The Awakening by Kenneth E. Herritt

My eyes were first opened in a small bookstore, where Avenue J met Eighth Street. Filled with musty old books to the ceiling, this was the place I fell in love with the world of words, unaware of the power they held within.

Silas Banks, an elderly man with wire-rimmed glasses, sat quietly at his desk. Always eager to fill my craving mind, it startled me when he suggested I put words of my own to paper. For years I had toiled in college, all for naught, as the writings I sent out were always sent back to me with empty refusals. And here sat Silas, asking me to give it one more try.

That night, I went home and sat up for hours, writing a story of an old woman of many hats. Poetic verse flowed like fire from my fingertips, spinning a whimsical tale that would make any human smile, but I was about to discover Silas was anything but human.

The next day I took my inspiration to him, certain he would approve. Pulling his glasses from his age-ridden face, he scanned down through the pages making a few barely discernable grunts as he seemed possessed by the chorus I had unleashed upon him. However, my moment of elation wouldn't last. For when he finished the last sentence, he tore the sheets down the middle. That, in itself, tore through my flesh. He then gathered the halved sheets together and tore again, ripping away at my bones. He then continued on, tearing at the remnants until they looked much like confetti and scattered the pieces to the breeze, dispersing what remained of my soul.

The timing was right for me to run away but my feet stood firm, unable to move. Old Silas wasn't through with me yet. With his glasses now removed from his face he leaned forward and let out a whisper that rung soundly through my ears.

"Look around you, boy. For the past ten years you have come into my store to read of the greatest sorrows, the most hideous crimes, and the most terrifying catastrophes. Never have I given you a book filled with a happy thought. You have any idea why that is?"

I nodded my head, uncertain of the answer he was looking for.

"The first day you walked in here I thought you understood. You read all my books without me once charging you or asking you to leave. I saw potential in you, boy. You read the words and understood the cruelties. You understood what good writing was all about. Tragedy, sadness, despair, you read of them all because that's what people do. They want to read of a life far worse than their own, so they can tell themselves how much better off they are."

The question surfaced in my mind. "What do you want from me?" A silence filled the room as I realized I had spoken it aloud. If only I had let it go, but perhaps, the question had never been my own. A thought given to me to lead me down the path I would follow, but at the time I could not know. Regardless, I posed the question, and waited an eternity for my response.

Silas rose from his chair, allowing his cane to lead him through the bookstore. As he passed through each section of books he read off a name and threw it to the floor.

"King."

-bang-

"Rice."

-bang-

"Koontz."

-bang-

He then stopped and shook a lecherous finger at my face. "You're mind has been shaped by the greatest minds to ever live and you see it fit to enter my sanctuary and offend me with . . . with this serendipitous piddle about some old lady who wears too many hats! It's no wonder you can't sell a story to save your life!"

I stepped back as Silas approached, but the hook of his cane faltered my escape. "Listen here, boy, I'm going to do for you what I never did for the others. I'm going to give you a second chance."

Paralyzed with fear, I stood there as Silas hobbled back to his counter. From underneath he pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. "Take these. Write me a real story. Write me a story that's so ghastly it produces a blood-curdling scream from my throat."

"You want," I stammered, "You want me to write a story about somebody being killed?"

Silas sat back in his chair and slapped his cane across the desk, allowing a calm smile to pass across his face, "Now that, my boy, is the start of a wonderful idea. Think you can have it for me by next week?"

With my mind filled with purpose, I promised it would be on his desk the next day. I then rushed out to find my inspiration, never realizing it would find me.

A drunken hooker sat in the alleyway next to my house. Intoxicated to the gills, she grabbed my arm letting out a few indignant shouts of what an incorrigible bastard I was for not looking her way. Why should I? She was no more than an extension of the garbage that littered the streets. Someone who would never be missed. I would immortalize her plight, using my hatred toward her kind as fuel for my story.

Inside my apartment, I crawled over my bed to reach my desk. Pushing aside the many books of a wasted college education, I sat down with the pad Silas had given me, allowing the pen to mold between my fingers. Feverishly possessed, my hand wrote thoughts as they spilled from my mind, as the desperate last moments of an alleyway hooker were lay out on paper. Killed by her own John, in the style of Jack the Ripper, it was a fitting death for a woman who offered nothing useful to society. Pleased with what I had written, I slept through the night and nearly past the next day. Surprised at the late hour, I rushed out, hoping to catch Silas before he closed.

Inside the bookstore, Silas was placing out new books when I interrupted him. Seeing one of the books I had been waiting for I stretched my hand out to grasp it, but he briskly knocked it away with his cane.

"Why do you care to busy yourself with the works of others when you should be busy writing your own?"

I held out the manuscript for Silas to see. "Twenty-three hundred words of the best you'll ever read."

Silas nabbed the pages from my hand and grumbled as he read them over.

"Well?" I asked, "What do you think?"

Silas rubbed a spot of perspiration from his brow. "It shows you have potential, but I think you can do better."

"Better? How so?"

"The death of a prostitute is hardly a horror story. Her life ended the day she took to the streets. To feel the anguish of your story, I need to read about a character whose death is meaningful."

I held out my hand, willing to take the story and rework it, but Silas folded the story and placed it in his pocket. "I said it wasn't a horror story; I never said it wasn't worthy. The gruesome way your villain tore into her flesh brought life to my old bones, and the details with which you described her torment-absolutely ghoulish." Silas paused to scratch his nose. "However, for true horror to be felt, we need to be horrified for the victim."

"So, what now?"

"Grab yourself a newspaper. From there, you should gain plenty of inspiration."

I left the bookstore, uncertain of where I stood. Macabre feelings pounded through my heart, as I viewed wretched nightlife filtering out of a club, oozing out the toxicity they had just imbibed.

A man and his wife nearly knocked me over as I stopped by the newsstand to grab the daily paper. A few obscene gestures given by both labeled me as the fault for their inability to walk a straight line. I passed them by, not wanting the confrontation, never realizing our paths would meet again. At the corner of Eighth and Barbary is where I found them, driving a black sedan. The scum and his wife nearly ran me over as I tried to cross the street. They might have noticed, had they not been too busy arguing with each other. Shouts of obscenity raged through my mind, but I held them in, as they had given me the fruit I needed for my next story.

* * *

Back at my apartment, I laid the newspaper on the bed. The red flash of the answering machine caught my eye.

"Julian, it's Erica. I've been waited here for two hours. Call me. I'm worried about you."

The park . . . In all the excitement, I had forgotten. She had called the night before with some important news, saying how she wanted to talk to me personally. Things had been sour for a long time, but she managed to hang in, waiting for things to turn better. Change was in the air. I wanted to call her and give her the news, but not until I had met with the kind of success that could be physically measured.

With the red light still flashing, I pressed the button again.

"Mr. Fayt, this is Roger Jamison, the Dean of Kensington College. I would like to meet with you to discuss your current lack of academic progress. Please call me before Friday or I will assume you have formally withdrawn."

'Lack of academic progress?' So, that's what they called it when a student failed to show up for class. Little did the man realize, I was doing him a favor by allowing an empty seat for a more attentive student. The endless lectures. The ominous piles of books. I had become a slave to my craft, and broke my bonds to free my soul. If only Dean Jamison could understand.

Two messages in three days time. This spoke much of my interactions with others. Hidden amid the shadows of the city, my existence was negligible, but I had a story in my mind that could change all that.

As I sat down before my typewriter, the couple in the black sedan took precedent in my mind. I closed my eyes and watched them careen through the streets of West London in a drunken stupor. Without need to stare at the keys, I allowed my hands to float over them and type out the scene, incorporating all the details that would make the scene real to the reader. Increasing in speed, chaos was winning over control as the vehicle sped through one intersection after another. One obstruction in the wrong place. That's all that was needed to end this race to death, and in this instance the vehicle of choice would be a gas truck, stalled out at Eighth and Barbary.

I saw their hands raise up to their faces as death loomed brightly into their eyes. There was never a chance to hit the brake, as the sedan crushed itself against the steel of the gas truck, causing it to erupt into an inferno.

Had that been the end, the story would have grown dull. No, there was more. The couple somehow emerged from the sedan. Patrons from Carper's watched the two flaming torsos slam themselves to the ground, attempting to put out the flames. Unable to assist, they could only peek through their fingers in horror as the couple reduced to cinders before them.

Satisfied with what I had written, I turned my attention to the newspaper. At the top of the page, I read how Scotland Yard had foiled the plans of several hijackers. Down toward the bottom, there was mention of a brutal stabbing. In an alleyway several blocks down the street, a woman had been brutally disfigured by a knife. It should have been top news, and would have been, had the women held a different profession. As it stood, only the savagery of the murder prevented the streetwalker's fate from being relegated to the last page.

Though bereft of intricate details, it was much like the story I had wrote the day before. How interesting, I thought to myself, that real life had chosen to imitate my own writing. Perhaps, I had a latent psychic gift.

A sudden knock startled me.

"Julian? Julian, answer the door."

"Erica?"

"Open the frickin' door."

I crawled over the bed and opened the door. There stood Erica, her hair matted down with dampness. Looking out the window, I saw the cause. The gentle skies of earlier had given themselves to pouring clouds of rain. So engrossed in my story, I hadn't taken notice of the abrupt change.

"Where's your umbrella?" I asked.

"I gave it to a homeless woman."

"You what? Why?"

"Since when do you care?"

Grabbing Erica's wet coat, I hung it on the back of the door and ushered her inside. "Look, Erica, I care. It's just . . . I've been under a lot of stress lately."

"I wouldn't know. You don't show up for class anymore, and yesterday you stood me up."

"That will never happen again. I promise."

Grabbing her by the hand, I led her to the couch and looked deeply into her eyes. "I'm truly sorry. Give me one more chance." I was working her as I had many times before. Thousands of apologies, each accepted by the next day. The magic never failed.

"Why should I?"

"Because you love me."

Erica looked across the bed then crossed over to the table, where she removed a page from the typewriter. Curiosity had already replaced her anger.

"What's this?"

I followed her across the bed, attempting to get the page from her hand, but she held me off with the other as she continued to read.

"This is seriously messed up."

"It's art."

"Art is a five year old boy smiling for a camera he can't see. This is nothing more than an advertisement for fire insurance."

I held up my hands, aware she was trying to provoke a response. "Why did you come over here?" Poor choice of words on my behalf, but I felt protective of my prize.

Erica moved across the bed and grabbed her coat as she reached for the door. "I came here to check on you, but apparently you're doing just fine without me."

The door slammed behind her, followed by several quick patters down the stairs. I considered following, but thought it best to let her go. Erica always came back. That was her life story. Run away when the rage set in then come back with the soothing calm I needed. That's the way it had been since high school, and the game had followed us to college. She'd be back to accept all the blame and I would enjoy the physical apology that followed. She needed me as much as I needed her, but for the moment, all I required was sleep. Unceremoniously, I tossed aside an empty pizza box from the night before then pulled a tattered blanket over my body.

* * *

The next day, I set out to see Silas. Dressed in a tight brown sweater, he stood up to meet me as I walked to the counter.

"Do you have something new for me?"

"I most certainly do."

With great pride, I handed over my latest masterpiece. Silas's hands trembled as he read it; whether from excitement or old age, I couldn't tell. I watched him, studying his every response. It wasn't until he finished the last page that I opened my mouth to ask his opinion.

"A much stronger piece than your first, but still heavily riddled with bias."

"Bias?"

"You write of death as if it were some vulgar creature that swooped down from the sky to reap vengeance on the unworthy."

"What do you know of death?"

Silas tapped his cane sternly into the floor. "Much more than you, evidently." He pocketed the pages as he turned away from me. "I know that death is never judgmental."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting you write a new story. This time I would like you to show death in its true light."

I opened my mouth to say something, but stopped when Silas held up his hand. "Come back when you have something new for me."

I nearly pulled the door from the hinges as I slammed it behind me. Two great stories, and both failed to impress. My mind wandered back to the headline I had read. Several 'what ifs' filtered into my mind. What if there had been more hijackers? What if they were busy planning to hijack another plane? What if they succeeded?

Back in my apartment, I started typing. The story flowed quickly from my hands, as they fought to catch up with the thoughts in my head. Details. Details. I already knew the plane was leaving from Heathrow, but I needed a destination. I turned on the television for inspiration, but all I could find were sitcoms and dramas. No matter, as the news would be on soon, providing the magic name I needed.

Leaving a blank to fill in, I pushed past it, moving my fingers along the typewriter with oiled precision. A ring from the phone briefly startled me, but I let it go, knowing the answering machine would silently answer the rude intrusion.

Six hours of typing, until I thought I was done. I then decided to check the machine.

"Julian, I know you're there. Pick up the phone. Julian! Fine, then don't. I wanted to talk things out, but I guess you're not interested. I'm heading out tomorrow on the seven am to Bristol unless I hear from you. Call me, if you care."

More melodrama. The constant threat of transferring to York College. She had pulled the trump card so many times it had lost all meaning. I'd return the call. She'd come over crying. The threat would later be exposed as a lie.

Not wanting to suffer through it all, I didn't return the call. It was high time I give the young tart a lesson in manners. Teach her to be an adult. Show her that such shenanigans no longer worked.

It was then the thought hit me. York would be the destination for the plane and Erica would be onboard. I filled in the destination as the evening news started, but found myself startled by the first story to appear on the air. A younger couple slammed into a gas track on Eighth and Barbary, just moments ago. Why hadn't I noticed the crash? Why hadn't I heard the sirens? I had been in my own little world.

On the clock it said 10:30 pm. For a whole day I had slaved before my typewriter, unaware my story had played itself out blocks away. Looking back through the pages I had just written, a thought hit me. Silly superstition, but I was taking no chances. The destination of the plane would no longer be Bristol. Instead, it would be Blackpool.

Satisfied with my story, I lay down to sleep.

* * *

Pulling the sleep from my eyes, I rose to another day. The red light on my answering machine flickered away, but I disregarded it. No doubt it was Erica calling back to recant her threat; she could wait. Today was the day I would impress Silas. I was certain of this, as I strode confidently down the many street blocks that led to his store, with each step inducing more swagger.

"Ah, Julian, you're back," Silas said. "I do hope you gave some thought to what I told you."

From my pocket, I pulled my neatly folded manuscript and pointed to it as I laid it firmly on the desk.

"This is the story you've been waiting for."

Silas pressed the brim of his glasses firmly against his forehead. "Allow me to be the judge of that."

A smile passed over the old man's face as his eyes parsed through the pages. This was the reaction I had been hoping for, but self doubt set in, wondering if I had unintentionally wrote a comedy.

"You like it?" I asked meagerly.

"Like it? I love it. I think you're finally beginning to understand what I'm looking for."

"So, now what?"

Silas looked up from the pages. "You write more."

"More?"

"Yes, that's what writers do. You write until you serve your purpose, and yours is not yet served."

"I . . . I don't understand. You said you loved it. Please, tell me what I need to do better."

Silas stepped out from the counter and came over to pat me on the shoulder. "You have the talent to become a great writer. I just need to know you have the courage to stick it out."

"And how will you know that?"

"When the time comes, I'll know. Now, go home and get yourself some rest. You look like hell."

I walked out of the store with my chin to my knees. I had allowed the man to send me home without a fight. The long, quiet walk drained all the energy from my legs, leaving the rage and embarrassment behind. Back home, not to write, but to rest.

When I entered my apartment, I turned the television on then went to the bathroom to look into the mirror. Silas was right. My hygiene had fallen sharply. A greasy ooze that would have passed for motor oil covered my hair, and my body smelled of an animal from the wild. I had been so caught up in my work, I had forgotten the need for self maintenance.

Throwing my clothes aside, I leapt into the shower. The hot water felt like a blessing as it tore the filth from my body. It was a cleansing of the soul as much as it was a release from stress. Alone in my little world, it felt good to be embraced in the warmth of the water. I'm not certain how long I stood there, but it was the sharp contrast of cold water that brought me back to Earth.

Cold and shivering, I jumped out, becoming quickly aware of something big happening on the news. Wrapped in a towel, I sat on the bed as I brushed my teeth, with my full attention on the screen in front of me. The wreckage of a plane burning in flames. It was an awful sight.

I considered using the remote to turn up the volume, but that would just make Ms. Grasely start banging on the ceiling. Besides, the ticker on the bottom of the screen said it all.

'Terrorists hijacked a plane at Heathrow Airport en route to Blackpool. The plane crashed just several miles outside London, with all presumed dead.'

From the corner of my eye, I saw the red light flashing on the answering machine. I had ignored it earlier, but couldn't do so any longer.

"Julian, I'm sorry. I know you're having a really rough time, and my antics aren't helping any. So, I wanted to call to let you know I won't be going to Bristol."

A sigh of relief, but that wasn't all she had to say.

"I'm going to catch a flight out to mother's for a few days and I should come back a whole new woman. I'll send her your love and hope to see you in a few days. Love you."

My heart sank as I remembered where her mother lived, just outside of Blackpool. Collapsing in a heap, I lay down on the bed, my night filled with the horrible screams of hundreds perishing in flames.

* * *

The next morning I went down to the newsstand, certain it was all a dream. The headline on the front page brought me back to reality, exerting more gravity on my already heavy heart. All the pieces fell into place. I wasn't predicting the news. I was writing it, and only one man could undo what I had written.

Breaking free at a strong gait, I dashed to the bookstore, slamming the door behind me to signify I had arrived. Silas laid a book down on the desk and adjusted his glasses, unfettered by my dramatic entry.

"I thought you were going home to rest," he said.

Invigorated by guilt and rage I slammed the newspaper on his desk and pointed at the headline. "You killed them! You killed them all!"

Silas picked up the paper and read over the article. "I've killed no one. The credit all goes to you."

Unable to control myself any further, I lunged across the desk and pursed both hands around his throat. "Liar! I had nothing to do with those murders!"

Silas moved his hands down to mine, plucking them gently aside. Inside his eyes, I saw an endless field of darkness. I tried to struggle against him, but the effort was useless, as he was able to counter my strength effortlessly.

Silas cocked his head to the side. "On the contrary, you did. Over there you will see a stack of newspapers from the past few days. Show me a person who hasn't died at your hands."

Eager to prove him wrong, I went over to the newspapers and opened them up, checking furtively for the obituaries in each one. Normally full of names I had never known, the only ones I could find were the three I had written about.

"This is some sort of trick!"

The paper I had brought in was still on his desk. I reached up and snagged it in my hands and tore into it, looking for the latest list of deaths, but found none.

"Where are the names of the people who died in last night's flight?"

"They'll be posted over the next few days. Death is an orderly thing, you know. People need to confirm the identity of their loved ones, funeral arrangements need to be made, and then the paper gets notified of it all. My colleagues will be pleased to see you have worked out well, just as I promised."

"I'm not a murderer!"

"I never stated you were."

My heart pounded strongly inside my chest, threatening to break out from the ribs that held it inside, and then nausea threatened to fold me to the ground. Had I become some sort of split personality, acting out my own fantasies? No, I couldn't go on knowing what I had done. I ran to the door with Silas screaming after me, but I knew I needed to purge the evil from my soul.

Running into the busy street, redemption came in the form of a city bus crushing me down to the pavement. Ethereal white light glowed all around me, bathing me in its purity. Until now, Heaven had been but a myth to me, but perhaps there was substance to that which I could never before touch.

A voice called out to me from behind, "Julian."

I turned to see Silas, abating all hope I had risen to a better place. Anguished inside, I fell to my knees. "Please, leave me alone. Let me die."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Why? Why torture me like this?"

"Come with me."

Silas gently took my hand. A room slowly came to view, with doctors hovered over my body.

"Am I . . . "

"Dead? Not yet. You're badly in need of mending, but that's not what I want you to see."

Floating through walls as if they were fog, we stopped in a room where a woman was giving birth to a child.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"To show you the importance of what you do."

I watched on as the woman screamed and the doctor pulled out a child. It might have been a beautiful moment, had the child cried when the doctor slapped its bottom.

"The baby. Is it dead?"

"No. It's waiting for a soul."

"But it was already alive. If it wasn't, why would they be delivering it?"

Silas let out a soft sigh as he pulled his arm over my shoulder. "We are given life from the moment we are created, but we don't receive our soul until we are born."

"But . . . "

"I know. That's not what you were taught. It's good that you know different. If the truth were known then many children might never see their first day."

"So, where does the soul come from?"

"You mean you haven't guessed yet?"

I nodded my head.

"From you. You see, there are only so many souls to go around. For someone to be born, someone must die. That's where you come in."

"So, I kill people to allow others to be born?"

Silas let out a small laugh as he squeezed my shoulder. "No, boy, nothing gruesome like that. You see, you write out death's plan."

"I don't understand."

"You would be the first, if you did. You see, back in the beginning I handled all the deaths. Everyone died in their sleep, and all was good. However, people thought little of life when they realized death was so pleasant, so I wrote up more drastic ends to their means, to make them understand the need to live on."

"Then why do you need me?"

"Each generation bore a few more souls, allowing the number to climb. It wasn't long before I found myself behind on my work and in need of people like you, to assist. You see, Julian, you are here to complete the circle of life, and now, you must fulfill your destiny."

"How?"

Raise up your hand.

I reached up and felt a tingle as something white and ethereal wrapped itself around my hand. I tried to push it off with my other hand, but Silas stopped me.

"Take it to the child."

I walked slowly over to the infant they had just set down in the crib. Cold, vacant of life, so difficult to look at. I turned my head to more trauma. Across the room, the nurses held the mother down as the doctor tried to tranquilize her.

"I want my baby! Give me my baby!"

Gently, I nuzzled the babies arm, allowing the soul to seep its way inside. I then stepped back, uncertain the magic had worked.

A cry from the crib brought the doctor full circle. A nurse raced to the child and nuzzled it in her arms to give it warmth.

"I don't believe it. It's a miracle."

The nurse took the baby to her mother's waiting arms, and cried beside her, overpowered by what she had witnessed. Tears fell from my eyes as well.

"So, what do I do now?"

"You wake up and continue your work."

"And what about you?"

"Me? I need to move on, as I have plenty more assistants to replace. It's sort of become my full time job."

"Will we ever meet again?"

"We will, but not for many years. For, you see, I wrote your death plan myself."

"How does my story end?"

"It ends with you as an aged old man, dying in his sleep."

We returned to the room where the doctors continued to work on my body. Silas helped me up to the bed and gave me a warm hug before departing. The white light then softened, replaced by the shouts of doctors and nurses scrambling to bring me back to life.

"He's back! He's responding!" That's all I would hear before drifting off to sleep. Three days of rest in their eyes, but to me it was three days of work. Passing through the maternity ward at a maddening pace, I brought the souls from the plane crash to the newborns, never knowing which one might have belonged to Erica.

On the fourth day I finally opened my eyes and requested a pen and paper. I had rested long enough and needed to provide souls for those yet to be born. Feverishly I wrote, of car accidents, cancers, and murders, personalizing each plan. I then took some time to reflect upon how a boy with no direction had grown to become a man with such a high purpose.

If only Erica could see me now.