The Order of the Little Black Book

The Order of the Little Black Book

By S.G. Greene

“Are you O.K.?”

The voice was muffled against the pulsing waves of the theremin orchestra below his grand viewing box. The orchestra sped up; the show began to climax. His chest vibrated as frantic yet deliberate fingers mashed heavy synth pads. A spectacle of lights beamed down from the ceiling of the rotunda in rhythm with the cacophony of sounds he had written with the stroke of a pen. He stared down to the stage below where six women interpreted the music through elegant movements of their bodies, each in tune with the other. Yet even as the crowd filling the seats wrapping the circumference of the rotunda roared with approval, he could not so much as lift his finger.

He gazed forward, a feeling of trepidation leeching through his nerves as sweat dripped from the tip of his large nose. He tried to focus on the grand display around him, his eyes wide with intent and concern. The woman next to him shook him as he began to lean forward over the balcony, as if looking for something he dropped. Her voice got louder in his ear and another set of hands grabbed his other arm as if he threatened to throw himself over the balcony onto the orchestra below. Something was wrong with it all. Something was off. Was it one of the theremin players, waving their fingers just a centimeter off pitch? No. The music was perfect. So was the choreography of the dancers and the coding of the lights.

How long have I been here?

He quickly sat back in his throne. The question dragged him by the ankles out of his spectacle-induced stupor. His ears began to grow hot. The woman to his left, adorned in black lipstick and shiny black leather, pulled his arm again. He pushed her aside and stood up, starting to panic. She was shouting a word at him that he did not understand. He shook as he looked at her. Was it his name? What was her name?

“What is wrong with you?!” another woman screamed as she stepped in front of him. She looked much the same as the girl he pushed over, save for a few piercings. He ignored her and frantically smacked at his long robes. “Are you insane?!”

“Where is it?!” he demanded. What had he done? Why did he not know exactly where it was? She gave him a frightened look as he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “What have I done with it?!” She shook her head as she watched his eyes grow heavy. He squeezed her shoulders. What had she done with it? Before he could interrogate her further, she collapsed into an amorphous glob of ink. He stared at his hands, stained black with the warm substance. Droplets spattered his face as he stared at the puddle on the ground.

My world!

He turned from his throne and ran for the doors as the second girl tried to grab him. She melted into black liquid, showering the back of his robes as she splashed against the red carpets. Two guards held their fingers to their ears as he ran to the exit. They opened the doors for him, and the brilliant light of day nearly caused him to recoil. He could hear the music start to dissolve as the orchestra liquefied performer by performer.

“Would you like me to drive sir?” he heard his driver ask but he pushed him out of the way, climbing into the electric cart. He twisted the key and pressed the pedal to its limit. He had a deadly focus, not bothering to look back as he heard liquid spatter the marble floors. The long stretch of hallway seemed to be infinite and he grew terrified, wondering if someone had found it as he so desperately tried to find his way back to its comfort.

“Stop!” he roared. His throat began to get hoarse and the rings on his fingers softened and slid from his skin. What was happening? Why did he not have it on his person? Didn’t he always? The doors to his personal abode neared. His foot broke through the flooring of the cart and a gasp of panic escaped him. He heard a pathetic groan come from his mouth as he smashed into the ground, feeling his body break as the cart dissolved into ink around him. The dam of his lavish, all-powerful life began to break. How could he have been so foolish?

He was on his feet and though the doors of his home before he could feel the weight of his crippled body start to come back. He slid around the corner and stopped in his tracks. He held his hand up and saw his wife holding what he so thirsted for. A pain in his knee that he had not felt in weeks and years, began to grow back.

“What are you doing?” he asked calmly, his back teeth grinding together. He hated that she had full control over him. Her makeup was running down her face and her black hair was a disheveled mess.

“Don’t,” she said, ripping another page out of the little black book she was holding.

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” he pleaded, stepping forward. He winced in pain as his body began to shrink in his robes. She looked at him with disgust.

“Oh, I don’t?” she asked with a saddened laugh. “I think I do. I think I have your precious book. The book you seem to love more than your own wife. I see now why you’ve never let me read anything you write.” She held the torn page up to read. He looked at her feet and saw a small fire growing larger in their small trash bin. “Small petite woman, black hair, supple lips…personality like an untamable fire. I’d read more but I think I’d throw up.” She held the piece of paper over the bin.

“Please,” he pleaded. He felt a wiry beard start to grow on his face and spine start to bend back to its decrepit state.

“Look at what this little journal has done to you,” she said, clenching her fists. “It’s rotted your brain and enabled your childish fantasies. No more disease? All the women you could want? You are a sad, deluded man and I am reality, storming in to set things right.” He dropped to the ground, holding his hand up to her as it began to wrinkle. She showed him the little black book one last time and then tossed it into the bin. She stared into a face that was hardly recognizable and she grew weary as she held the final piece of paper in her hands.

“My wife,” he mumbled, pointing a shaking hand at the piece of paper. She scoffed at him as their palace walls began to run with ink. She let go of the piece of paper and it shriveled into ash before it hit the bottom of the bin. Her shoulders slouched and a look befell her face as if she had one final thought that would have stopped her from dissolving into the rug. Ink splashed his face as she disappeared from before him. He groaned as his robes turned to old, stinking clothes riddled with patchwork. He climbed over the ottoman as it exploded from underneath him into a black mess. His frail arm grabbed the bin and knocked the embers over onto the rug. All the pages were turned to ash. He placed his pruned finger over the remaining piece of singed paper as a sea of black overtook him.

His back leaned against a wall that he could not see. A pinpoint of light moved toward him. He did not know how long he had been sitting, lying, thinking, contemplating, questioning. He knew that his body ached like it had before, his brain was foggy like it had been before, he felt invisible like he had before. Footsteps approached him and they echoed into the endless night as the light slowly got brighter. Polished shoes and a finely pressed suit blocked the growing pinpoint. He raised his head back against the wall and mumbled, trying to tell the man what had happened, trying to tell him that it was not his fault and that perhaps if there was a way, to give him a second chance.

“Shh, there, there,” the suited man said, putting his hand on his wrinkled face. He wiped a tear running down the husk’s cheek. The suit looked down upon him with jet black eyes and white scaly skin stretched tight against his bone. Black wiry hair was pushed back behind two twisted horns. It was a face he could never forget and yet somehow, he had. He tried to plead yet only grunts came from his cracked lips.

“You know, it’s interesting,” the suit said, taking his hand from the bent old man. “The Order had initially thought you were just more of the same. You proved to be quite boring in the beginning, doing what most do in the first few pages—writing in as many ones and zeroes as one could. But then you got clever. Specific. You proved us right in thinking that you had more imagination than the rest. One who has nothing and wishes to survive must have a great imagination, no? Then you had it all! But what happened? I have no doubt that’s what you’re asking yourself right now. No matter, the rules are the rules. You were the first to bring about extraordinary change, and we must all see what the world does now that it has been stripped of it.”

The suit stood up and adjusted his tie. He stepped aside and let the sick husk of a man see the growing scene. At once, the cold breeze of winter hit his cheeks and his head rested against the concrete wall of a building. Across the street from him, a nurse sat on a bench, weeping quietly into her hands. The suit winked at the old man and his impish face morphed into a human male with a kind expression.

“Our next candidate,” he said, and as the old man protested, the suit walked across the street, pulling a little black book from his jacket pocket. He sat down next to the nurse. “Are you okay? Why do you weep?” The nurse looked up from her hands and stared into two intoxicating eyes.

“My…my mother relapsed over-night. Cancer. It just doesn’t make any sense. She was healthy…cured.” The old man struggled where he sat, trapped in his own body as the suit handed the nurse the little black book, no doubt whispering in her ear what he had whispered in his own some time ago. He watched a flower form from ink in front of them and then, with a wink and nod, the suit disappeared. The nurse stared at the flower in disbelief, and then to the bent old man that gazed at her curiously from across the street. She stood up and walked over to him, sliding down the wall as she exhaled slowly, not quite knowing what to think. She looked at the homeless man and wrote into her new little journal. Startled by the sudden suitcase that formed beside her, she unclipped the buckles and opened it so they could both see it’s contents.

It was packed full of money. He felt a hand grab his and squeeze. He tried to warn her but only the barks of a madman sullied the air.

“We both will no longer know suffering,” she said, her eyes wide with newfound intent. She closed the suitcase and pushed it over to him. “Stay here.” She stood up, took a deep breath, and headed back for the hospital.

The old man wept.