Last Words

Suspense Stories | Jan 13, 2013 | 6 min read
64 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
Words were my life. I had forsaken memories for memoirs, life for literature. So it was only fitting, I suppose, that my family finally decided to communicate with me in the way they did. They had never forgiven me for all the violent secrets I'd exposed on my way to success, and had stolen into the distant background of my mind. My calendar was pure of their anniversaries and weddings, and I no longer even knew the names of my grand-nieces and nephews. I remained oblivious and peaceful.

I'd always assumed that I would outlive those who had taken against me, and that by now my hateful relatives were starting to bury each other. Now I knew for sure.

I was, as ever, nesting alone in my study, surrounded by my piles of wrinkled paperbacks and tea-coloured encyclopaedias, paraphernalia joined by dust and cobwebs. Lost in my work, my fingers were trawling through the aging keyboard of my slow and noisy computer, and I was blind to all life that was not contained within the words in front of me. This was where I had spent my days, leaving my eyes to strain and my bones to grow weak while I typed away, banishing all life that was not of my own creation.

It was the evening, and I had been working for so long that the only light that was left was the metallic glow of the screen. I was now of an age where to get up to turn the lights on was effort enough to deter me, and so the centre of my universe was the pool of blue that emanated through the layer of dust on the monitor. Around me, the darkness lay ignored.

I was awoken from my reverie by a noise; behind me, a single leather-bound book had dropped off one of my bookshelves, landing on its back. This was not, in itself, that peculiar; my whole library was tottering, overloaded with enough books for a Third Reich bonfire. I bent down to pick it up from the floor with requisite old-age moan, and discovered that the pages the book was presenting to me were covered with furious scrawls and scribbles, blotting out all the words except one:

Take.

I looked at the page number-82- and wondered fleetingly who could have so treated my volume and why they had picked such an unremarkable part of the novel to graffiti. The book was my own; I had penned it at the beginning of my career, and it was for this reason that it had such a cherished place in my heart, however unwieldy and inexpertly crafted.

I frowned, clapping it shut and putting it back in its place. Shunting back the rest of the books on the shelf to make space for it was enough to make me wheeze. I started to write again, immersing myself once more. I had no time for distraction.

Again came a loud clatter.

Turning around, I saw that another book had fallen, and was now gaping open on the floor. I peered at the contents; again the page was polluted with angry clouds of ink and lead, leaving again just one word visible:

It.

I looked at the page number: again, it was 82. Again, the book was one that I had authored.

It was enough to make me pause and ponder the logistics of the matter. Who could have tarnished my pages in such a manner, defacing the closest thing I had to family? And- most disquieting of all-what force was making these transgressions reveal themselves to me now?

I stared at it, willing the evidence to disappear, for sanity to manifest itself, but the scrawls remained, as ugly as if they had been traced by a furious child. It was like the book had been stabbed with ink.

Just as I was looking at it, yet another of my novels fell as if it had been torn from its place on the shelf. This was the latest book I had completed, and there was something in the finality of that which made my level of fear rise even higher. For a long moment, I did not dare to move, listening to the hum of the computer, the house uncomfortably shifting. I cautiously stepped forward, and crouched down, trembling now, hoping against my every logic that the page 82 would be untouched.

It wasn't.

This book had tears ripped through the pages, and was adorned with teeth marks and pools of brownish red. For a moment, I could not tear my eyes from it. This act of barbarity had changed these pages, changing my words into a threat like no other. I looked at the one word that wasn't smeared, and it was surrounded by bloody clots, singled out by hellish stains.

Back.

I put the words together- Take it back.

And then, with a quick flash, I understood. I ground my teeth together, my anger drawing out some courage that I did not know I had. I spoke out defiantly to the room: "Never."

The room did not answer, and I stood there, poised. After a few moments, I briefly wondered whether some bout of hysteria had taken me, and that I had just conversed with an empty room- but the feeling that someone was there, contemplating my response, was so strong that there could be no doubt. I cast the defiled book on the floor, and it fell with a loud thump.

And then, just as it fell, books began to rain down on me from all sides, flying from every corner as if flung by a pack of malicious figures.

Bludgeoned by the onslaught, I held up my arms to cover my face, yelping the way only a helpless old man would. The whole room was a nightmarish blur. I could not hear or see anything, but somehow, I felt surrounded by hate-the hate of someone who would so vehemently attack such a pathetic figure as myself.

"Stop! Please!" I cried, gasping. Why had I stood up to them?

I struggled to stay standing, even to take a single step towards the door. Pain bolted through my arms and fingers as they feebly shielded my face, struck as they were with vicious regularity. With my head bowed, I could not even see what volume would assault me next, and all I could do was pray for my torment to end.

Suddenly, I felt a gargantuan weight slam into me, and I crumpled onto the floorboards before even realising what had happened. Blood spouted through my teeth, and pain, unendurable pain, seized every inch of my flesh.

When I opened my eyes, I found that the two bookshelves in the corner of the room had toppled over onto my fragile body. I was pinned down, buried under a mass of my beloved literature. Moaning with agony, I couldn't move an inch, frozen by the weight and my fractured limbs. They had caged me in a prison of my own words, and the thought of that made my torment all the more bitter.

All I could do was scream, and scream again whilst I awaited death, my gaze frozen upon the open document on my computer screen across the room, the cursor blinking innocently on my unfinished will.

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Dave Gilbert Jan 17, 2013

Well written. It makes a refreshing change to be able to read through a story without stumbling over countless grammatical errors. Good job :O)

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