13 - END

13 - END

They say everyone has a story inside of them. One good book. That seems more than one billion stories could be written. Not all are good though, to be seen in a school of fish all wanting attention is the difficult part, wanting yours to stand out among the rest.

The idea, simple. The beginning, not too bad, it’s the ending that gets people. How do we get to the end? It’s true in life, I suppose.

The idea was set and the beginning, perfect. I had been searching for that ending for months. Nothing seemed clear. I just wanted the answer to appear like an angel from above but no inspiration came into my mind.

I’d been to courses, lectures, listened to help books trying to reach from just a tiny spark of something. People always say you can find inspiration on your doorstep, yeah, well my door step is a block of dirty old flats built in the 70s, brick and grey everywhere I looked. Perhaps good for someone, for me, not too much.

I’d started to loose hope, rethink my idea, this idea wasn’t going anywhere. I really thought I’d have a story with no collusion.

BANG.

Something heavy slid through my flat door. I walked over and crouched down picking up an old battered VHS tape. It had been a while since I had laid eyes on one of these!

I opened the front door and poked my head around peering left and right down the corridor. Whoever posted it through vanished as there was no sign of any post person or stranger, only Mrs. Hettler, an elderly woman who lived opposite with her ginger cat. She was happily dusting the dirt from the corridor carpet.

I slammed the door, and stared down at the video in my hand. A white sticker, on the side, written in black ink:

INSPIRATION - HELPED ME.

Whoever posted this through knew my situation which was odd as my neighbours knew nothing about my job. I was a free lancer writer working for very little, just scraping by trying to cough up enough money for the rent of my flat.

There was apart of me that worried for a moment. Who knew me? I had very little friends and my family barely cared about my writing, telling me I should ‘get a proper job’.

I was mostly intrigued, if this really claimed what it said, inspiration was the key to my problem, if not I could always just throw it away in the trash.

But then I began to think, perhaps a serial killer sent it, I watch it and it’s filled with horrific sights, then I would be a witness and -

I was overthinking everything. As I walked into the main room looking at the television in front of me and my game station to the side, I noticed, no video player.

I didn’t even wait a few moments, I grabbed my coat and keys and left the flat, saying hello to Mrs. Hettler as I ran down the stairs and out the complex.

Where would I get a video player? Did they even sell them anymore? I whipped my phone from my pocket and typed

‘Vhs recorders in my area’

Just as I thought, there were a few half a dozen people giving them away for free, just wanting to get rid of the junk.

I knocked on one of the houses a few streets away and they handed me the player, asking me why the hell I wanted the junk..

I lied. Telling them I needed it for a project.

Luckily, they didn’t question it, they just wanted it gone from there house. It was just the small situation of trailing back to my apartment that was the next issue.

Around where I lived wasn’t very nice to put it mildly. Trolleys from supermarkets that people had stolen were lying around the building like litter.

There, just as I thought, around the back was a trolley, I struggled carrying the player around the streets, walking in some pain so when the vhs player was thrown in the cart the relief hit me. This video had better be worth the effort I thought pushing it through the building.

Unusually, unlike other old apartment buildings, the lift won’t work, ours always did, probably the only good thing about living here.

I pushed the trolley inside the empty lift, pressing the third floor where I lived watching the doors close feeling myself going up.

I walked my trolley down the third corridor past Mrs. Hettler’s place who seemed to be back inside now and returned to my own house. I was glad no one was around as telling people would probably lead to suspicion.

I slammed my door door shut and breathed heavily. The trolley stuck in the centre of the room. I pushed it closer to my television and grabbed the player out chipping my finger as I pulled it out.

I attached the wires to the back of my television, where the recorder flashing saying it had been inserted inside. I reached for the VHS and slid the tape inside it’s mouth.

I watched it as it disappeared inside like a conveyer belt closing the mouth, just leaving the outside flapping.

The video took a few moments to register and then static, I worried that was all the tape was until other colours popped into view bouncing around the screen.

A black and white twirl. I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination or if it was truly moving clockwise. A crackly voice started to hum.

“Please focus on the centre.” It kept repeating in a monotone sound.

I followed and watched the motion on the screen, moving as if alive. like the waves on the ocean bobbing up and down. I watched for a few moments deciding it really wasn’t worth the trouble until something from the screen took a deep breathe in.

It was like a tornado was gapping in front of me, I could feel the breeze on my face. The suction was like that from a vacuum cleaner.

I could feel my eyes growing larger, the swirls grew larger and the black lines became fatter. I could see the entire story of my novel playing out in front of my me like a daze. It was a magical experience…

———————————

“Excuse me, my neighbour has been staring at the television and I can’t pry him away no matter how hard I try.”

“Stay calm Mrs. Hettler, help is on its way.”

————————————

“What’s going on sargent?”

“It’s nothing… it’s just that old lady, Mrs.. Hettler, she says she watching her son and can’t pry him away from the television, he died 40 years ago in the 80s. She has a habit of remembering how he died.