Do Not Read This

Balance: $20,000.16

That was a hell of a lot of money. A hell of a lot of money that didn’t belong to the woman staring incredulously at the previously pitiful bank screen. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The sixteen cents were hers. The rest had appeared from nowhere; a rabbit pulled from a hat. $20,000. Jesus Christ.

It was 5:25pm on a run-of-the-mill Wednesday evening, and curled up in her tiny one room apartment, she was somehow no longer in danger of going broke. She’d like to think she’d never been in danger at all, but even she would have to admit that sixteen cents was a disheartening balance. Once rent had been paid and bills accounted for she’d been bled dry, scraping the pennies until the Friday pay-check came in from her dismal 9 to 5. The leftovers in her fridge would have lasted the two days, but a diet of beans on toast and questionably out of date mac and cheese wasn’t exactly a feast of queens. Now none of that mattered. Now she could pay rent for the next six months off the bat. She could order take-away, or, better yet, take her girlfriend out to a fancy restaurant on the town.

There was one problem, of course; the money wasn’t hers. Someone was probably searching for it - some transfer gone wrong with an account number one or two digits different to her own. It would be an easy enough mistake to make. If that were so, keeping the money would be immoral. Equally, in her financial situation, not keeping the money would be idiotic and witless. She double checked the figure. Put down her phone. Twiddled her thumbs. Picked the phone up again. Called her mother.

Unsurprisingly, her mother said to keep the money. Said it like it was not just the obvious choice, but the only one. Knowing her own mother, she hadn’t expected any different. Moreover, now that her Mom knew, half the state would know. Any friends, or friends of friends and probably friends twice removed would know. Perhaps calling her Mom had been a bad idea. She put the phone down again. The doorbell rang. She nearly wet herself.

When the woman opened the door, no one was there. A coincidentally timed ding-dong-dash. Probably the family with two acne prone, pre-pubescent kids from down the hall. Releasing the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding she was about to close the door (double locked, just in case) when she glimpsed something. On her doormat, lying innocent and closed, was a small black book. She picked it up, still skeptical. On the cover, clear and bold, in a mix-matched collage of newspaper fonts, read the words:

"Do Not Read This."

From the moment her eyes scanned these words on the cover, the outcome was inevitable, the conclusion forgone, as it was always bound to be. Not even the strongest of minds can deny the innate urge to press the red button, eavesdrop on the forbidden whisper, or - god forbid - read what they’ve been told they, under no circumstances, must not. The thought of consequence didn’t even pass her mind as delicate fingers flicked the black cover, and greedy eyes clamoured to read the first page. This time, not the newspaper cutouts but somebody’s lazy, handwritten scrawl had scribed:

"Warned you. Check your balance."

The woman scrambled to her phone (making sure to double lock the door first, of course), shaking fingers struggling to type the password and reloaded her bank page. Her heart skipped a beat, and an uncomfortable lump formed at the back of her throat, obstructing her from letting out the tiny yelp which wished to escape.

Balance: $19,900.16

How was this possible? A tsunami of paranoia flooded over her as she rushed to her window. How could anyone know that she’d turned the page? At the exact moment she’d turned the page? Her apartment was on the sixth floor. And even if that had been possible how could they take money from her account, just as abruptly yet seamlessly as it had gone in? Breathless, she pulled down the brick-brown blinds on all three windows, even taking care to close the peephole on her front door. Only once she had done so did she dare to glance at the notebook’s next page.

"I knew you’d look at this one too."

Barely able to contain herself, the woman refreshed her bank page once more.

Balance: $19,800.16

Heart palpitating so fast it threatened to give way into cardiac arrest; she resolved to shut the book. Chuck it out the window, burn it, toss it down the garbage chute. Whatever it took. She did none of these things however, as her eyes had already betrayed her to glance at the other side of the two page spread. The same messy scrawl read:

"On the following pages are documentation of the 50 worst things that have been said about you. Read on if you don’t believe me. Or not."

Those words taunted her from down on the page, mocking her curiosity. She almost did it. The woman almost had the will-power to put down the book and start the spring clean she’d been vowing to begin for months. The fifty worst things? The carpet really did need hoovered. How bad could it be - and how would someone even get a record of things like that? Breathe; in and out. Put down the book. PUT DOWN THE BOOK RIGHT NOW.

She turned the page.

The first ‘worst thing’ turned out out to be a printout of text messages from her father to some mistress, detailing how he never cared for his children and would desert them in a heartbeat for a chance to be with her. Her father had left them when she was 8. These messages were almost 20 years old, yet the words sliced like a freshly sharpened blade. The worst thing was that she didn’t for a second doubt their authenticity. These had not been forged. The language, the ways of speech were her father's, unquestionably. Yet instead of making her throw away the book in disgust, the confirmation only made her turn the page once more; twist the knife deeper.

The woman raced through the pages. She simply could not bring herself to stop; she was a shark and each sentence was a drop of blood in the water, doing nothing but fuel her desire for more. If it occurred to her that with each turn of the page she was at a loss, the pace with which she devoured the words did not show it. All the terrible things that her colleagues or family members had disclosed about her in texts or emails harmed her more than any drug, but she was an addict for them, subjecting herself to read them until she felt she could take no more. Her mother telling a friend what a failure her once prodigal daughter was - past lovers sharing details of the parts of herself she was most insecure about. Sneering at them. One email showed a conversation between her boss and a colleague about how, when budget cuts came, she would be the first to go as she had, quote on quote ‘all the ambition and drive of an impounded Chevrolet after it had been in a car crash.’

Just when she thought she could take no more, and the tears had been pooling upon her cheeks and salting her shirt as they fell, the insults stopped. The format changed. She checked the time: 6:07. She’d been in a mindless frenzy for almost 40 minutes. She checked her account, fearing the worst, feeling both guilt and anger for the price of the knowledge she’d consumed.

Balance: 15,000.16

Wiping the tears, lip quivering, the woman once again subjected herself to the book’s wonders:

"Now that we’ve come to an understanding of how this works, read on as you wish:

50 worst things

50 best things

50 secrets kept

50 truths unknown."

She could be smart about this, the woman thought. One quarter read, three sections to go. $100 per page. It was an expensive book, but one she could not help but devour. She didn’t have to lose everything though. She could only read what she must. Secrets kept from her, for example, told her who she could trust. Flattery told her nothing. Yet as she skipped fifty pages forward to scour through the secrets while keeping 5k untouched, memories of the ‘50 worst things’ kept hounding her. Perhaps it would not hurt to read one nice thing, just to lift her spirits and convince herself she was not hated upon by all who knew her.

Naturally, once she had read the first ‘best thing’ (a college professor telling another how she was bound to be headed for greatness) these were just as addictive as the negatives, if not more. The serotonin she got from each page compelled her to turn to the next. When she reached the secrets she marvelled over those too - a friend who’d been pregnant but hidden it, a sibling on her father’s side she’d never known she’d had. And the truths were just as bad; the questions she’d always longed for the answer to but been too scared to ask, all laid out in front of her, by this mysterious book which somehow seemed to hold the power to read her mind; scratch out the deepest desires even she didn’t suspect. Before she knew it she’d almost exhausted the book. She’d forgotten about the money - forgotten how with every sentence her fortune was shrinking. This set the anxiety back upon her. A shiver rolled down her spine.

The second to last page was different. Her heart was beating so furiously she feared her skin might rupture to free it.

"Here you are", the page said, somewhat more smugly than a book should be capable of, "Wasn’t that a waste of perfectly good money? Well just to show how charitable I can be I’ll give you one more chance. Do not read the last page and I’ll give all $20,000 back. Read it and you’ll have nothing."

Her eyes read the paragraph once, twice, and then a third time just so she could be sure she hadn’t misread or been caught out by some cruel play on words.

"But I have to tell you... on this final page are the words you’ve been waiting to hear. The answer you desire more than anything."

Put down the book. PUT DOWN THE BOOK RIGHT NOW.

She didn’t check her account that night. She didn’t need to. Her phone lay by her bedside, hundreds of missed calls and notifications from family and friends who hadn’t previously cared. People who were under the impression that she had just come into a large sum of money. False congratulations. Pleas for gifts or loans under the pretence of friendship. The woman didn’t open a single one. She turned off her notifications and slept a simple, dreamless sleep. The question, now with it’s answer roamed freely around her mind, doing laps and circles, but no longer causing her grief.

Possession or Power? Money or Knowledge?

Balance: $0.16