The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets), page 3
“Who’s there?” Chills tingled across my extremities. I stood there unable to proceed.
A sense of static electricity jolted through me as a dense mist encircled my ankles and trailed up along my body, hindering my vision. Suddenly, a foul odor of sulfur—no, more like a mephitic scent, invaded my olfactory senses. It was as if the demons of Hell swarmed around me then dissipated. Thank God!
When the footsteps grew closer, I detected a distinct smell of opium. The overwhelming copious notes encircled me and wafted into my nostrils. I swallowed down the balmy aroma that collected in the back of my throat. My eyes stung. I began gingerly backtracking my way down the stairwell, one precarious step at a time.
Three steps down, in fear of being seen from the light of my phone, I shoved it into my back pocket and crouched against the wall. It was pitch black. I couldn’t see anyone, but it felt as if someone had touched me.
“Get away!” I screamed, slapping my hands at the subtle presence. That was the wrong choice. I lost my balance, swaying dangerously into the fray.
My fingers grasped for something substantial to hold on to. All of a sudden, I couldn’t move, my high-heel was wedged in the small hole on the step. I panicked when I couldn’t take a step forward. A hand grappled my shoulder and my foot released. Riddled with fear, in an instant, my body snapped like a rubber band into the air. A dull thump throbbed in my ears as my tailbone hit the edge of the first stair. The noise terrified me so did the following sound: a crack of bone splitting. My head felt like a bowling ball as I rolled over every step backwards.
On the final impact, a sharp object pierced my flesh. I deflated like a water balloon, and then I heard the worst sound of all, my breath rushing out of me. Ever so still, I lay there, twisting and turning inside of myself on the gritty cold floor under my face. My screams bubbled over like boiling water from the back of my throat.
I released my breath, exhaling the pain. “Gawd damn!” I belted out. “It’s over...it’s over. God, why?” I wept. The sound of footsteps bypassed my dead weight.
-2-
Deep sleep...
I could not open my eyes, and the feeling of straining to do so was frightening, and so was the sensation of not being able to move my limbs.
Between small gasps of air, I choked, sobbing aloud, “Am I dead?”
There were no replies.
I can’t die...not yet! I needed to get the manuscript to Sydney. I’m the only one who can finish this piece...no one can write the story, but me.
My grandmother’s adage, “What is written makes it so,” flashed in my mind.
I couldn’t feel the ground beneath me. My hair swept over my face, blowing in the wind. Someone lifted me. The feeling of cool rain plummeted against my flesh. It felt as if I was traveling in a tunnel. Fast. At least, it felt that way.
Can someone turn on the damn lights?
I could hear voices coming from all directions. The chaotic pandemonium increased to wonder. Voices hushed, urgently buzzing and hummed in the depths of my subconscious.
Clearly, someone was whispering and mumbling words I couldn’t fully comprehend. What they were saying? Hearing voices in my head, arguing—disagreeing, laughing and singing didn’t alarm me. At least not anymore—disembodied voices didn’t scare me in the slightest; it was humans that could be the most frightening at times.
“Please,” I sobbed, tiny moans escaped my lips. The metallic taste of blood swirled in my mouth, hindering my ability to breath. Red tears stung against my cheeks, dripping onto the ground. “Get your hands off of me!” I squirmed and shoved away the interrogating fingers fussing around me. “Get the hell away—my chest,” I cried as they probed my body. It felt awfully intrusive. Excruciating pain traveled the length of me, radiating inside out.
Internal damage?
I felt my pulse stretching my veins beyond what was normal. An unbearable, mind-numbing throb radiated throughout every limb. No one should have to suffer such agony.
God, if it’s my time to die make it fast, I pleaded inwardly. The open wounds on my face, lips and limbs throbbed, exceeding Hell on Earth. Stabbing pains shot through my head, which was the worst of all. There was not a place on my body that didn’t hurt. Okay that was a double negative, but it’s the only way to explain the excruciating pain that took my breath away. All I wanted to do was crawl into a ball and sleep—or find my place in Heaven.
“Hold still, please, we are trying to help you—Olga, hand me that, hurry,” a man’s voice called out. “We can’t do this when she’s hysterical.”
What the hell was that? I screamed inside my head when I felt a burning blaze coursing through me. A bright warm light surrounded me, surprisingly the pain ceased and a feeling of awe washed over me, then nothingness.
-3-
Gone like a dream...
For the next few hours, maybe it was even days, as I drifted in and out of the quiet realm of my sub-consciousness, I contemplated...
Who am I? Where am I?
My memories were fading fast and, vanishing one by one. I struggled to hang onto them, the way you do after opening your eyes from a dream, then pouf—it’s gone.
Concentrate! Think! Concentrate damn it, self. I cursed who ever I was. Am I brain dead? When I wake up am I going to be a human carrot without a memory? An empty shell of nothingness! Will I even wake up?
The harder I tried to hold onto my vague memories, the faster they withered.
Is it time to accept my fate and let them go?
ζ
The first glimmer of hope came to me. Tarot cards...flashed in my mind, the death card vividly swarmed in my eyes, although it was not the most positive image, nonetheless, it was a memory.
Life sure had dealt me a bunch of crappy Tarot cards, I said within, nodding to myself.
I recalled my mother objecting terribly to the fact that I had dabbled in such things as the readings.
She would say, “If you're going play with the Devil’s cards, expect bad things to happen.”
My thoughts were, “Bad things are going to happen either way so why not get some insight.”
I didn’t believe much in the cards anyway. At the time, they were just a passing hobby of mine. I had never considered myself overly superstitious. So, I honestly didn’t think much of it when I pulled the devil and the death card, every-single time from the deck, during my readings. My interpretation was the devil card represents awareness and negativity that constrains, and the death card was symbolic that it was the end of something, but not human life. I didn’t perceive the images as literal.
Everything is relative and has two sides; it is not the dose, but an over-dosage that could make anything good for you...poisonous. Take sleeping pills, for example, one does the trick, on the other hand, a hundred pills would surely kill you.
I was cautious about anything that would have been considered addictive, or habits forming. I only had the cards read a half a dozen times. No big deal, right? I found the readings mysterious, fun, and intriguing, but maybe my mother was right. The source of the tarot’s powers may have not been of this world.
At twenty-something, I had my whole life in front of me. If I could have changed the outcome of the silly predictions, I supposed I would have. Alternatively, thinking back on things, maybe I would not have changed a thing. I had always known the life I wanted. I just was not sure how to get it.
I was not one to sit at the edge of a pool, testing out the water with the tips of my toes. I was more of a dive in headfirst kind of girl, and then hoped I would rise to the top.
ζ
My mind pushed back to a time of broken promises and unfulfilled love. Those earlier memories swept through me; they were vivid and much clearer than the uncertainty of my current condition. Anger was the new sense that replaced my ability to grasp my fading memories.
Shattered reflections of my ex, who was long gone, stuck to me like flies stick to a strip of flypaper. Of all people to remember, why would I think of him? He was the last person I wanted to remember. That was my thoughts at the time. Go with them, I convinced myself inwardly. Three little words popped into my memory. They were not the three most powerful words that we all desire to say and hear—
‘Eat shit and die...’ Those words lined the pages, more than once, in the letters I vigilantly wrote to him, and rightfully so because he had broken my heart into a million pieces! This asshole was a trespasser—he had no place in my life, or my memory, although I had to remind myself it was me who settled for him.
Would he actually eat shit and die? I wondered while I was writing to him, wishing, and hoping. I was doubtful. There was a one-in-a-million chance he would eat shit and die from it. That was virtually impossible. Unless, it was infested with a deadly strand of E Coli. What would be the chances of that?
Ever since I was a young girl, my grandmother would say, “What is written makes it so.” Essentially, she was aware of “The Secret” long before the huge moneymaking, spiritual self-help books were flying off of the shelves.
The Secret is the law of attraction and manipulates the “Universe’s powerful energy” to our liking. According to The Secret our thoughts and feelings attract a corresponding energy to ourselves. If our thoughts are negative, we attract negative things. If our feelings are positive, we attract positive things. Essentially, we all have the power to determine our own destiny. We can all create our own reality. How do we do this? Write down daily affirmations, then mediate on them and keep your thoughts positive, then your desires will have a greater potential of coming true. It was pretty simple.
My grandmother warned me that The Secret does not know the difference between negative and positive thoughts, so whatever you focus on will come to you. She said, “Be wary of what you write down and cautious of what you wish for.” Her words dripped in the back of my mind like an IV giving me life support.
Not only had I used my grandmother’s advice to my benefit, I took it a step further. In keeping faithful to her mantra, I wrote those daily letters to my ex—cursing him as a practice, and hoping my words would come true. Hell, hath no fury like a woman scorned. I was that woman.
It took me a year to get over his lying, cheating sack of horseshit ass!
When I busted him, he had some nerve, calling me the cuckoo one! Consequently, maybe I was. Maybe.
My behavior could have appeared a bit neurotic. I was polite to his face, sighing and smiling and then later bombarded him with over fifty emails, which could have made me look like one of those quiet types that could flip-out at any minute. So maybe I was crazy. As far as I was concerned, he could kiss my ass in a Macy’s window!
After discovering the tool between his legs, he transformed himself from a computer geek into a hunk and quit thinking with his head. The one on his shoulders anyway. Because of which, he wasn’t worth a head-on confrontation. He had too many distractions going on below his waistline to concentrate on my feelings. So, my resolution was to write him...and, so I did and did and did!
Crazy huh?
It was my intention to use The Secret as my personal weapon of revenge! Deep down, I had known one hundred percent that I was not practicing The Secret in the way it was intended. So what, I thought. If it worked, I would be happy.
As much as I tried to meditate on positive things, I didn’t always succeed. I did not actually want my ex to die. But, eating shit—now, that sounded good to me. At best, if the universe made good on the first writ, if nothing else, I would have felt much better than I did.
After, my facing the facts, it was more than likely my prose would end up in the trash of his email; I decided to send the last letter anyway. Who would it hurt? And, in hindsight, it gave me some closure.
I had never taken the power of The Secret as serious as my grandmother did, especially because I wanted to be an author. After all, an author writes everything down. If everything that I had ever written came true, my life would have been nothing more than a tangled web of drama. Therefore, in my role as an author, I had to throw away her mantra. “What is written makes it so”—I mean according to my grandmother, the universe does not know the difference between fiction and reality.
After rereading the emotional letter to my ex, I focused on my salutation—Break A Leg. I laughed to myself at my closing, it was very apropos, because my ex happened to be an aspiring actor. It seemed as if it was the perfect way to end the letter. He would have no idea that I meant it in the literal sense. Then again, in tune with the rest of the letter, I was sure he would figure it out that I definitely meant it literally!
Then came the most nerve-wracking moment—the time to actually send the letter. I slid the cursor up and over to the little blue send button. After all, hovering over the send button was the easy part; actually clicking it was a different story.
A gut-wrenching pang oscillated in the pit of my stomach as the cursor blinked as if in anticipation. That feeling of regret, we have all experienced from time to time, swept over me.
“Do not send it,” a little voice whispered.
I had to tell myself to breathe. Deep breaths—it’s going to be fine. Don’t panic.
I closed my eyes and tapped my index finger against the mouse pad. It was complete. Within seconds his phone would alert him that he had an email from me.
As the moment passed, that feeling of impending doom eased in my chest. With one click of a button, there was no more pressure beating down on me, no more threats of an unknown female scratching her nails across his back and no more lies bringing me to my knees. It was true; he pushed me past the point of breaking, causing me to become pathetic on many levels.
Stupid girl, I thought, scolding myself. But, of course, it was my own fault for believing in fairytale romances and happy endings.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” I muttered out loud in a British dialect, quoting the phraseology that was originally coined by Tobias Smollett in The Critical Review, 1805. The quote had special meaning to me. My grandmother often used the expression. She always exhaled a modest little sigh of “ha-ha” after saying it; I found her quote extremely befitting in this case.
“Enjoy the shit-eating feast, asshole,” I stammered, my own pithy words. I tried to laugh, but a lump snagged in my throat.
‘It is over’ rang through the silence of my mind as if to consummate the closure. The quiet void of the room sank around me, a pool of tears swirled in my eyes. The sorrow in my heart was greater than in my mind.
Fight it...damn it...don’t cry—don’t give in to the heartache.
I wiped the tears away with the hemline of my shirt.
The letter was riddled with such anger. Sighing deeply, I stopped second-guessing whether or not I should have sent the letter. More than likely, he probably would not even read it. I tried to convince myself of this. After all, what was the point of reading mean hate mail, right?
I closed my laptop, and my eyes scanned the vacant apartment, stopping at my six large suitcases that waited by the front door. The suitcases were filled with one year’s worth of carefully selected garments and designer shoes. Each packed meticulously. The insoles were stuffed with the finest tissue paper.
Everything was in motion, slow motion. The doorman rang. He was on his way up to my apartment to help with my bags. It was time—too late to turn back now.
The words single, freedom, and adventure spieled through my mind. That’s right, I thought to myself, my future was brighter than all I could have ever imagined. There was no looking back, I convinced myself. And, like the wind, I was off to embark in my new life in Paris!
To my knowledge, the affirmations did not work on my ex. He more than likely never ate shit, and as far as I knew he was still alive and well. Unfortunately, when you say or wish bad things on others, somehow as Karma has it, your words will potentially backfire, case in point, the last memory I had retained was being with my ex, and as it turned out I was the one near death.
So, I am in Paris! I held onto that thought, it would be the one memory I was certain of —if...and when I woke up.
-4-
In the wake
A bright light darted back and forth between my closed eyes. I could hear voices. Some of them spoke in French, while others spoke in English, and some used a pretentious fake French accent. Not cute.
“Open your eyes, wake up, Mademoiselle.” Fingertips. Someone was peeling my eyelids back. How disturbing. I struggled to keep them closed.
Where would the dark prison in my mind take me next? One thing I knew was that the crippling pain had subsided, greatly. No, two things...I was in Paris! Paris! And, I was not dead. Okay, maybe there were three things I knew for sure.
When my eyes slowly opened, my head pounded with pain. My entire body felt as if it had been dragged by a team of horses and then trampled on for good measure. My limbs felt lethargic and weighted down. From beneath my lashes, I was startled to see bandages wrapped around various parts of my body.
My usual perfectly manicured nails looked messy and unkempt. The red fingernail polish gathered like pools of blood beneath my over-grown cuticles. The nails themselves were scuffed, ragged, and broken down to the quick. I mean way down. Not a pretty sight.
I ran the pads of my fingertips across old scabs that rested on the peaks of my knuckles. They looked as if I had just gone a few rounds with the Brad Pitt in Fight Club.
Apparently, I had lost.
I heard a breath that was not my own and turned toward the quiet movement of air. My eyes raked over the blurry image of a man. I could not see the details of his features, at least not in the moment, considering my light-headedness.
Straining my eyes, I collectively focused on him. His movements dispersed like water and oil; however, his white shirt with five metal buttons trailing down the center of his chest stood out like shiny pennies in the bottom of a sparkling pool.
