Jessica Smith had an ordinary life, save for the fact that last night she acquired a magic diary that allowed her to read her future.
Reclined in her bed, Jessica watched with confused
amazement as words appeared on the face of each blank page she opened to in the
book. Each word floated up like balloons that slowly broke the surface of
still, clear water.
“It looks like… my, my handwriting?” Jessica mumbled to
herself as she slid her slender fingertips across a fibrous page.
The cell phone rang.
“Where were you last night?” questioned Arcadia,
Jessica’s long-time friend. Her concerned yet calm voice didn’t fare well to disguise
her excitable nature.
“Cadie, I have the craziest story to tell you!”
“What are you talking about? Are you all
right? Did something happen?”
“I’m fine. Slow down and listen.”
“Okay…So? Where were you last night? C’mon
already!”
Jessica flopped over on her back and proceeded to relay
her last-night’s romp of wild sex with the hot guy who hung out at the coffee
shop.
“But you work there Jess! What are you doing fucking the customers?”
“I know… it’s not like I do that, well, ever,
but this guy… Dorian…it was like he was in my head. He was irresistible! It was
like magic. Beside, you know how much I love Oscar Wilde.”
“Well, where is he now? Did you guys exchange numbers or
anything?” Arcadia pried.
“Well, no. In fact, he must have left some time before I
woke up because he’s gone.” Jessica plainly admitted.
“What an asshole! Forget about him! I hope you kick him
out next time you see him again at work!”
“Well, whatever. Actually, he left some stuff
here. It’s a journal or something, bu—”
“Hey, I gotta go. I’m just glad you’re okay, and screw
that asshole. Dorian was a jerk in the book , too, y’know. Love’ya girl.”
Arcadia interrupted and hung up.
“Bye.” Jessica said, and tossed her phone aside.
Jessica’s vibrant hazel eyes concentrated on the strange
book. She picked it up again and started to read the divining entry for today.
Her eyes froze.
Her lips twitched.
May 29, 2012
He’s dead! I don’t
get it. I don’t understand. Why did you do it?? The police found him. He hung
himself. The news report said, in the fucking apathetic news anchor voice, they
said “Police found 27-year-old Dorian Black dead this evening.” They are ruling
it a suicide, but will need to wait on the autopsy report. He was hanging in a
stairwell, you fucking morons! Why would he do that? What did he want me for? I
hate you Dorian. I hate you so much.
She threw the book on the
floor.
She would never see him again.
She cried.
* * *
Jessica dragged herself into the coffee shop from the
searing desert afternoon. Sweat dripped from her forehead, and saturated her
underarms and underwire.
She hated her job.
She hated Dorian.
She used to see him there almost every day she came into
work for the past year. She actually liked
him. Although she didn’t know a lot about the man, enough rapport was
established between the two for her to know that he was the type of guy she
wanted to see herself with; he liked dark-roast black coffee, he was a year her
senior, he was a musician, he spoke fluent French and loved to read. She fantasized
about her warm olive skin in contrast to his cool ivory hue. She secretly
fantasized about what their children would look like—“milk chocolate babies” as
she called them.
Nearly one month had passed since Dorian committed
suicide. Jessica thought about quitting her job, but she hadn’t had much luck
in her search for a new one.
Jessica
also hadn’t opened the diary since that day, either. She thought about throwing
it out, but nostalgia of Dorian’s green eyes and raven hair would get the best
of her. Furthermore, a deep—almost unconscious—curiosity of the book’s fantastical
power had a stranglehold on her.
“Yo!” Jessica’s boss—and the coffee shop owner—said to her
with a nonchalant nod while wiping off a steamer spout.
“Hey Seth, has it been slow today?”
“Yeah… Not much going on. It’s been pretty
quiet. Sold a number of iced mochas though…” Seth rambled on in his usual
fashion. “Oh, hey! If you feel like taking today off, go for it. Tryin’ to keep
the labor costs down, y’know?”
“Seth, are you sure?”
“Yeah, just make sure to drink plenty of
water, right? I dunno how you ride your bike in 120-degree desert weather.
Man…Nuts! I gotta ha—”
“Thanks Seth, take it easy.” Jessica politely interrupted,
turned around and walked out the door.
“Yeah, sure… you too. Take it easy…” he continued on as
Jessica left.
The hot Phoenix summer sun assaulted Jessica again on her
ride home. Energy beamed from the sky and radiated from the asphalt. Heat waves flowed from car hoods and
sidewalks. Jessica grabbed for the water bottle in her bicycle basket and took
a drink, then grabbed for her phone in her pocket and called Arcadia.
“Hey love, what’s up?” Jessica said. Sweat beaded on her
forehead.
“Nothing girl, didn’t you work today?”
“Got the day off. Hey, you wanna lets go over
to Paper Heart for a cocktail?”
“Sure. I’ll pick you up. I’ll call you when I’m leaving.”
“Cool. See ya.”
The offensive Phoenix heat made Jessica’s 15 minute
bicycle ride feel like a lifetime.
“I need a car. I need a new job. I’m a college graduate.
Why can’t I find a real job?” Jessica
complained to herself as she walked in her apartment door.
The small 2rd Avenue apartment had all the
vintage charm it advertised to have had, including a built-it vintage wall
clock that didn’t work, a vintage gas stove that usually didn’t work and no
dishwasher. But, at $525 a month with a private community pool and atrium,
private gated access and the laundry room right by her apartment, it was the
only thing she could afford in downtown Phoenix.
Jessica stared longingly at a copy the Phoenix New Times—the weekly alternative
press paper that she has tried to get a job at since she moved to the city—that
rested on top of her coffee table.
“Wonder what’s going on tonight…” Jessica mused.
She picked it up and opened to the back. She had a habit
of starting with the classified section.
And there it was:
Calling All Phoenix Food Writers
Do you love food? Do you love writing about food?
Do you love staying on top of the latest
buzzes in the
Valley’s ever-evolving and revolving food
scene?
The Phoenix New Times is currently looking
to fill
a staff food writer position. Experience in
writing,
reviewing and spotting local food topics,
restaurants
and trends is vital. Please send your
resume, writing
samples, cover letter and three story ideas
to:
foodie@phoenixnewtimes.com
Jessica’s
eyes lit up with pure passion. Here was her
chance—just what she needed; a real
job as a real journalist at a real newspaper. She A-lined to her
computer and started browsing her clip file for restaurant reviews and food
news stories.
She
dug up her résumé and a dummy cover letter, and waxed romantically of when she
was a bright-eyed intern at the Hartford Advocate.
She
waxed romantically of how she graduated in the top 10 percent of her class and
freelanced as much as possible—she stayed positive, but couldn’t find a job. She thought about how she felt she needed a
change, so she moved to the desert, started a blog, and did “independent” work,
as she called it. Jessica thought about how she still wrote a few freelance
gigs here and there, but she was broke and needed a steady paycheck. Jessica thought
about how she couldn’t find a steady staff reporter position, but she stayed
positive and found jobs to make ends meet. She thought about how nearly four
years has passed. She started feeling defeated.
Jessica
sat at her computer and diligently compiled what would be the third “résumé,
writing samples, cover letter and story ideas” she submitted to the New Times.
The
phone rang.
“Hey,
it’s me. I’m on my way. I should be there in about 20,” Arcadia said.
“Okay,
see you in a few.”
Jessica
got up from her computer and walked into her bedroom.
“What
to wear, what to wear. I never know what to wear,” Jessica sung to herself. She flipped through her wardrobe. She tossed
through her drawers. She washed her sweat-salted face and put on a bit of
make-up. She looked around her bedroom, and the leather-bound corner of a book
caught her eye. The diary.
She walked over and picked it up. She shivered
in repulse and tossed the book back into the corner she retrieved it. The thick
journal flailed open and its enchanted power captured Jessica’s curiosity.
“Well,
I guess it’d be nice to know if I’m going to get the job or if I’m wasting my
time,” Jessica coaxed to herself as she went back to retrieve the seductive
book.
She
picked up the diary and softly palpated the hard leather cover. Jessica opened
the book and stared at the fiercely seductive pages in the same confused
amazement as she did the first time she opened it. She quickly flipped through the
pages.
It
was overwhelming.
The
book’s pages seemed to go on forever, with dates ranging from today to 10 years
into the future. Detailed accounts her future populated each page.
October 12, 2014
Today my piece-of-shit stove burnt
down my kitchen and it could have burnt down the whole apartment. Mary finally got this damn thing “fixed” after
all these years of me complaining about it and this is what happens. Yeah, thanks for the great work.
Why do I still live here? What a dumb
bitch of a landlady. My whole
life is…
“Whoa! That’s not good at all,”
Jessica said aloud. “If I’m still living here in two years… I couldn’t—”
The
phone rang again—Arcadia. She decided to check it out later, perhaps.
* * *
Jessica
found out exactly what she needed—she didn’t get the job. But, she started to like the strange book. She decided to
keep it a secret—how often does a magic diary that can tell a person’s future
end up under a girl’s bed?
Although
fully disappointed about the food writer position, Jessica thought that maybe
there could be more to this book—that the book isn’t just a static account of
her life.
She
thought that maybe she could take advantage of some of the things she
learned—like the oven dilemma. Not that she wanted to still live at her current
residence in the future, but if she was going to be there, she didn’t want her
kitchen to go up in flames.
Jessica’s
face puckered in mischievous curiosity. She bit her lip and picked up her
phone.
“Hey
Mary, it’s Jessica from 105. My oven is not working at all, and I think it needs to be replaced. Can you call me back
and figure this out? I’m pretty concerned because I think I’ve been smelling
gas,” That should take care of that
Jessica mused to herself in satisfaction.
She
checked back in the diary to see if anything changed—she even bookmarked the
page.
…It’s not there anymore.
“Oh
shit.”
…Did I just do what I think I did?
…I just changed my future.
“It worked…I can’t believe it was
that…easy?” Jessica pondered to
herself. Her eyes widen as she inhaled deeply and let out a sigh of equal parts
relief and disbelief. A faint smile pulled at her lips, and her bottom jaw fell
ever so slightly.
“Fortune
favors the bold,” she softly spoke to herself. Her countenance drew on a sharp
look of determination and purpose. A cold, almost sinister, focus eerily
weighted her soft brow line.
“I’m
going to get that job.”
Jessica
studied the diary. For a week, Jessica plotted and manipulated to make her
future entries reflect her current desire.
She
thought about Dorian. She considered what Dorian could have been thinking about
while he had the diary—before he killed himself. She considered what Dorian
could have done in order to manipulate her into his arms.
…He knew what he was doing.
The
left corner of her lip curled in anger.
Her
focus snapped and she realized she was sitting in a silent and dark apartment,
save a dim lamp in her bedroom. She realized she hadn’t left her apartment in
days, save going to work and occasional trips to the grocery store.
“2:34
in the morning?” Jessica nodded her head in defeat to her circadian rhythm.
* * *
“Hello
Jessica Smith, this is Janine De L’Ange from Phoenix New Times, and I would like to meet with you this week
about the food writer position. I’m interested to put a face to your work, and
we can go from there. Call me at 602-212-1448.
Thanks.”
Jessica’s
eyes lit up with excitement.
…they finally called. They finally called
me! They finally called me for an interview!
She picked up the phone and dialed
from memory.
“Mom?
They called! The New Times finally
called me! They want to interview me!” Jessica gushed. They talked for a
moment, and her mother imparted standard motherly advice.
“Okay
mom, I will. I love you. Bye.”
“Love
you, too, dear. Buh-bye.”
Jessica
called Arcadia, but she didn’t answer. She decided to send her a text later. She
was about to call Ms. De L’Ange, but paused.
...check the diary first.
She grabbed a hair band and put her
thick spiral-curled tresses in a high ponytail, grabbed her diary from under her bed, walked into her small yet
eclectically stylish living room and sat in an oversized vintage purple
armchair she bought at a yard sale. Accustomed to the book’s peculiarities, Jessica
efficiently and quickly leafed through the text.
“I
still didn’t get the job,” she said to herself. “God damnit!”
She
violently threw the book against a walk and a guttural, snarling groan bellowed
from her mouth.
“I
want this job! It…it has to be mine.”
She
crawled over to the book again, and hunched over it like as though it were a small,
helpless bird. She delicately picked it up and looked it over to make sure she
didn’t damage it. She went back to her armchair and carefully combed each page
for clues—who would get her job instead? She browsed the book for a couple
hours. Her breath shallowed as she concentrated her efforts to find a name, if
she could.
“Damn,
I need to call back that woman.”
Jessica
put the book down and retrieved her phone from her bedroom. She grabbed a notepad
and a pen, and walked toward her small dining table. She put on some coffee and
tried to relax. She realized she has five hours before her shift starts.
Jessica drew in a deep inhale through her nose and slowly breathed out of her
mouth. She wiped her face and briefly massaged her eyes.
“I
need to call Ms. De L’Ange.”
* * *
It
was abnormally busy at the coffee shop for a Tuesday. Jessica worked cheerfully
and positively—she was excited about her interview on Thursday afternoon at the
New Times.
“You’re
in a good mood, huh? Maybe I should schedule you in the evening more often?
Hah!” Seth rambled as he walked out of the back office.
“Oh,
yeah, good idea!” Jessica returned with a smile. She was excited to be at work
for other reasons. She was looking for a woman. Viviane Moore. She has seen the
auburn-haired woman at the coffee shop before, and recalled talking to her
briefly about the fact that they were both journalism majors while in college. She
vaguely recalled that Viviane was new in town and was looking for a job as well.
Viviane Moore.
Jessica’s
preoccupation was slightly apparent, but nothing too out of the ordinary. Seth
recognized the cheerful disguise Jessica wore when she tried to hide something,
but he didn’t want to pry.
After
a long evening of preparing lattes, iced mochas, iced yerba mates and black
coffees, 10 o’clock finally arrived and Jessica was ready to head home. Tips
were good, but she didn’t see Viviane that night. Jessica was heading over to
lock up when a last-minute patron waived her down to wait. Jessica was about to
give a frown, a shoulder shrug and point to the turned-off neon “OPEN” sign,
but she saw the patron’s auburn hair and changed her mind.
“Thank
you so much. I didn’t know where else
to go for a hot mate!”
“Hey,
not a problem at all! Come in!”
“Thanks
again. Appears that you’re closing up? I won’t be long, just a medium yerba mate.
There’s agave nectar?”
“Yeah,
right over on that table. Hey, you’ve been in here before? You—you’re a…writer,
right?
“Why
yes, good memory. As a matter of fact, I have an interview on Thursday at 9
a.m. at the local New Times paper.
They’re looking for a food writer, so I feel confident this will be my opportunity.
I freelance for the Arizona Republic,
but I truly aspire to…” the auburn hair woman went on. Jessica tuned her out as
she prepared the mate.
“Sorry,
I’m talking about myself so much. I’m Viv. Viviane, really, but call me Viv.
And you?”
“Oh,
I’m Jessica. Yeah, cool. I’m a writer, too. Yeah, I saw an ad for that
position. I pu—”
“Oh
great, a writer! That’s really great. I relocated to the Phoenix area—well,
Glendale—about six months ago. It’s beautiful here—all of the palms and
Saguaros. I’m from Mobile, Alabama. It’s by the gulf...” Vivian went on. Jessica
entertained her monologue and quickly labeled the woman a narcissist.
“Yeah,
totally,” Jessica casually replied. “Well, I put a little extra mate in there,
so it’s a little stronger. I think it’s better like that. You’ll see. So…
you’re new in town?”
Vivian
answered with another monologue. Jessica slowly burned as she imagined that
this narcissistic twit could get the job—her job.
“Yeah,
sure. Well, hey perhaps you’d like to hang out sometimes—you seem like an
interesting person, and we seem to have things in common,” Jessica commented.
“Oh,
sure, I would very much like that. I’ll give you my number.”
“Great. I’ll text
you my number as soon as I get out of here. Perhaps we can go out for cocktails
tomorrow? I’ll introduce you to my friend Arcadia.”
“Oh,
lovely. Arcadia? What a lovely name. Well, don’t be a stranger. Thanks again
for the mate.”
“Oh of course. Gotta have your
yerba, right? G’night, Viv.”
…gotcha, Viviane Moore.
A
sly smile lifted Jessica’s lips.
* * *
Jessica
considered how she’d get Viviane Moore out of the picture. She decided the best
way to handle Viviane was to make her miss her interview.
…cause an
accident?
…drug her drinks?
…sabotage her
car?
Her
plan was dark and out of context with her typically positive demeanor. She
didn’t want to hurt Viviane, so she decided that if she drugged Vivian somehow
and caused her pass out at Cadie’s would suffice. Jessica decided that if she were
to, say, keep Viviane out until last call and drug Viviane’s first and last drinks she should be adequately and
deeply sedated enough to provide plenty of time for her to miss her 9 o’clock interview.
Viviane agreed to go out to the Paper Heart Gallery, and Jessica was certain
there was a new exhibit and a band playing, which would give better reason not
to leave the venue too early.
“Yes.
This can work,” Jessica mumbled to herself. A pensive look weighed down on her
face. A knot of guilt rose up into her throat. She swallowed heavily.
* * *
“Where’s
Viviane?”
“I
thought she said she was going to the bathroom.”
“Wasn’t
that a while ago? It’s almost 2:00.”
“I
don’t know. I mean, shit, she’s wasted…I don’t know about her—she only had
something like two drinks?! Where’d you meet this girl Jess?”
“I
know she’s wasted, that’s why we need to find her. She couldn’t have gone
anywhere; we all drove here together. I’ll check the bathroom. I hope she’s not
passed out. God.”
Jessica
went on search of Viviane. She pushed open each of the three stalls to make
sure. She poked in the men’s room and dashed in the one stall to check. She
soberly walked out of the men’s room and looked down. A thick bulb caught up in
Jessica’s throat. She tried to swallow it down, but it hurt.
….where’s Viviane?
“Did
you find her?” Arcadia asked. Her tall, bodacious hourglass figure, deep brown
eyes, onyx skin and cropped African hair always made Jessica—being 4’11” with a
petite boyish body—feel like something of a sidekick.
“No,
I don’t know where she is. This is not good. This is not good.”
“Girl,
don’t you have her phone number? Call her. She’s a big girl. If she went home
with someone—good for her. At least someone’s getting it tonight.”
“Arcadia.
We—I have to find her. Can you get
off your dick boat for a minute and Goddamn help me? This is NOT good!”
“Shit
Jess, what the hell’s up with you? Don’t get at me because you lost her.
What do you care so much for anyways? You met her like a day ago. She doesn’t know you. You guys barely talked all night. What’s gotten over you?”
“No!
I’m…I’m just worried about her. That’s all. I’m sorry, I just—I’m just worried.
She looked really messed up. I just hate the idea of someone taking advantage
of her.”
…and you’re not taking advantage of her?
“Look, this place
is closing down. It’s 2:08. She’s not in the gallery or at the bar, and she
wasn’t watching the band—she’s not here.
She left, Jess. Just call her and leave a message. Call her in the morning and
make sure she’s up. Didn’t she say she has an interview or something? Don’t you
have an interview tomorrow, too? Let’s just go. I’m tired.”
Arcadia
drove Jessica home. After a short yet awkward apology, Jessica got out of the car
and walked up to the exterior gate of her apartment building. She slid her key
into the heavy lock, turned it and pushed the door open. She turned and waved
at Arcadia, who waited to make sure she got in safe. Arcadia honked and drove
off.
Jessica
let the heavy iron gate slam shut behind her. She walked to her apartment and
let herself in. She hung her purse on the green coat stand by her door. She
kicked her heels of and cracked her tired toes. Jessica turned on an Eiffel
town-fashioned lamp on an end table and dropped her keys. She caught a glimpse
of herself in a white wicker-framed mirror that hung beside the coat stand. She
stared herself down; her hazel eyes were dull and shamed.
…check the diary
“Fuck the diary.”
…you want to know, don’t you?
Jessica
shuffled into her bedroom and pulled the book from under her bed. She quickly
scanned the section she needed. She closed her eyes and sighed. At least the
night wasn’t in vein.
* * *
Jessica
called Viviane after her scheduled 9 a.m. interview, but she didn’t answer.
“Hey
Viv, it’s Jess. What happened to you last night? Well, I hope you were okay for
your interview. I’d hate the idea that we kept you out too late. Call me so I
know you’re okay.”
A
small knot tied in Jessica’s stomach. She didn’t want to hurt Viviane, but she
couldn’t help but to feel that something wasn’t right. Still, the New Times job had to be hers, Jessica
resolved, and she was able to get it with the power of her diary.
“I
didn’t hurt anyone. She’s fine,” Jessica reassured herself as she went on to
prepare for her interview. She reminded herself of a quote she read somewhere.
“Fortune
favors the bold, and I have to be bold and assert myself if I’m ever going to
get what I want,” Jessica dialogued with herself as she disrobed and turned the
knob in the shower. “Just put her out
of your mind. She’s fine. It’s time for me to make it for myself.” Jessica
reminded herself as the too-hot water hit her back like cauterizing needles.
She breathed in the steamy air and felt positive; she would get the job and
Viviane would not.
* * *
Jessica
left her interview feeling confident. She walked out of the New Times office and looked around. She
thought about how she would walk into the Jefferson Street building again, but
as the new staff food writer. She never felt so strong; she knew she would be hired—her secret diary
told her so. She walked over to her bicycle, unlocked it and headed off toward
the bus stop.
When
she got home, Jessica went straight to her bedroom, kicked off her shoes,
flopped on her bed and grabbed her enchanted diary from underneath the mattress.
She browsed the state of her newly formed future; she verified that she still
got the job. She looked further into her fate and read that she’d move out of her
apartment when her lease expires, and she’d rent a “cozy little” two-bedroom
house. She read that her older brother would marry the girl he started dating
earlier in the year, and they would move to her hometown in Germany; she’d miss
her brother. She read that Arcadia would eventually move to San Francisco with
the marketing company she currently works for, meet a firm woman and come out
with her homosexuality.
“I always knew Cadie was a femme
dyke,” Jessica said with a chuckle.
…what about Viviane?
She
checked her phone.
…still nothing.
Jessica felt a little concerned, so
she flipped through the diary to see if there is any mention of Viviane in her
future. She stopped at the next day from the current date.
She froze.
“No.
Please no.”
Her
hands trembled.
Her
throat constricted around a bulge that started to rise from her gut.
July 13, 2012
Viviane’s dead. The police found her on
Baseline Rd. tied up in a dumpster behind a Whataburger. She was raped and killed. The third victim in the
past month found in the same area on Baseline Dr. They think they’re all related rape-murders. I didn’t
want to hurt her, but these things happen, I suppose. At least I got the job…
Jessica ran to the bathroom and puked
a burning, frothy, yellowish substance into the sink. An uncontrollable and
steady stream of tears ran from her hot, bloodshot eyes.
…this wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I
didn’t want her to die.
“I ju—I just wanted the job. Why is
this happening? Dorian killed himself and now Viviane’s dead. Who else is going
to die around me? Viviane died for nothing! Just—just nothing!” Jessica cried
in angst. A sharp pain stabbed at her heart and stomach. She let up more thick
bile. Jessica looked at herself in the vanity mirror. She didn’t recognize the
contorted face. Her eyes were red and her eyelids were swollen. Clear, runny
mucous flowed from her nostrils. In a haste of anger, Jessica smashed the
mirror with her small, bony left fist. The glass imploded and a few thick
shards fell into the sink and onto the floor; one lodged itself firmly into the
fleshy side of her pinky finger. Deep red blood quickly pooled around the thick
shard and started running down her hand. With her fist still tightly clenched,
Jessica turned her palm toward her. She could see her tarnished face in the
jagged shard of mirror that protruded from her tender flesh.
“Dorian!
Why did you kill yourself? I hate you! Why did you do this to me?! Why did you
leave me this book?! What horrible things did you do because of this fucking
book?!” She yelped in pain at the sight of her blood, as it ran down her hand
and dripped from the boney point of her wrist.
…this is was you wanted. You killed her.
Live with your consequence.
Jessica
pulled the glass out from the side of her hand and spewed an agonized scream.
She grabbed a washcloth from her linen closet and compressed the fresh
laceration. The smell of her open, bloody flesh filled her small bathroom with
a disorienting miasma. In a reactionary haze, Jessica swiftly turned her ire to
the diary. She tore into her bedroom and yanked the book. The enchanted sight
of the words forming on the pages sparked a viral hatred inside of her.
She
roared at the book. Her eyes sparked alive with vitriol.
…destroy it, before it hurts anyone else.
She
tore at the book’s interior, and ripped pages from its hard leather binding.
The book’s mysterious power further revealed itself as she attacked it.
“Wh—Wh—What’s
going on?”
She
gazed on in incomprehension. The pages she tore out vanished and the blood
smears disappeared; the magic diary appeared untouched.
She
dropped the book on the floor.
In
a confused reaction, she grabbed a lighter and set it to the corner of the
book. By nothing other than magic, the flame died each time Jessica brought it
close to the book.
“I
don’t want this anymore! I—I don’t want this book! Please! Please!” She yelled
out as she curled over and began to cry in pitiful shame and defeat.
She
wrapped an old tee shirt around the open wound on her left hand and crawled
into her bed. Her body was depleted and limp; her mind was broken and fatigued.
She fell into a heavy slumber.
* * *
“Can
you come over?”
“Girl,
what’s wrong? Are you all right? Did something happen?”
“Please,
can you come over? I need to show you something. Something happened.”
“I’lll
be there soon, okay? Just, give me about an hour.”
“Okay,
I’ll be here.”
Jessica’s
hand was swollen and painful. Blood soaked though the tee shirt and onto her bed
sheets. The blood around the wound coagulated and formed a scab that mildly
grafted the material of the shirt to the gash.
“I
think I’m gonna need to go to the hospital,” Jessica murmured to herself.
Jessica
hoisted herself out of bed and looked at the book on the floor.
…you have to get rid of it
“How?
What am I to do? I feel like I’m cursed”
Jessica
walked to her kitchen and tenderly pulled the tee shirt free from the scabbing
wound. With her good hand, she prepared a sea salt bath and soaked the wound in
the solution. The salty brine sent a stunning zap through Jessica’s hand that
made her muscles tense and slightly spasm.
She stood there, with her hand soaking in the
solution, and watched as her blood defused into the water and stained it a
sanguineous hue. After a few minutes, she compressed the wound with a couple
sheets of paper towel.
Jessica
sat down in her purple armchair, careful not to get blood all over it, too. She
closed her eyes and imagined how she will tell Arcadia about her secret diary.
She imagined how she’d dispose of the wretched book. She thought about Dorian.
She thought about how Dorian must of felt trapped with the cursed book. She
thought about why he killed himself.
“I
wonder how long he had it. It’s a curse, that book—a real curse. Why did he
leave it with me.”
Her
phone rang.
“Cadie?”
“Yeah,
I’m by the side gate. Can you let me in?”
“Yeah,
uh, I’ll be out in a second.”
Jessica
walked out of her apartment and headed toward the side gate closest to her door.
She could see the confused look on Arcadia’s face as she came closer.
“Girl,
what the hell happened? Please tell me what’s going on?”
“Let’s
get inside.”
The
two women headed back into Jessica’s apartment. She led Arcadia to her bedroom
and picked up the book.
“This
book—Dorian left it with me the night we had sex before he went home and killed
himself. This book—it’s magic and it’s evil and I’ve been using it.”
“What?
What are you talking about? What happened to your hand? Your room? What’s going
on Jess? This doesn’t add up,” Arcadia said as she gasped at the chaotic
condition of Jessica’s dwelling.
At
the advice of her conscious, Jessica opened the book and directed its pages
toward Arcadia.
“Look!
Do you believe me now? I’m cursed! Viviane is dead because of me! This book
caused me to end up getting Viviane raped and killed and thrown in a dumpster!
They’re gonna find her dead fucking body in a couple days! I bet we could find
her right now…” Jessica said and started to cry.
Arcadia
looked on at the book in amazement. She looked on as words floated onto the
pages.
“Wow…where’d
you—where’d you get this book?” Arcadia said as she walked closer toward it.
She was deeply captivated by the book’s allure. Jessica quickly closed the
diary and tucked it behind her.
“No,
don’t! Arcadia, I have to talk to you about what happened.”
* * *
“Jessica.
How could you do that? How could you be so selfish? A woman died because of…she
died.” Arcadia said with an air of remorse and disappointment. She looked at
Jessica for an answer.
“I
have to get rid of it—for good,” Jessica said. She picked up the book and
wrapped it in the bloodied tee shirt. “Will you help me? We need to go far away
from here. Far away from anywhere someone can find it.”
“We
need to go to the hospital. Your hand
is… it’s filleted,” Arcadia retorted. Her wide, almond-shaped eyes revealed the
anxiety under her seemingly calm exterior.
“Cadie,
I have to get rid of this book,” Jessica resounded. She burned with the urgency
of the moment.
Arcadia
acceded to Jessica’s pleading.
Jessica
proceeded to wipe the periphery of her wound with hydrogen peroxide, slathered
a gauze pad with topical ointment and applied it to the gash. Arcadia wrapped
it with an ace bandage. Jessica grabbed the book and put it in a canvas tote.
The
two women got in Arcadia’s car.
“Were
do you want to go?” Arcadia quietly asked.
“I
dunno. Away.”
Arcadia
decided that they’d head south on interstate 10, somewhere between Phoenix and
the Tucson. As they drove through downtown Phoenix, Jessica thought of
something vast.
“Maybe
we can find her,” Jessica mumbled.
“What?
Find who?
“Viviane…
maybe we can find Viviane? Maybe she’s not dead yet? I know where she is,
Cadie, I do! Oh God, we have to find her! We can save her!”
Arcadia
pulled over in a local Safeway parking lot.
“Hold
on, Jess, hold on. What do you mean you know where she is?”
“The
book! It told me! They’re gonna find her in a dumpster behind a Whataburger on
Baseline! Please, Cadie, help me find her!”
“Hold
on, calm down. There’s probably more than one Whataburger on Baseline. And
Baseline runs from one side of the valley to the other—that like 50 miles. How
do you know she’s not already dead?”
“Please Cadie! Please! I can’t let
her die! You’re right, I don’t know she’s not already dead, but what if she’s
not? What if we can save her? I just have to do it, please!” Jessica pleaded.
“Damn
girl…you’re lucky I don’t have anything else going on. So much for an ordinary
day.”
* * *
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