that might point me in the direction of public transportation.

After a short while, I discovered two very important facts. This body was not accustomed to physical exertion, a malady I would remedy as soon as possible, and twelve years had passed since the book had taken over my life.

Twelve years.

Determination flooded me at the realization my old body would likely still be alive. Barring a fatal tragedy, my body would’ve only just passed into middle age. I had to find a way to reclaim it, to take back what was stolen from me. If a book could possess such great power then there had to be something else out there that could grant the power to take back what was rightfully mine, to return the life that had been wrenched away from me. My wish for twenty-thousand dollars now seemed like a trivial thing, but it was mine and I planned to claim it.