Tangled

I walked out behind a man at the coffee shop, and yelled, “Hey, Sir! You forgot your murse!”, a fancy word for man purse, but he didn’t seem to hear me. I ran back to pay for my coffee and ran to catch up with him as he turned the corner. He was only a few minutes ahead. I kept yelling and chasing after him to give him back his backpack. Before we knew it, I saw him go inside his apartment building, as I turned the corner. I had no choice since I was already there, to look inside his murse, perhaps his Driver’s license has his apartment number on it. I pulled his wallet out and read his card, Charles Anthony Brenton 18551 Trophy Club Apt 461. Dallas TX. I could not help but notice the bands of hundreds in the murse. It had to be at least Twenty Thousand that would set me free from this financial downfall I am drowning in along with all the other refinements in my life.

“oh, gosh!” toughest decision I had to make that day as I was already losing everything. I practically only had two dollars left to pay for my coffee. I could simply walk away and let it be, but my conscience will not allow me to. I decided to go find Charles Anthony Brenton as it was on his driver’s license. His date of birth had just passed, August 16, 1977, Elvis just passed a few days ago, what a waste of a great musician. I know more than I need to know at this point.

“FOCUS!” said the voice again, I still must figure how to get in this building. It is only the right thing to do.

As I entered the building the cold air from outside, followed me in as the gated metal door slammed making the whole building shake and echo with its loud bang. The building was eerie with the smell of sewage. 101…102…103…number 461 must be on the fourth floor. I ran up the stairs to the fourth floor, elevators in these old buildings creep me out. As I am running through each staircase door to the next floor, my heart started to beat out of my chest, maybe because I was just out of shape. It would be so much simpler just to leave with the money. 461….. to the left or to the right, it is so hard to make up these decisions on my own. I am going to miss my therapy appointment after this fiasco.

I knocked on the door and waited. I knocked again this time harder and louder, this place was giving me the chills. Something just was not right. I could not leave the backpack at the door, the next person that finds it might not be as empathetic as me. If anyone is claiming this money, it is going to me or him. I decided to turn the doorknob because I was really going to be late for the therapy session that I am recommended to see. Depression is something that has bounded me to midnight terrors and many other psychological things that go along with it. You do not even seem to know what depression really feels like until somebody calls and invites you somewhere, which is exceedingly rare. I am anti-social.

I walked into his apartment and called for Charles. “Charles! I am going to leave your backpack here.”

As I was walking out, I noticed his body was lying lifeless on the couch with a little black book in his hands.

I noticed a lock on it, but I formerly could not open it. I looked around to see what I could find. I noticed he lived by himself. Seems like he has been here for days, trapped inside these four walls, he must have got out today to pick up the money. The smell of death was prominent throughout the house. I could smell it on me already. The energy in the room was dark and creepy. I was unable to wrap this in my head around what was happening. How am I supposed to know what to do next?

A voice within me tells me to grab that book. The last thing I need is my fingerprints on a crime scene.

The Black Book kept grabbing my attention, how do I open this thing. I panicked as the dead body laid lifeless next to me, does this book contain someone I could call to help this lifeless body. Who do I even call? Do I really want to be a part of this crime scene with all this money when the police arrive?

I must find a way to open this book. It must have the information I need to get this body out of here. My hands were quivering at the thought of opening this book. The cover of the book was old and rough, you could tell it has been through some rough times. The energy from it, kept drawing me towards it. Spiraling down a staircase of guilt, hope, and despair to the dark pit of pain, not being able to help this lifeless body holding the black book that could set me free from here.

As I look for clues to open the black book, I noticed a key being not your ordinary key but a special key. A key you could feel but cannot touch it Where is this key? Is it within this body? If this were me, where would I put this key with my black book? I reached his left shirt pocket by his heart and found the keys to this little black book. I tried to feel for a heartbeat since it has not been that long since he collapsed. I could not find a heartbeat anywhere near his left pocket, so I grabbed the key as quickly as possible to get away from the body. It was a small little key like a diary key on a little girl’s diary, you could barely see it. If there was someone with me, they could tell you they do not see anything. Not a lot of people see or hear the things I see and hear.

I started to hear terrifying voices telling me what to do like I always do. Something I need to talk to my therapist today if I ever get there. He is not getting up anytime soon, let him lay there. Let him die.

Another terrifying voice said open the book, it has all you need to escape this labyrinth of chaos, despair, and uncertainty of life if I wanted to survive.

Another voice, a little softer tone than the other two voices, spoke motherly and loudly, told me to let it go. I did not know if she meant to let go of the body or the book. Always go with the gut feeling, I took the book and the murse and ran home.

Inside the black book, it wasn’t like Nostradamus, The Da Vinci Code, or The Secret, like I was hoping for. It seems like it was his journal he kept through the years. He wrote about his genetic disorder situs inversus totalis. Charles's heartbeats are on the right side of his chest not his left, Charles was still very much alive. He wrote about his happy childhood and years of life in itself, were all there in black and white. The life events that led him to be lifeless on that floor were in that book. Charles wrote about the good days where there was hope for good humanity. He wrote the secrets of life in this little book about the difference between wealth and knowledge.

I flipped to the end of the book to his last entry, He was planning on fighting this monstrous disease that he’s been diagnosed with, depression, post traumatic trauma, anxiety, bi-polar depression, and schizophrenia. Charles had kept a journal that he wrote in daily, it was suggested by his therapist that he was to visit today, connection to the real world was the assignment today. He was going to have coffee this morning at the diner before his appointment.

At three o’clock sharp, I arrived at my therapy, I could not wait to tell her about my day, I read to her my entry from the day before from my little black book. The therapy helps me recognize reality and the stories in my head, like the twenty thousand I found this morning. I am no longer captive in this book or lifeless body I saved, due to my finding of the twenty thousand dollars I found in my backpack at the diner this morning.