The end is the Beginning

The end is the beginning of a circular story. And for that I am sorry.

That was all she read in the little black b0ok that caught her eye at the thrift store before she tucked it in the crook of her elbow and carried on. She needed a blouse for a job interview on Wednesday morning so she continued browsing until she thought she had one that might fit.

She walked home bagless with shirt and book in hand in the cold, moody evening. Coins jingled in her left pocket, the clouds were hanging low and heavy in the mountains and the fog beneath them seemed ominous and suffocating. The crunch of the ice and snow beneath her boots was a comforting, midwestern sound in this foreign place she now called home.

She unlocked the front door to her studio apartment and the bare walls glared back at her like white eyes with no pupil. The overturned pictures on the counter and the ones propped up against the walls on the floor screamed at her to crack open a beer and so she did. She sat in the dark and looked out the window of her living room into the house across the residential street.

The woman in the window was bathed in the light of the open refrigerator door and kissed her husband while a small child rifled around inside of it. It was a beautifully sickening scene.

She opened the black notebook and continued reading the first page.

It had occurred to me that although those words were not written by me, they may as well have been. The story spoke to me as if it was speaking through me, like I was possessed by a demon who needed a voice and hands. Like a shadow without a body between itself and the sun, and when it found me it latched onto me like a leech. I felt it each morning and all day resting upon my shoulders, and reaching its arms around the bottom of my chin for a strong hold. I felt its weight and I heard it whispering sweet nothings to me as I fell asleep each night. I care not to feel anything but its embrace any longer. Goodbye.

She dozed off with her neck at an uncomfortable 90 degrees in the arm rest of the couch and after what felt like moments suddenly awoke bathed in moonlight pouring in from the window. Her hands felt clammy so she wiped them on the thighs of her pants and scoured the couch cushions for the black notebook. Her heart began to race when she couldn’t immediately find it, and a calm sense of ease shrouded her body when she felt it tucked in the crevasse of the seats. She pulled it out and devoured it in one sitting with sobs echoing in her empty apartment and tears staining her cheeks.

It was sick, addictive, heart wrenching, and turned her guts. It gave her a stomach ache but she couldn’t look away. People say that of car accidents but it was more like a plane crash full of pre-school aged children.

She flipped through the handwritten pages over and over again. There were no names, there were no dates or distinguishable locations. Just haunted words beautifully transcribed only to be discarded. She set the book in her lap and it felt warm. Almost as if it had jogged up a flight of stairs and its hot breath was seeping from it onto her pants.

She was still digesting those words as she got up to pour herself a glass of water. She scrolled through her phone to take her mind off the heavy notebook and saw an advertisement that piqued her interest. It was a short story contest with a grand prize of twenty thousand dollars.

She had always considered herself a good writer, but certainly not one that could potentially win a contest and make money by doing so. She flicked the ad away, grabbed the black notebook, and went to her bed. She cozied up under a knitted blanket and poked each of her fingers out of the holes.

She thought, “Ha. It looks like I have webbed fingers like this. Maybe I could write about waking up one day as a duck. Although that is pretty close to a bug and that’s cheating.”

She let her mind wander through a corn field of possibilities and her consciousness slowly started to fade as she stepped into the void of a fresh dream. A tight hand held hers and led her through the field. She couldn’t see the body that hand was connected to, but it felt secure. More hands reached from the corn stalks. Every color, every shape, every size. Old, weathered hands touched her face, baby hands touched her calves and the corn disappeared. There were only bodyless hands and forearms reaching out and stroking her gently. Fingertips brushed her eyelids and lips, palms circled her back and pulled at the hair on the base of her neck. It was uncomfortable now. She couldn’t move. She was taking short, shallow breaths and with each breath in the hundreds of hands on her body pushed and pulled closer and closer. She tried to scream and fingers forced themselves into her mouth. She threw up all over them and the foul smelling, vile liquid was smeared all over her face and chest by the relentless phantom hands. She willed her body awake.

Her eyes flew open and she felt light as air. She was clutching the black book against her chest with both arms crossed over it. It was as if a force pulled her from her bed and to her desk.

She began typing furiously, turning pages of the notebook as she went, copying each and every word. Her guilt was overshadowed by lust. She felt wide awake and overcome with a sense of belonging. She was nearly complete when she felt the weight of two strong hands on her shoulders. She could feel the air on her ear as if someone was watching her working from right behind her shoulder, and taking a deep breath in. It felt just right, and she didn’t bother to turn around.

The next few days felt like years. She had a fresh jackpot of money to do with whatever she pleased. She was giddy. She was frequently thankful of her shadow and felt its presence at all times. It would stand in front of her doorway, so she just stopped going outside. She had finally found a family and so she drew the blinds down, as she didn’t have the urge to look on inside the neighbors’ home any longer. She kept the lights off inside because there wasn’t anything to see. She had a guide to bring her where she needed to go, and strong arms to fall into at night. She never felt alone. She felt safe and secure. The money excited her but she didn’t feel like there was anything important to spend it on anymore. She was happy and she was in love.

She was asked to send in an interview about what it was like to win the short story contest. She opened a fresh notebook she had laying around and started on the first page with a steady hand in dark ink.

It read,

“The end is the beginning of a circular story. And for that I am sorry. It had occurred to me that although those words were not written by me, they may as well have been. The story spoke to me as if it was speaking through me, like I was possessed by a demon who needed a voice and hands. Like a shadow without a body between itself and the sun, and when it found me it latched onto me like a leech. I felt it each morning and all day resting upon my shoulders, and reaching its arms around the bottom of my chin for a strong hold. I felt its weight and I heard it whispering sweet nothings to me as I fell asleep each night. I care not to feel anything but its embrace any longer. Goodbye.”