Hmm, last time you used this prompt I wrote about MacArthur, which seems like a reasonable choice. So this time...
The Journal On the third day they gave me the journal. It was a green book, bound in some cheap cardboard and had stains on the cover that looked like water damage. The pages inside were dry, and though dog-eared did not appear to have been wet through. The first third, more or less, had been written in and after that there were mostly blank pages. The last page, right at the back, had a list of names and phone numbers, and the page immediately before it had a sketch-drawing of a long-house, nestled in the shadows of a moutain-valley. Quite well done in fact. The psychiatrist, a man who called himself Phillipe Mouton (and whom the staff referred to as "Dr. Fraud"), kept asking me about the journal. He wanted to know if I'd read it, when I'd read the first three lines and decided that it was boring and schoolboyish, and then when I said I hadn't foudn it interesting he asked if I recognised any of the names and numbers. I said no, again, and then he asked, coyly as though this was the only answer that interested him, if I'd seen the drawing. I flipped the pages of the book and showed it to him. "That one?" I asked. He turned his head away, refusing to look at the page. "Yes," he said, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of sunflowers on the bed-cover. "That one. Do you... recognise it, perhaps?" I shook my head, which of course he couldn't see, so I waited. The silence drew on, getting heavier and heavier with every passing, noiseless second, until he turned back to look at me -- and the picture since I was still holding the book towards him -- and I shook my head again. "Use your words," he said, sounding a prissy parents reprimanding a child. "I've been telling you that since you came in." I set the book -- the journal, I suppose -- down, and said as nicely as I could manage under the circumstances, "What?" He glanced at me, a fast twitch of his head to try and avoid seeing the picture, and then looked back at me properly when he saw the book was closed and lying on the bed. "You've been here for three weeks," he said.
"Three days," I corrected, feeling uncomfortable. I wanted to adjust my position but I had apparently lost both of my legs and moving around in the hospital bed required an orderly to come and help me. I considered asking Mouton, but he was a thin, weedy man with a pencil moustache that irritated me to the point of wanting to rip it out and I didn't want him touching me. Even then, I doubted he was strong enough. "Three weeks," he said again, and sighed. "Your memory, some part of it at least, ends at three days though. I tell you this roughly every three days." "I don't remember that," I said, and in the silence that followed realised that I wouldn't, if what he was saying was true. I tried to remember back beyond the three days and it... was weird. I could remember the barracks, and I could remember the deployment to Arrancy, and the cold food, the strange-tasting tea, the man with the book -- the journal! -- and then... nothing. There was literally nothing. No blackness, just the journal, the picture, and then three days ago being in the bed and being told they'd taken my legs. "When did I lose my legs?" I asked. "Six months ago," he said, and there was a weariness in his voice that suggested I asked this question every three days, give or take, as well. I didn't care. They were (or weren't, I suppose, now) my legs, after all. He stood up. "I'll leave you," he said. "You always need some time after hearing about your legs -- again." He walked off and I opened the book once more. I don't know if this always happened too, but I wanted to look at the picture again. I did recognise it after all, but I didn't know why. It was the long-house that belonged to Death, in the valley of shadows, and I had an idea that I should know how to get there.
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Hmm, last time you used this prompt I wrote about MacArthur, which seems like a reasonable choice. So this time...
The Journal
On the third day they gave me the journal. It was a green book, bound in some cheap cardboard and had stains on the cover that looked like water damage. The pages inside were dry, and though dog-eared did not appear to have been wet through. The first third, more or less, had been written in and after that there were mostly blank pages. The last page, right at the back, had a list of names and phone numbers, and the page immediately before it had a sketch-drawing of a long-house, nestled in the shadows of a moutain-valley. Quite well done in fact.
The psychiatrist, a man who called himself Phillipe Mouton (and whom the staff referred to as "Dr. Fraud"), kept asking me about the journal. He wanted to know if I'd read it, when I'd read the first three lines and decided that it was boring and schoolboyish, and then when I said I hadn't foudn it interesting he asked if I recognised any of the names and numbers. I said no, again, and then he asked, coyly as though this was the only answer that interested him, if I'd seen the drawing. I flipped the pages of the book and showed it to him.
"That one?" I asked. He turned his head away, refusing to look at the page.
"Yes," he said, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of sunflowers on the bed-cover. "That one. Do you... recognise it, perhaps?"
I shook my head, which of course he couldn't see, so I waited. The silence drew on, getting heavier and heavier with every passing, noiseless second, until he turned back to look at me -- and the picture since I was still holding the book towards him -- and I shook my head again.
"Use your words," he said, sounding a prissy parents reprimanding a child. "I've been telling you that since you came in."
I set the book -- the journal, I suppose -- down, and said as nicely as I could manage under the circumstances, "What?"
He glanced at me, a fast twitch of his head to try and avoid seeing the picture, and then looked back at me properly when he saw the book was closed and lying on the bed.
"You've been here for three weeks," he said.
"Three days," I corrected, feeling uncomfortable. I wanted to adjust my position but I had apparently lost both of my legs and moving around in the hospital bed required an orderly to come and help me. I considered asking Mouton, but he was a thin, weedy man with a pencil moustache that irritated me to the point of wanting to rip it out and I didn't want him touching me. Even then, I doubted he was strong enough.
"Three weeks," he said again, and sighed. "Your memory, some part of it at least, ends at three days though. I tell you this roughly every three days."
"I don't remember that," I said, and in the silence that followed realised that I wouldn't, if what he was saying was true. I tried to remember back beyond the three days and it... was weird. I could remember the barracks, and I could remember the deployment to Arrancy, and the cold food, the strange-tasting tea, the man with the book -- the journal! -- and then... nothing. There was literally nothing. No blackness, just the journal, the picture, and then three days ago being in the bed and being told they'd taken my legs.
"When did I lose my legs?" I asked.
"Six months ago," he said, and there was a weariness in his voice that suggested I asked this question every three days, give or take, as well. I didn't care. They were (or weren't, I suppose, now) my legs, after all.
He stood up. "I'll leave you," he said. "You always need some time after hearing about your legs -- again."
He walked off and I opened the book once more. I don't know if this always happened too, but I wanted to look at the picture again. I did recognise it after all, but I didn't know why. It was the long-house that belonged to Death, in the valley of shadows, and I had an idea that I should know how to get there.
Greg - woo, this is very nicely done. The progression toward that very, very intriguing ending is handled wonderfully.
I do hope it gets continued at some point!
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