This is a book that does not exist.
After my attack, my father put away all the inks and pens that went into the bartender’s journey to fame and never created another panel with Mister Tender in it. The carnivorous graphic-novel fan community screamed for more, wanting to know how the artist would treat the story line when life not only imitated his art, but nearly killed his daughter in the process. Reporters from around the world clamored for the exclusive interview, but my father never spoke of what happened to me. Thousands of pounds were thrown at him to create one last book where Mister Tender could be held accountable for his crimes, but my father refused. Mister Tender simply ceased to exist.
As I reach out to touch the book, I have the sense I’m being watched, as if someone wants to see my reaction to this exact moment. I look out the window of my small office. All I see is an empty street. Red and orange leaves litter the sidewalk beneath bony, barren trees.
I leave the book on my desk and go out to Brenda.
“The envelope in my office. Did you put it in there?”
She looks up at me and squints in confusion. “Envelope? The one with the nice writing?”
“Yes. That one.”
“Came in yesterday’s mail. About an hour after you left. Why, what’s wrong?”
“Did you have to sign for it? Was there anything else with it?”
“No, it just came with the rest of the mail. Just catalogs, mostly. It’s all on your desk. Was I not supposed to put it in there?”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m just trying to figure out who sent it, is all.”
“Alice, you look shaken up. What was in the envelope?”
It’s just a book that shouldn’t exist and probably came from Hell. That’s all.
“It’s nothing.” Then, I amend the answer. “Well, it’s actually something bothersome, to be truthful. But I don’t really want to discuss it.”
“Okay,” she says, giving me my space.
Damn it. I want to tell someone about my past, about what happened when I was fourteen. About the things I did when I was with Jimmy. About my sleepless nights, or trying to cook dinner without a knife. But I shove everything down, cramming it smaller and denser, deep within my chest, and now it’s all but collapsed into itself, creating a black hole so strong, the truth can never escape. I tell no one, and the worst part is I don’t even understand why.
I go back to the office and eye the book from the doorway. Should I take it to the police? Have it fingerprinted? That glossy cover would be a perfect flytrap for prints. But my instinct tells me whoever did this wore gloves. Meticulous. Careful. Just like the handwriting on the envelope.
I won’t deny I want to look at it, crack its spine and see what horrors wait inside. But I also know that whatever is on the pages in this book, once I look, it can never be unseen. Whatever is inside will forever be in my mind. And since I constantly struggle against triggers of panic attacks in my daily, routine life, I can only imagine what will happen when I read this book.
I should toss this thing directly in the waste, but I don’t. I shouldn’t look inside, but I know I will. But I won’t look at it alone. I shove the book into my purse.
It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen my mother and Thomas. They’re less than an hour away, but it feels like worlds separate us. Despite all the things wrong with my family, they know my history. I will look at this book with them.
I grab my purse, tell Brenda I won’t be in the rest of the day, and walk home. As I climb into my Jeep, I look up in the sky and see the gathering white-and-gray clouds to the west. The forecasters were right.
There’s something coming, and it’ll be here soon.