Blank White Page

I traded a few more days of life for two hundred and fifty blank pages of honesty. It is a long story. One full of the same regrets I know we all feel as our lives pass before us. Not a cautionary tale of regrets, but one of the decisions made without the temper of wisdom made available by age. I do not regret the choice. I regret the empty holes in my life which denied me the experience to understand my choices. I remember the night well. I was drunk and driving down the long highway as I had often done when staying near the lake. Another night of poor decisions. I’d like to blame them on a father or mother, but only I was sitting behind the wheel. My car swerved left and right as I fidgeted with the radio finding a song worth listening to. A small smile crept across my face as I heard the familiar beat of a song well-loved and often listened to. My eyes drifted back to the road. I saw white…all I felt was pain.

Waking a few moments later I let out a soft groan as the sound of blood pounded in my ears. Blood poured freely from my nose and a dull ache resonated in my head as I lifted my gaze to look around. Branches of an errant, broken, tree were scattered around the inside of my buckled vehicle. Another groan escaped my lips as I undid the belt and tried to open the door to no avail. The crinkled metal of the Buick held fast as the smell of fuel began to invade my senses. My mind was still hazy from the blow of the airbag, and it was difficult to hold onto any one thought for long.

The smell of smoke cleared the fog of my mind as a soft heat began behind me. Looking back despite the pain of turning I could see the flickering of flames as the car began to light.

“No, no, no,” I said aloud trying the door again.

It was jammed, but the windshield was broken, and my mind fought for consciousness as it demanded I crawl over the dashboard to freedom. Attempting the task my body immediately fell back into the seat as pain wracked my mind. My legs were pinned by the bent dash, and contorted metal surrounding me. A cry of desperation left my mouth as the heat increased behind me. The smell of smoke began to illicit a painful cough as my lungs began to burn.

Fear gripped me. I knew this was the end. Looking up and out the shattered shield a dark figure approached.

“Help!” I yelled with the last of my strength as the smoke grew thick.

My vision began to fade in and out and I came to for a few moments to hear the sound of metal ripping and tearing beside me. I leaned my neck to look at the source of the sound and saw a smiling man peering back. His smile was easy, and his voice was calming as he spoke.

“I’ll save you if you agree to a deal,” he said with a grin.

“Anything,” I replied as my foggy mind struggled to hold onto my consciousness.

“All I ask is you fill two hundred and fifty blank pages,” the man said.

“Okay,” I replied.

“Okay,” he answered back giving my shoulder a hard squeeze sending a jolt of pain through my body.

As my consciousness finally gave way to the pain the last sound I heard was a soft chuckle and the sound of metal ripping away.

I awoke an unknown time later lying in a ditch and looked to my right to see the burning image of the car. The pain attempted to hold me down, but I resisted the temptation. Rolling over onto my stomach and pushing up to come to a sitting position, I looked around to see if the man was still nearby. There was no one. I was alone. My hands sought the ground to help find my footing, but they felt something else below. Looking down a book bound by leather lay beneath me. Staying seated I grasped it and brought it closer to my eyes struggling to focus on anything for very long.

The sounds of sirens could be heard in the background as the book sat in my hands. The fire of the car cast enough light to read the words written in cursive. One word lay in the center of the leather, ‘Confession.’

My mind immediately went to the stranger’s words, “Two hundred and fifty pages filled,” I said aloud.

The book lay in my hands like a heavy weight of responsibility as I opened the pages to peer inside. They were blank and numbered. My mind raced as I quickly flipped to the end and saw the number at the top of the page, two hundred and fifty.

“What the hell?” I wondered aloud at the strangeness.

My mind still felt addled from the drinking, and I took off from the scene as the sound of sirens grew closer. It took nearly two hours, and one awkward ride from a stranger, to arrive back at my cabin where I’d taken up residence in an attempt to get away from the city. My publisher demanded I finish the novel they’d already paid for which had sat unfinished long past its deadline. I looked out at the lake enjoying the sight of the morning fog floating effortlessly above the water. It was cold this time of year in Maine, but it was my favorite place to write when my mind became blocked.

I swore the same silhouette of the man who’d saved me stood off in the distance. It was hard to tell through the fog, and I was more than certain a concussion was addling my mind, so with a few intended blinks, I looked back up and saw the figure gone. The same strange sense of responsibility still filled my mind at the sight of him as I did my best to shake it off and went back inside my cabin. In desperate need of a shower, I set the leather-bound book on my writing desk and left to clean my wounds and wait for the inevitable arrival of the police when they pieced together the scene and connected me to the car.

After taking a quick shower and dressing my cuts I found myself pouring another while sitting down in my chair to do the only thing I knew how, write. My typewriter sat in front of me antagonizing me as I continued to find a path around the block holding back my work. Still trying to find the words I wanted to lay out on the page, my mind kept wandering back to the leather-bound book I’d found at the scene of the wreck. Eventually, I finished my drink and picked up the book to look it over once again. I couldn’t shake the urge to write on the pages and opened it while running my fingers along the blank pages. A deep sense of dread and shame came over me as I picked up a pen and attempted to write.

As I wrote an idea for my novel nothing seemed to take on the page. The ink disappeared as quickly as I wrote. Growing frustrated I tried several more pens to the same effect. With a frustrated sigh, I set the book down and poured myself another drink contemplating why I was unable to make a mark in the strange book. Another thought occurred to me. I could simply throw it away and get back to work. Finishing the second glass of scotch and picking the book up off the table I went outside walking down to the edge of the lake. It was a clearer image of my surroundings as the morning fog had burned away while I was inside. My hands were struggling to let go of the book with my first attempt to throw it into the water. With a stout huff, I gave one last attempt, and the book finally left my hands flying out across the calm water. It landed with a small splash some distance away.

Turning to go back inside I felt dread rise again in my mind as I recalled the man’s words. I owed him two hundred and fifty pages.

“You and everyone else,” I spoke under my breath.

I shook the thought off not caring about some deranged vision I had in a drunken haze after a concussion. I went back inside to work on my own novel long past due. Closing the door behind me and turning, a gasp left my lips as the book lay resting on the table. It was surrounded by a small pool of water dripping down the edge of the desk.

“What in the hell?” I asked aloud walking over and picking it up.

The book itself, including the pages inside, was completely dry. Wondering how hard I must have hit my head I picked out a towel from the bathroom and dried the desk before sitting back down and opening the journal once again. The compulsion to write overcame my thoughts and I grabbed up a pen and flipped the book to the first page. Deciding I’d simply use it as it appeared to be, a journal, I began to write down my recent experience. This time the ink stained the page in the shape of letters as I wrote. Hardly believing it was working I switched back to writing a short excerpt from the story I’d been working on. The pen failed to write once again. With a confused shake of my head, and sitting back in the chair, I poured another drink contemplating the strangeness.

The third scotch went down quickly as I picked the pen back up feeling an increasing urge to write in the journal. Once again, I set about writing my thoughts. Thinking of the wreck I laid out the actions I’d taken leading up to the incident. The guilt weighed heavy on my mind leading me to think of all the awful things I’ve done throughout my life. Before I realized it, I’d filled ten pages starting from the earliest wrong I could remember committing in my life. My mind finally snapped from the guilty thoughts of the past as I sat back in my chair feeling saddened by the memories. I poured the fourth glass and sipped it slowly as the compulsion to write quickly returned.

My mind continued to wander over the sins of my life, and I looked down to see I was writing my thoughts without even realizing it was happening. The more I wrote the less I was able to resist the compulsion. By the time the sky grew dark, I finally lifted my hand from the page and realized I’d filled almost half the book with the stories of my most awful interactions throughout my life. Felling hungry the pen fell down and I shook off the guilty thoughts of my past laid bare upon the pages. A few eggs made quickly I ate them without an ounce of enjoyment as the melancholy of my writing continued to weigh heavy on my mind.

My eyes kept darting back to the book as the impulse to continue filling the pages grew in strength the longer I was away. Before long the urge became too great and sitting back down the pen found my hand once again. With a long sigh, I set to work on the pages. The night passed and the sun rose without notice. I wrote down sin upon sin on the blank white pages of the journal. My hands had long since grown tired and blisters formed along the parts of my fingers touching the course pages and pen as I wrote at a faster and faster pace. The thoughts of filling the book consumed me with an insatiable need. After the day had once again grown dark I finished filling the last page of the journal and finally sat back exhausted by the effort of writing the two hundred and fifty pages worth of mistakes I’d lived.

Deep sadness took over my thoughts as I flipped back to the beginning of the journal and began to read the words I’d written. By the time the sun rose the last words were read. Unable to believe the sins of my life I gently set the book down and finally stood from my chair. Turning to face the door of the cabin the man who’d saved me stood in front of it with his familiar smile.

“The confession is paid,” he spoke in a tone of judgment disappearing as suddenly as he’d appeared.

The guilt and sadness filled every ounce of my heart as I contemplated my life and walked outside. The fog once again filled the area and the beauty of it was lost on me as I heard the sounds of sirens in the distance. I knew they were coming for me, but I didn’t care. The only thought filling my mind was the dark need to end my life. The words I’d written left no room for excuse. They left no room for forgiveness. I was an evil man and I deserved to die. A small voice fought to end the thoughts, but my feet carried me forward as I walked toward the still, misty water. Unable to stop myself, and not really wanting to, I entered the cold water of the lake and let my feet carry me out to the dark depths. I never attempted to swim or tread the water rising above me as I floated down to the inky, cold dark of the judgment I deserved. The confession I’d written on the blank white pages of my life would tell the world why...