In the Depths of His Mind

He’s not dead yet, but the house already grieves with us. It’s a pressing feeling pitting in my chest, an odd mixture of emptiness and gloom that settles around me. It holds the shadows in silence as they creep along the walls and hang over my head and further remind me that right now, I’m alone. I’m alone in the dreary, dying house that shelters the man who raised me in both my memories and my reality.

I’m alone as I wait for my mother to hobble into the living room, shadows moving over her face as she snivels, sobs and tries to choke out the words, “Noah, your grandpa has passed.” She always hated the word death.

The house it cold, cold as if it always drew its strength from its caretaker and now he has far too little left. The longer he fights to grasp onto a thread of life, the more like his skin the air gets: gray, musty, freezing. My fingers feel numb as I recall just how freezing his arms were when mother had let me see him.

“He’s not dead yet,” she’d whispered, holding his hand like if she squeezed harder, his eyes would opened and everything would be okay. He would look at her and stop dying and everything would be okay. She repeated that as a mantra, whispering so softly I could barely hear her. Everything would be okay.

I left the bedroom because I couldn’t watch her crumbling, couldn’t watch him sleep the last seconds of his life away, couldn’t hold back the surge of possible memories I would be losing without the chance to ever have them in the first place. And now I’m alone with only the sounds of my own breath to keep me company.

Outside, droplets of sunlight press themselves against the window and tap their bleary fingers against the glass. Some sneak into the room, staying low to the floor and casting shadows back against the farthest walls where they know the sun dare not reach. These droplets patter against my skin and pull me towards the outside, the warmth, the freedom from the thickening air cramming itself down my throat.

The window lays out before me, like a painting of another world I can only touch the entrance to. A tree looms over the hills just beyond the house, sunshine lighting up its leaves to create a mystical radiance. The tree has and always will mark a point where reality blurs into fantasy, my memories soon to be the only proof.

We’d climb the open arms of the tree . I continued to sit rigid on the couch, only half dreaming of drifting outside and running my fingers along the bark.

He taught me how to draw with each new leaf it shed. Pressure builds against my chest, thick sadness beating against my ribs to claw at my heart.

The tree would be the bridge to a new world of possibility, fueled only by the endless imagination of an eight year old. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes as I retreat from the room, disregarding the silence as I throw the door open and let it slam behind me again.

Feeling returns to my fingers as they touch the warmth of the late spring morning. Dew webs my bare toes as they slide across the grass and dig into the damp earth. I don’t mind it, instead grounding myself with the memories of slipping outside before my grandpa was awake and sitting on the lowest hanging branches, waiting for the morning sunlight to kiss my cheeks.

The long walk to the tree covers the space of a few minutes, especially with my mind preoccupied the entire way. Now, I stand just feet away from its massive, ringed trunk, the bark a deep shade of brown, just like the acorns that littered its base in the fall.

My eyes dare not travel up the tree yet, instead examining the complex knots of roots tangled around the trunk. It sprawled outward as if they tree could no longer grow downward into the soil, like a coil of ropes that had hit the ground years ago. Sometimes he’d hide treats and give me riddles to solve for where it could be stowed away.

A gust of wind pulls a tuft of hair into my face, and I push it back with a swipe of my fingers. My gaze looks at the tree dead on too early and I’m not prepared for the onslaught of his face filling my head with memory after memory. But a glint catches my eye and suddenly there’s a key hanging on a nail carelessly driven into the bark at eye level. A note is taped open just below, its words scrawled in dripping black ink that read, The things you bury, burn, and blame should never be forgotten.

My hands tremble as I reach for the paper, unsure of how I’d missed it so clearly when I first approached. The house’s cold grips me even from outside, sending shivers down my arms, through my chest. When my fingers brush against the sheet of paper, it falls from its place on the tree and another freak wind promptly blows it away. All that’s left is the key.

I pull the key off the hook and loop its keychain around my fingers. It’s slightly larger than a normal key, but it’s not as heavy as it appears, as if the key is just a dream and I’m the only thing holding it to reality. I push it around a bit, listening to the soft click as I pressed the keychain and key together. It certainly seems real, but what could it be to?

The leaves are eerily still as I peak around the trunk. Nothing.

I turn around and before me is a chest encased in chains, chains, and more chains. There are probably more layers than I can see underneath, all held in place by a sturdy padlock, gold in color. My curiosity of moments ago dies a bit at seeing the deliberate precaution someone took to keep whatever is in that box in that box. The note repeats itself in my mind.

The things you bury, burn, and blame should never be forgotten.

Dirt smears the sides of the chest and coats the layers and layers of chains. Where did this even come from? It looks old and rusted, trying to be kept away from prying eyes.

The longer I stare at it, the longer I can’t resist until I’m jamming the key into the lock and twisting hard against the grinding gears to get the old thing to open. After some screeching resistance, the padlock falls off and the chains easily brush away. Soon the lid is exposed and I can see even more rust and dirt bleeding into the metal frame of the chest. I don’t hesitate to throw it open.

Much of the chest is empty space with black flecks littering the wooden bottom. But tucked away in the corner is a pen and under it a charred leather journal. Charred. Was there something else inside? Could it have gotten out? If not, why so many chains for a book? How did this chest get here? It wasn’t here before. Who put it here? How did I not see them? Did they write the note, leave the key, and expose what someone so carefully hid away from the world?

And why on the day my grandfather is dying?

After a moment of pause, I reach for the book, first putting my fingers against the cover to see if it crumbles. It’s still warm, as if the fire still licks its pages and it resists succumbing to the ash around it. Careful not to jostle the fragile pages, I pull the journal into the morning light.

I pry the cover open and gaze upon the contents hidden beneath. The pages are completely fine, with no sign of damage whatsoever, and the first thing I see is a girl smiling mysterious at me.

My heart jumps as I look over the photograph, until I realize it’s not one. It’s a drawing embedded in the page of a girl just about my age. Fifteen, sixteen maybe, but no older. She’s a drawing filled with ‘almosts’, a detailed depiction of a real girl that could almost be real. Every shadow is outlined on her face so that the sun rising behind me could almost be her sun too. She wears a pretty pink and white dress down to her waist where the image cuts off. Her blue eyes are almost filled with the cloudless, morning sky. It’s almost like she’s really here, staring up at me. Almost.

The rest of the pages are filled with drawings as well. Many of them are rooms, created with the same attention to detail, the same realism, as the girl. I can imagine myself walking through each, one after another. Others are mystical artifacts or mundane items made extraordinary under excellent craft. But I notice there are no other drawings of people.

The journal engulfs my attention and before I know it, I’ve reached the end. The very last page is utterly blank, and cold presses against my skin. Seeing the rest of the journal so teeming with life and then this page so empty is… unnerving.

Everything feels cold again, but far colder than before. I look up to find the tree isn’t above me anymore. Neither is the house behind me, or the sun and the sky overhead. No, I’m in a world of blank space stretching so far that I wonder how there was anything ever at all. It’s empty, like the last page of the journal.

The journal is still in my hands and it seems to be the only warmth radiating in this barren landscape. When I look down to examine it more, I see that this one is different. This one has a perfect leather cover with pretty etchings and symbols sprawled artistically over its surface. Otherwise, the item is the exact same. Is it a different journal?

I open it to test my theory and once again, the first page is the drawing of the girl, with her pretty pink dress and mysterious smile as she stares right at me. The softness of her eyes is gone and her stare hardens on me when I open the book. I flip to the next page and it’s the girl again. And again and again and again.

As I flip the pages, I start to see red marks, then words scrawled in red at the top of each page, reading:

HELP.

RUN.

LEAVE

HERE.

MIRROR.

MIRROR. MIRROR.

MIRROR MIRROR MIRROR MIRROR MIRROR MIRROR MIRROR—

Soon the word mirror just runs off the pages and covers the entire image of the girl and each one that follows. Then more red dots appear over her skin, replaced by holes in her neck, chest, and forehead. Her face is always the same half smile with ever darkening eyes staring right at me.

I keep flipping because there isn’t anything else for me to do. I’m still alone in this blank world with this suddenly creepy journal and I don’t know how to get home and why did I so obviously open a chest meant never to be opened again? I’m scared, and so I just keep flipping. Soon, I reach the end of the journal.

Drawn on the page is a golden mirror.

I look up and there it is, the only item with me in the endless white space. It’s beautifully crafted, with the circular glass surrounded by a rim of rippling, golden waves. There’s another note taped on the glass, but I’m scared to approach it, fearful of what the journal’s warnings could mean. If they’re even meant to be warnings.

The dead silence is suddenly broken as I hear a muddled thudding, followed by a muffled voice. My blood freezes. The only source of the noise could be the mirror.

The muffled voice repeats itself, trying to be heard over the deafening silence, but failing to reach my ears. With no other options, I creep towards the mirror, gripping the journal in my hand. At this moment, I remember the pen, wishing I’d had the wits to bring it with me, as if I knew I’d be sucked into a fragment of off space.

The thudding turns to pounding and I start to see the mirror almost bulging with each noise. The onslaught halts as a voice cries out, barely audible as it says, “ Help!” Then, the pounding continues, shaking the note off the glass.

I rush to pick it up. It reads: I’ve missed you, David. Why don’t you come and visit an old friend? In the mirror, I don’t see my own reflection, but one of a similar boy my age, the same messy black hair and long, lanky limbs, but the face is shaped differently. It’s not me. The image bulges again, the glass struggling to stay in place as the noises grow more and more intense. I flinch and take a step back.

David? My grandfather? Is that his reflection? I shake my head and reread the note before muttering aloud, “But I’m not my grandfather. He’s about dead.”

The mirror shatters, shards of glass crumbling in on itself as I hear a girl screaming. They’re shrill screams that stab at my ear drums, desperate screams of anger, resentment, and fear mixed together in one, agonizing noise. A pale hand appears in the frame as the sound gets louder and I see the girl from the journal crawling towards me, slowly, from the frame. I stumble backwards, dropping the journal as I struggle to regain my balance.

Once I realize, I kneel down to snatch it back up, to hopefully flip through it again and find something better, something other than a creepy girl and a mirror. But thick black lines scratch out the journal and my hand phases through it. It’s like someone was unhappy with something they drew on the page a scribbled it out of reality.

I look over at the mirror and see that it, as well as the girl, has those thick black marks and her cries get louder, more fitful. Some words litter her shrieks of anguish, words like “abandoned”, “created”, “take me, take me, take me.” She’s no longer threatening, just begging as she lies limply in the frame. The black lines thicken and soon she fading from view.

My hand moves behind me and I feel a brush of wood against my fingers. Without thinking, I turn around and there is the tree. Warmth returns to my skin and as I swirl back around, I see that the grass and the house and the sun and the sky have all returned where they used to be.

Confusion replaces the fear, taking up the space where relief should be. What was all that? I look to the space where I left the chest, but it’s not there. What’s left is a blue journal with a pristine blue cover and a blue pen to match. I’m not sure I want to open it.

I just stand there a moment, trying to process the girl, the blank space, the notes, the key, everything. It couldn’t have been real, could it? Was I hallucinating? Sleeping? Dreaming? Would I soon realize I’ve been asleep and I’ll wake up, realize my grandfather is still alive and go about my day?

I don’t know what to think.

“Noah!” My mother’s voice echoes across the yard. She’s standing in backdoor of the house, sunlight fully illuminating her body. Is it even later in the morning?

She calls out to me again, “Noah?”

“Out here!” I reply, ready to run towards her, to find some comfort in her reality. At the hill, I pause and gaze over at the journal and pen. Reluctantly, I take them both, but insure I keep the former firmly closed.

When I reach her, she demands answers. “ Where have you been all morning?”

I look down at my feet and mutter, “Sorry. I was gone a lot longer than I thought.” That was true.

Her hostility fades and the somber sadness she possessed all morning returns. She takes my open hand. “Your grandpa has passed.”

Silence squeezes into the space between us, into the space between our palms as she stands there staring at me with her sad eyes. After everything, I feel hollow. The journal, the girl, and the mirror circle around in my mind and I find myself gazing down at the blue bound book in my other hand.

“I see you found it,” she mutters, only half talking to me. “He wanted you to have it after his time.” She speaks as if her own memories linger above her head, too far from her grasp for her to tie down with words. Her fingers float away from mine.

She hangs in the doorway, struggling with her thoughts another moment before she says, “I think he said there’s a note inside.” She pauses, looking over me as if there’s more she doesn’t want to say. Then, she drifts back inside and retreats to the bedroom once more.

For a moment, I just stand there, blinking and staring at the book. He left this?

Reluctantly, I pry open the book and brace myself for the image of the girl again, but this time, all that’s there is words. They read:

Draw because you have worlds to build, images in your mind that demand to be seen by the world. Not because you wish you could take it all back.