doesn’t take long to finish it. So you pull another one out and open it up, thinking to yourself, “If I ever needed any liquid courage…”
Not sure if your head is spinning from the alcohol or everything else that has happened tonight, you can hear a child’s voice. “He come back.” Who will come back? What is he sorry for? “No read book.” There’s no date on the page, but the paper doesn’t look new. It’s certainly not as old as the book seems to be.
Before you realize it, you’re down under the table, picking up the leathery volume. Weighing it in your hands, you still think you can feel it pulsing. You don’t want to throw it away anymore. You fold the note along the existing crease and place it inside the cover of the book without opening it. Walking over to the living room, you place the book on the shelf in between copies of The 2009 Songwriters Marketplace and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance .
Walking upstairs to get some sleep, you hear the child’s quiet voice in the back of your head that shudders your spine again.
“Not safe.”
-5-
Auden: Paper Cuts
Sunlight whispers through the sheer white curtains that Emily put up on your first night in the house. The window is open, and you can feel the soft breeze build up from the rising Santa Ana winds over the hill. No alarm clock buzzing with the annoying voices of local-DJ morning shows to wake you. No flying-seven-year-old-ninja knee to the groin to disturb you from your rest. Turning your head to the right, you see Emily’s empty pillow. Her side of the bed still untouched. And it all comes back to you.
Sitting up, you call her name. Not shouting yet, but not quietly either. No answer. Throw the covers off and get on your feet. The hardwood floor is cold and feels a little damp. You call her name again, louder this time, with a touch of panic in your voice. No answer. Your bedroom door is open, so she should be able to hear you. The kids’ rooms are only a few yards away. Moving faster now, you head into the hallway, calling out yet again. Silence answers you. Your heart picks up its pace, and a cold line of sweat makes a trail down the center of your back.
Jeremy’s door is open. The Spider Man poster is leaning crooked to the left on the far wall. Pajama shirt almost made it into the hamper, while one leg of the pants fell in, the other draping over the side. Closet door is open, and you can see he didn’t unpack his shoes like he promised. They are still inside the box, shoved into the bottom underneath his clothes. Bed is actually made.
“Hey!” Now at full volume, your voice cracks like a teenager’s. “Where are you guys?”
You see that Jason’s door is closed, and real panic sets in. Racing to the door as fast as you can, you come to a stop as the floor splits into pieces. Thin slices come apart, opening before you like pages of a book. The need to find your family overpowering the impossible sight in front of you, you run over the edges of the pages. Your feet balance on the tops of flimsy pieces of paper, jumping swiftly from each one to the next. Your left foot slips over an edge. Too much momentum pushes you forward, and you fall. Your arms shoot up to grab onto a handful of pages in front of you. There is enough thickness in the bundle of paper caught between your fingers to hold your weight, but not for long. You pull yourself upward before they bend, dropping you into the darkness of the binding somewhere down below. Trying not to look down, you see letters on the page in front of you. They swim in a chaotic dance, connecting in patterns that form the words “You turn the key” over and over, the black ink thick and splattered in every direction. Paper slices into the skin of your hands. Smears of dark red drip down the side of the page as you pull yourself up to the top, collapsing with your lungs as they suck in air, stretching to their limits. Holding steady against the sway
Not sure if your head is spinning from the alcohol or everything else that has happened tonight, you can hear a child’s voice. “He come back.” Who will come back? What is he sorry for? “No read book.” There’s no date on the page, but the paper doesn’t look new. It’s certainly not as old as the book seems to be.
Before you realize it, you’re down under the table, picking up the leathery volume. Weighing it in your hands, you still think you can feel it pulsing. You don’t want to throw it away anymore. You fold the note along the existing crease and place it inside the cover of the book without opening it. Walking over to the living room, you place the book on the shelf in between copies of The 2009 Songwriters Marketplace and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance .
Walking upstairs to get some sleep, you hear the child’s quiet voice in the back of your head that shudders your spine again.
“Not safe.”
-5-
Auden: Paper Cuts
Sunlight whispers through the sheer white curtains that Emily put up on your first night in the house. The window is open, and you can feel the soft breeze build up from the rising Santa Ana winds over the hill. No alarm clock buzzing with the annoying voices of local-DJ morning shows to wake you. No flying-seven-year-old-ninja knee to the groin to disturb you from your rest. Turning your head to the right, you see Emily’s empty pillow. Her side of the bed still untouched. And it all comes back to you.
Sitting up, you call her name. Not shouting yet, but not quietly either. No answer. Throw the covers off and get on your feet. The hardwood floor is cold and feels a little damp. You call her name again, louder this time, with a touch of panic in your voice. No answer. Your bedroom door is open, so she should be able to hear you. The kids’ rooms are only a few yards away. Moving faster now, you head into the hallway, calling out yet again. Silence answers you. Your heart picks up its pace, and a cold line of sweat makes a trail down the center of your back.
Jeremy’s door is open. The Spider Man poster is leaning crooked to the left on the far wall. Pajama shirt almost made it into the hamper, while one leg of the pants fell in, the other draping over the side. Closet door is open, and you can see he didn’t unpack his shoes like he promised. They are still inside the box, shoved into the bottom underneath his clothes. Bed is actually made.
“Hey!” Now at full volume, your voice cracks like a teenager’s. “Where are you guys?”
You see that Jason’s door is closed, and real panic sets in. Racing to the door as fast as you can, you come to a stop as the floor splits into pieces. Thin slices come apart, opening before you like pages of a book. The need to find your family overpowering the impossible sight in front of you, you run over the edges of the pages. Your feet balance on the tops of flimsy pieces of paper, jumping swiftly from each one to the next. Your left foot slips over an edge. Too much momentum pushes you forward, and you fall. Your arms shoot up to grab onto a handful of pages in front of you. There is enough thickness in the bundle of paper caught between your fingers to hold your weight, but not for long. You pull yourself upward before they bend, dropping you into the darkness of the binding somewhere down below. Trying not to look down, you see letters on the page in front of you. They swim in a chaotic dance, connecting in patterns that form the words “You turn the key” over and over, the black ink thick and splattered in every direction. Paper slices into the skin of your hands. Smears of dark red drip down the side of the page as you pull yourself up to the top, collapsing with your lungs as they suck in air, stretching to their limits. Holding steady against the sway
Similar Books
