hero

Yes, the hero of the drama was identical to me, was me, but that didn't explain the fascination, not completely. From the very first words the story had gripped me like no other. Although no event in the story was entirely familiar to me, it remained my story. Beneath the unrecognizable rubble of the facts lay the same intended structure. And from the first page turn, I was captivated. I read on the bus, during breaks, as I walked along the winding streets. And nightly, as I shut off the light, I had another chapter or two to contemplate in my dreams.

So you see, I had very little choice. Or rather it was not a question of choice; there was no time for questions at all. The book was in the briefcase, the briefcase was in my hand. How could I possibly have let go? True, it was but a book, a sheaf of papers. But it had occupied my thoughts for days, weeks, it had replaced the dull, dead pieces of my life with a new purpose – a heroism revealed. A small thing, you think, a book. But a great thing indeed.

And perhaps the drinking was not such a good idea. The strength has returned to my mind only, my body remains frail. I cannot handle liquor like the old days. But the yellow glow of the awning, described so eloquently in chapter five, drew me in. And those glasses of scotch felt so damn good.

So when I walked out of the bar, I was bigger than myself, I felt so wonderful, if a bit wobbly. The shortcut through the alley would trim off a minute or two, and this time of night, no one would trouble me…

Yet the shadows came alive and thrust out a gun. A simple robbery. The firm voice asked for my briefcase, which itself was nothing to me. But it contained the book. And whether due to the whiskey, the gun, or laws of physics, these two things seemed inseparable. That is, I couldn't sort out my words: "Yes, yes, but the book, don't you see, if I could just remove the…" I suppose that given time I could have explained properly, but time was not given. When my knuckles clutched white and I heard the shot – precisely as the handle was torn from my grasp – I knew for certain that the theft was complete, of leather, of papers, of my cherished story. And my blood now as well, flowing freely across the darkening concrete, absorbing all light.