Paranoiac (9 page)

No matter how
firm I held my hands to my head, I couldn’t block out the
interlopers voice. His tone just seeped into my skull. At this
point I preferred the laughter over his mocking. As if he were
answering my prayers, he continued the onslaught of pebbles and
laughter. And when he took a break from his forced laughter, he
returned to chanting my name heinously.

My blood was
boiling. I couldn’t handle the rocks, the laughter or the mocking.
Getting to my feet, I had my eyes fused shut and my hands to my
ears. I started to scream, needing to block it all out. It was as
if a great pressure exploded from within. The walls were crashing
down and all I could do was yell and shout in response. Soon I
turned around and kicked the door open. I bellowed at the stranger,
“What do you want?!”

Journal Entry Fourteen

My head
throbbed in unison with my heart as I opened my eyes. The water in
the pool was calm and the garden was eerily silent. No one was in
sight. I screamed out again, “Where are you? You swine!” Looking
around the pool, I kicked angrily at the rocks and gravel that
peppered the patio, almost falling in the process. Water was still
dripping from the plants and trees, everything was peaceful yet I
couldn’t stand it. Stomping through the garden I furiously tore out
the plants and pushed over the Grecian statues. I lost my temper
just like when I trashed that room and smashed into Molly’s car. I
couldn’t believe that bastard got away. In my rampage, I tried to
pull a bush from the garden then slipped on the wet, dewy
grass.

I sprawled out
on my back in defeat, wanting to cry. In my frustration, I even
wanted to break every window in the house then burn it all down. I
couldn’t handle any more of his games. I wanted to give up on this
feverish hunt. I just wanted to go home. The sky was an overcast
grey and a chilling mist was in the air. Too bad it wouldn’t last
long. The oncoming storm would only add to the repugnant, southern
humidity. I closed my eyes and felt hot tears well up behind my
eyelids. I fought them back, digging my hands into the cool, wet
grass, taking pleasure in the pressure that pressed into the beds
of my fingernails. I was finished and emotionally raw.

I couldn’t go
on. I’m done with Molly, with this journal and with this stupid
scavenger hunt. There was no spectacular answer to how I got here,
I knew that. I just wanted my life to be more interesting. Tired of
my lonely alcoholic life, I wanted things to be more fantastical.
Was that so terrible to want? To need? I knew I was a rich spoiled
brat. Sure, I was abused, sure I ran away only to lose my dying
mother, but there are others in this life who have had it
infinitely worse. I never went hungry. I had a great education and
even though I was estranged from my father, I still had very loving
friends.

The story
behind this hellish nightmare probably came from a drunken party. I
most likely invited a few of my close friends to this old vacation
home, got shit-faced and then pissed somebody off so badly that
they decided to get a little revenge. Maybe I had slept with his
girlfriend or made fun of his shabby clothes and boring words. I
was a terrible person with a shitty past and spoiled childhood. I
was just another cliché.

Sitting on the
lawn, speckles of cool rain continued to spatter on my face. My
journal was digging into my back and I hated myself to no end. Even
as I lay there with my eyes closed and my will extinguished, I
could feel my addiction scratching behind the wall. I refused to
give in. I promised I was done. Yet still I wanted to drown the
sorrows away until I slipped into insanity though I was probably
halfway there.

Then I heard footsteps in the grass. I kept my eyes closed,
not wanting to see who it was. The footsteps got closer and closer
and closer. My body became rigid. My heart thumped in my chest. I
kept inwardly repeating, chanting Mollys' name, though each time
another flash of her beautiful face sparked in my mind.
Closer and closer and
closer
. I dug my
fingers deeper into the dirt as the tears were burning at my
eyelids again.
Closer and closer and closer
. I was shaking my head back and forth repeating her
name compulsively. My body was cramping from its tenseness.
Closer and closer and
closer.
I couldn’t
take this anymore. My heart was going to explode. I just wanted him
to go away.
Closer
and closer and STOP.
I could hear him standing over me and hear his breathing.
Tears rolled down my face but I told myself it was the rain. His
clothes shifted and rustled as he bent down over me. The grass
moved underneath his feet. His mouth opened and I could feel his
hot breath on my face. “Giving up already, Sir Isaac?” He whispered
softly into my ear, articulating every word slowly and
perfectly.

The hair on my
arms and neck stood on end. Before I could stop myself I was on my
feet, eyes wide open and ready to snatch the trickster. But all I
caught was a glimpse of someone running around the corner of the
house. On my feet again, I was running after him faster than my
brain could register. “Catch me if you can!” The intruder yelled
from a distance. All I could think about as I slid around the
corner was, “I am going to pull out your tongue inch by inch until
it tells me the truth!”

Journal Entry Fifteen

I followed the
sound of his footsteps and his indecipherable, taunting slander.
The door slammed as I skidded to a halt in front of a small shed
that was on the other side of the house. It was used to store
lawnmowers, tools, chemicals and whatever else didn’t belong in the
main house. I walked to the door, my hand hovering over the knob.
Hesitating, I told myself that I could leave right now. I lamented
my miserable self-loathing existence, already giving up, confessing
my weaknesses, my fears, my truths. It didn’t feel right. All of
this felt so wrong but I couldn’t help myself. I was a
hypocrite.

My hand
magnetically fused to the door and I swiftly flung it open. “Who.
The. Fuck. Are. You!” I yelled out as I stomped angrily into the
shed. It was pitch black, no movement could be heard. I felt around
for a light switch and found a chain hanging from the ceiling. I
pulled it down and with a click light filled into the
room.

The shed was
empty. I ran around the outside of the shed and listened for
movement. I could only hear the rustling of the trees in the wind.
There was the smell rain and the clouds started to darken. There
was another storm brewing in my bones. Out of breath I staggered
back to the shed. My emotions were running thin. Why hadn’t I just
stayed on the lawn? I betrayed my own resolve but this fiendish
trickster had a way of getting under my skin. As much as I wanted
to stand here and curse the gods for my existence, I hated him
tremendously more.

Pacing the
floor of the shed, staring at my feet, I argued with myself. I felt
trapped between two decisions: continue this mad search or go home?
The more I thought about my warm home the more I wanted to leave.
My home, with its wooden covered patio looking out onto my
beauteous back yard. And my countless bookshelves, filled to the
brim with my favorite novels and research material. There was my
oak bar, stocked full of top shelf liquor and accoutrements.
Finally there was my laptop, waiting for me to convert my anxiety
to gold. My computer where my journals are kept, were the
philosopher’s stone that alchemized my sorrow and angst into life
itself. Thinking this over, I continued pacing back and forth. I
was trying to leave and trying to stay simultaneously, caught in an
endless loop.

Finally I
stood still and looked up into the rafters of the shed. I took a
deep breath, noticing the faint smell of cedar chips and polishes.
As much as I wanted to stay here and find out who was torturing me,
as much as I wanted to find Molly and ultimately figure out how I
got here, I knew it was best for me to leave. This house, these
memories and blackouts, were poison to me. My time here has done
nothing but batter my body and soul. This place made me even more
bitter and scared.

I wouldn’t be
leaving this place in new found hope, to return back home to a
better and clearer life. Essentially, I would be coming home to
countless nights of binge drinking and weeping myself to sleep.
Coming home, there would be boundless loneliness and disparity,
knowing there were no answers or closure coming from this gateway
to hell. I’m not the type of person who can accept things and move
on. I’m the person who pushes everything away, blocking out the
terrible; the type of disconsolate sod who dwells on unanswered
'ifs' and 'buts' making myself doleful in the process. I can’t move
on because I don’t look forward and I don’t let anyone get in the
way of my self-loathing. The despairing truth is I enjoy it. I
enjoy being sullen and if anyone gets in my way I’ll bring them
down with me. I am just as toxic as this house. And that’s why
Molly would have nothing to do with me.

She thought I
was brilliant, funny and endearing but she hated my misanthropic,
dejected, rueful, pessimistic view on life. She felt heavy, drained
and crestfallen around me. Molly was the exact opposite. She was
joyful, oozing with life, excitement and love. I wanted that so
bad. And I had tried with an iron will to block her out over the
years and it would take me even longer to do it again. I take
pleasure in my misery but hurting Molly would kill me. Just her
disappointment in me sucked the color out of life and the fun out
of writing. There is only so many times I can write this here
before it becomes redundant but I am defeated and it’s time for the
long, lonely drive home.

Journal Entry Sixteen

Unfortunately the moment I turned around and saw the
workbench, I ate my words. I wanted to tear out the last few pages
of my journal and eat them when I saw my
black duffle
bag
on
the bench. It was zipped tight laying on top of a pile of dusty
tools and wooden scraps. “No fucking way,” I all but choked out,
slowly walking over to the workbench. A yellow note was stuck to
the duffle bag. It read, “
Open me at your own risk
.” I rolled my eyes and tossed the note
aside. All of my doubt, cowardice, regret and fear faded away as I
unzipped the bag. I felt refueled and re-inspired. This was my
first real success since all of this started. Nothing was missing
from my bag. All of my clothes were clean and neatly stacked. My
toiletries were all there, aside from the toothbrush which I left
in the old room.

'Success!' I
exclaimed inwardly. I had found my phone. It was one of those
skinny, fragile, little smartphones. It was a gift from my
publisher who was always trying to bring me up to speed on modern
technology. Honestly, I think these hunks of glass and plastic are
cheap pieces of crap. I pressed the little button on the side of my
phone but I was out of luck. The battery was dead and my charger
was nowhere in sight. I dug through my bag out of annoyance,
dumping its contents on the bench. There was still no charger, to
my dismay, but there was something else. A bundle of notebook pages
half-hazardly rolled up fell from my duffle bag onto the bench. The
pages were crudely ripped out of a notebook and the handwriting
scrawled on the page was the same pretty cursive as the little
yellow notes. I straightened out the pages and read them
carefully.

You know how I knew you would find this? Or how I would know
that you would read this? It’s all because you can’t help yourself
and that’s a fact. You are obsessed with stories, mysteries and
your own misery. I’ve watched you cautiously walk around this
house, chasing me, chasing those notes. I can see your hesitation
but more importantly I can see your excitement. To tell the truth,
you almost had me convinced that you had given up. You looked so
defeated but like any junkie I knew you couldn’t resist. All you
needed was a tiny, little, minuscule push.

I’m sure you have so many questions like, “How did I get
here?” or “Where is everyone?” and more importantly, “Who is
playing games with me? Who is taunting and torturing me? Why is
this swine doing this?” Well Isaac, I’m not going to tell you. Not
because I won’t or because I’m playing cat and mouse with you. I’m
not telling because I’m pretty sure you already know, just like how
you remembered Molly. Beautiful, loving, trusting Molly. The girl
you refused to remember. The girl who broke your heart. The girl
who, through thick and thin, stayed your friend.

If
you refused to remember sweet, black-haired Moll, then what else
and who else are you blocking out? What about those blackouts
Isaac? Doesn’t it seem strange how natural those blackouts feel to
you? I bet you’ve had them since you were a kid. You would escape
into reality, escape into those paintings with your poor emaciated,
dying mother, all so you could escape your violent, egomaniacal
father.

Are the memories you hold dear even true? Are you lying to
yourself so whole-heartedly that you believe those cheap lies? What
a life you must live. A life built to make you a martyr. A life
sustained on depressing, rotten memories and self-depreciation.
Well... that I know you are aware of. What I don’t get Isaac is why
you refuse to remember and continue to trust your “memories”. If
you thrive on the negative shouldn’t you idolize your terrible
deeds, experiences and recollections of the past? Oh Isaac. My poor
shell of a man. My wicked little liar.