Opening the door to the scene was a shock. It was almost expected but that doesn’t take the horror out of it. When you watch crime shows and see the reactions to the crime scenes you might not understand the reactions. But when it’s real life the whole thing feels impossibly real. He needs to call the police
There's nothing around the room that's out of place. There's no blood, no marks on the wall, nothing to suggest anything violent. Yet, he knows a dead body when he sees one. People describe dead bodies in books as almost looking as if they were peacefully asleep. When faced with a real dead body, it’s almost true. Except there's a fundamental difference, some difference that makes you, as soon as you see the body think ‘that’s a dead body’. Maybe it’s the odd stillness that’s simply unnatural. No matter how still you sit you can't quite manage something like this. Maybe it’s the way that her expression is frozen instead of relaxed and the paleness of her face.
And that book is lying next to her. With branches of a fern laying on its pages, it's almost a mirror of something he can't quite remember. The scene is so strikingly familiar yet when he reaches for the memories, they crumble under his hands. The dust clings to him and leaves him with impressions of feelings that he might be imagining. The only thing he can conjure up clearly is the sight of black ink on pure white paper.
This was a horrible situation. A terrifying scene that was vaguely expected in the back of his head, and yet he still couldn’t wrap his head around the reality of it. He doesn't remember much but he knows one thing. He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late. If she had heeded his warnings maybe she would still be alive.
When they were walking out in the park and she bent down to pick something up it wasn't unusual. She was always plucking coins off the ground, little rocks, random metal pieces, anything that caught her attention. However, when she bent back up with that book in her hands, he was filled with a sense of revulsion and an increasing desire to flee. There was something about it that was so utterly terrifying. He had expected the book to open up and show a page filled with nothing but his darkest fears.
It was a symbol of terror. He had been stuck in the spot he was standing in for a few paralysing moments. When he could force his voice to speak he had called out to her. She had heard only dread and fear in his voice as it shook and stumbled over letters. He had warned her, had told her to put it back down and leave, had told her that something wasn't right.
She didn't listen. She never listens to him. She dismisses him on the basis that he couldn't know anything, he can't trust what he remembers. Why would he remember the truth out of what he is missing? Why should he get any opinions when he doesn't remember the experiences along with them?
She should've listened. She only needed to listen just this once. Just once and she would've been okay, would've been breathing and alive. He wouldn't be here having to watch that horrible stillness. She only needed to listen once and this all could've been avoided. They were supposed to go to that new fancy restaurant that opened two weeks ago. Her friend's kid had a play he was directing, he had really wanted them to be there. Now he has to face him when they don't.
He's going to have to tell everyone. He's going to have to tell everyone what happened. What happened? He doesn't know. He has this vague idea in his head, but he doesn't know where he got it from. Why does he know what happened? What happened to his memories, he's supposed to be missing his not gaining others.
How is he supposed to look Phil in the eyes and tell him that the kid he had called his daughter was dead? How was he supposed to tell the police what happened? He shouldn't know what happened. What did happen?
The memory fades in and out of existence. It's like it's so crystal clear one second and then just a vague feeling of terror, or anger. He doesn't know what happened, but he knows exactly what happened. He can't do this.
He can't breathe. The room is spinning around him and the walls are closing in. He falls to his knees as his lungs spasm, trying desperately to just breathe. It's impossible. He's going to pass out. He doesn't want to pass out, not here, not now. But he still can't breathe and he still can't move. It’s a feeling of helplessness, he’s been struck down by his own inability to process just what he is looking at.
And even though there's no breath left in his lungs, it's still knocked out of him when he feels the impact.
His body goes sprawling to the floor, the pain has whited out his senses for only a moment. When his vision turns back into something more clear he rolls himself onto his back. His body doesn’t respond quickly and his limbs feel wrong.
The movement causes his vision to black out quicker, he hasn’t been able to catch his breath. His head aches as the pain blossoms into what’s most likely a concussion that catches his thoughts and turns them incoherent. He can feel blood trickling down his neck and staining his shirt. The only thing he registers seeing is a flash of brown hair as he moves.
Everything feels like it’s too much. He can feel everything that’s going on, the pain in his head, the blood on his neck, the jello in his bones. Everything outside of himself ceases to exist for a moment. He still can’t see, his lungs burn so much. His body doesn’t feel like his own anymore, it doesn’t respond as he calls for it.
As the last of his vision goes and his thoughts become less coherent, he's strangely reminded of black ink on pure white paper.