It was a curiously bound book, wrapped in purple velvet with a gold spine, and gold flowers printed on the cover. It had nothing written on the cover, nothing to indicate what lay within. Around it was a matching ribbon, tied neatly into a bow, keeping the tome from being unintentionally opened. The little boy stared in wonder at the book that lay on the table; he had never seen anything quite as unusual. He was quite apprehensive about the book, the superstitions that seemed to govern the workings of all things strange were clanging the alarm bells in his head. He was drawn by the book, that much was apparent. Its flamboyant colour and intricate mural that decorated the cover appealed to him, for no particular reason he could think of. He was asking himself if he would ever find the courage to pick it up and open it.
It wasn’t exactly the first time he had found himself in such a dilemma. For so much of his life, the boy had let fear of the unknown control his conscience. It was only recently that the natural urge to explore his surroundings, that seemed to be inherent in every other child his age, took a hold of him and started his journey into the uncharted waters that he had once felt content to leave unvisited.
The tug of war still raged in his little head, but this time, as it had been in his recent history, curiosity had an inherent upper hand. The reassuringly cold tone that superstition used to take seemed to have lost their powers of persuasion. Finally, after two hours of deliberation, the boy made up his mind. He crept up carefully and silently towards the book, as if afraid of offending it by making sudden moves. When he stood within an arm’s length of it, he stopped and stared at it. It was even prettier up close than it had been from where he had been sitting. The boy began noticing little details that he never saw before. He decided that the book had to be special.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled at the ribbon. As the knot became undone, he heard a soft sigh, as if the book was talking to him. He stared at it. The book was alive. Or had he imagined the sound? Shrugging away his petty concerns, he slowly lifted the cover.
It was full of writing, complicated cursive written in compressed paragraphs. The boy had enough trouble reading in block letters, so neat lines of flowing writing looked like a messy jumble of random lines to him. He was intelligent enough to pick out certain words, and he began to piece together the story of the book a little at a time. He found the writing to be very melancholic, and most of the time, very evasive. He could never actually be sure about what he was reading, not knowing if his interpretation was accurate. Still, he persisted.
As he flipped the pages, he reached a sudden change of tone in the book. The writing became more pronounced and larger. At the end of the page was a large print warning :
‘Proceed no further. You will bring nothing but harm to yourself. I beg of you, dear reader. Put me down’
The boy froze. The message was clear enough, written in such a way that even one of his limited vocabulary could understand it. He read the message again. And again. And then he flipped the page and kept reading.
Some would call him stupid to defy such a clear warning. Others would applaud his tenacity, but ultimately conclude that he asked for the consequences that he would have to pay for. As he continued scanning, he felt himself lose control of his own conscience. His actions were no longer his own, yet it seemed like he had done everything by himself. He was in a haze, a dreamlike state from which he couldn’t snap out of.
As he continued, he felt a sudden stinging in his right arm. His first reaction was to retract his arm, but his body defied him. Another sharp spike of pain seared his arm, and he started screaming. There were no physical marks, just a continuous barrage of unadulterated torture.
`The open page of the book flipped itself, and from its glowing pages, rose a shining meat cleaver. Terror overwhelmed pain, but the boy still could not move voluntarily. The large knife turned around in the air and presented itself hilt first to the boy. He heard a sad whisper in his ear. ‘Cut yourself free, dear child. Remove that part which hurts you so.’
Frightened and confused, the boy sat there doing nothing. He suddenly realized that he had control of his left arm. He flailed about trying to release himself from the bond, but always found himself being drawn back in. The whispering continued, ‘Cut yourself free. Cut yourself…..’
“NO!”, cried the boy. He was still defiant, refusing to give in to the pain. There was something more than just himself in this chain of events, and he was determined to see it through. But the pain intensified, and more voices joined in, telling him to let go. Telling him to do what he needed to do.
He reached for the cleaver, willing himself to get it over with. But each time he drew close, something within himself stayed his hand and kept him from touching the weapon. Then it happened.
A white hot flash of pain burst through his arm, overwhelming his senses, very nearly driving him insane. Reality set in very quickly and in one swift motion, he severed his right arm at the elbow. The pain shifted at the moment of slashing. It was a thoroughly different kind of pain, but equally torturous. The fact that he now had regained control of his own body did little to dampen the burning.
He collapsed into a sobbing heap as to book snapped itself shut. The ribbons that had held it together did themselves back into a pretty knot.
The boy’s stubbornness had cost him. Again. He had left a piece of himself in the book, never to regain it.
Unless, one day, the book sees it fit for him to continue reading.
I haven't written a caustic rant in a while, and even I'm beginning to miss that part of me. With any luck, regular service shall return. =))
1 comment:
it`s getting really hard to decipher.
It almost like I`m reading a fiction now. Nevertheless it`s a nice one. Will there be a sequel?
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