A Bitter Pill

'You have to put it in your mouth. Chew it up and swallow it.'

I understand the words, but 'Huh?' is the only response I can find, my face screwing into a frown. Although, I haven’t known Trev for long, it feels like it; it’s comfortable. He's a straight shooter who likes to joke around but telegraphs his plays. I'm convinced he's serious which makes it all the more baffling. How am I to benefit from this bizarre, counterintuitive action?

Trev persists: 'I'm telling you if you want to know what's written on the page, you gotta eat it.'

Locking eyes with him, I’ve got a few questions. 'Where'd you get the idea there's anything written on these pages? And explain how this alchemy works.' I close the black notebook, run my hands over its cover. Real leather, aged, soft, slightly faded. I turn again to the last page, the eighth page on which is written $20,000. What am I supposed to do with it? According to Trev, swallowing paper is the only way to find out.

With a look best described as pity, like's he dealing with an ignoramus, Trev says: 'I can't explain how it works, or even guarantee it will work, but the thought popped into my head, and you know I'm a bit like that.'

'A bit like what?'

Trev looks at the ceiling, sighs. I feel like hitting him now, knocking the condescension out of his voice. The trouble is I like him, and my surging curiousity is making me giddy.

'I get these ideas,' says Trev. 'Promptings. They're strong enough for me to want to, you know, to do what I'm told.'

I raise my eyebrows.

'Look,' says Trev, switching from superiority to exasperation. 'You've got a little black book with seven blank pages. The eighth page says $20,000. I reckon if you eat the first page it'll tell you how to get the cash.'

I snort, unattractively, I think to myself. I'm not a snorter, but this situation warrants a good snort.

'It's not going to kill you.'

'So?'

'So,' says Trev. 'You've got nothing to lose and twenty large to gain.'

His eyes are on me like a kookaburra ready to dive bomb a gecko. I begin to tear the page, slowly at first, then fast in response to Trev's sigh. Balling it, I place it carefully in my mouth as though it might burn my mouth. Trev sighs again, louder this time because he sees I'm only holding it in my mouth. I begin to chew, not really knowing what to expect. Mum tells me I used to be a paper munching fiend as a toddler, but I have no recollection of that.

The paper is bitter, gag inducing, so I chew faster. A buzzing sensation in my mouth passes as the saliva wadded bits of paper make their way down my throat. It's uncomfortable. Trev rips off the cap of his bottle of Pepsi Max, thrusts it at me. I don't want it, but the acidic liquid helps the bitter pill go down. Then it hits me.

I can see the words on the page, the reassembled shredded fragments presenting them in beautifully neat handwriting. Thank your friend for helping you begin.

All doubt disappears, dissolved instantly in the waters of revelation. Irrespective of whether I'm imagining what I'm seeing due to the effects of some toxin, or wishing the vision into existence, I can't deny its reality.

I tell Trev what I see, then rip another page out of the book. As I chew it, I overlook the unpleasant taste and reflect on how the book became mine.

Looking for a lounge for our apartment, my budget sent me to a recycled furniture warehouse at the local waste disposal facility. I detested each of the three lounges they had, and consoled myself by perusing their extensive collection of used books. It was on a lower shelf between James Patterson's Zoo and a book called Thin Air. The little black book was much smaller than the novels, so it sat back in the shelf, hiding in the darkness, shadowed by the novels. Inquisitive by nature, I pulled it out, riffled through a surprisingly small number of blank pages. I touched the leather, then leafed through more slowly in case I missed something. I grabbed the notebook, and Zoo, took them both to the counter. They charged me two bucks for the novel and said I could have the notebook for nix. Pure luck right? Sure. If you believe in that sort of thing.

Once the second page goes down, I see the writing on page two which simply tells me to eat page three. I tell Trev what's going on and eat page three, thinking to myself how impossibly easy this is.

Trev's words echo my thoughts. 'Damn,' he says. 'Eat your way to a small fortune.' He hands me the Pepsi Max, encouraging me to continue, which I do.

Page three tells me to mix my own blood with the saliva in my mouth before swallowing the page. I laugh at the cliche. I'm in a horror movie now. When I tell Trev, he runs off, returning in no time with a knife.

I look at the knife, then at Trev who says, 'In for a penny, in for a pound.'

Easy for him to say, he's not eating paper, having weird visions and being instructed to cut himself. Despite my misgivings, I go ahead, brushing away niggling doubts like flies at a summer barbecue. I give myself the smallest possible nick on the top of my index finger, wincing as I do. I put the injured finger in my mouth, suck some of my blood then add page four. The blood tastes better than the paper.

Trev smiles back, albeit uncertainly.

Page four says to eat page five, so I relax instantly and Trev lets go of a lungful of air which he'd been holding in. 'You know what I was expecting?'

I nod. 'Looks like you dodged a bullet there.'

When I tell Trev what page five says, he blanches, tries to find an appropriate word, but can only swallow the gob of anxious spit assembled in the back of his throat.

'It's okay mate,' I say. I'll split the cash with you.'

'Gimme that knife,' he says. He cuts his finger, holds it out to me like I'm his mum and his wants me to kiss his boo boo better. I rip out another page, place it in my mouth, chew it up and take hold of his finger. I do it quickly: in, suck, out. Then I throw in some more Pepsi max.

Page six is next level, but I don't hesitate to share it with Trev. 'What's the story with you and your dad?' he asks. I don't want to talk about it. I've never talked about it. Never told anyone how Dad beat the crap out of me one night, stole my money and my car, then disappeared. The police couldn't find him. One day he called out of the blue. If I'd known it was him I wouldn't have given him even half a chance to explain. My need for any explanation or apology or anything from him, had died long ago, buried in a grave of anger and resentment. I took his call, but as soon as I recognized his voice I told him, unambiguously, to leave me alone.

When I finish opening my heart to Trev, he shakes his head, and says 'The curiousity alone would've killed me. Why?'

My head drops. I feel sick. I can't do it. I can't forgive him. I don't even want to. He doesn't deserve it. Based on the supernatural events since I began eating the blank pages of the little notebook, I'm assuming I can't simply say the words I forgive you dad. I'm guessing I've got to say it to him, and I've got to mean it.

Trev is respectfully silent.

It's sheer bloody mindedness which forces the words from my mouth, but when I try to tear out the next blank page, I can't. Foolishly, I keep trying, until my breathing is erratic and I'm red in the face. It won't budge. It doesn't even feel like paper anymore.

Trev smiles. 'No short cuts then.'

I shake my head, a full herd of emotions stampeding through my brain. It's futile. I can't do it. Not even for twenty thousand dollars.

***

It seems ridiculous to keep nursing this hurt. It's time to let go and move on. I've struggled financially ever since dad left, so twenty thousand dollars would go a long way to getting me back on my feet. I'm carrying considerable debt. Why not take this opportunity to get a fiscal boost and a moral purge at the same time? Such were the thoughts which robbed me of sleep that night.

When Trev arrives the next day, I grab the notebook, open it, and tear out the seventh page.

'You did it!' says Trev. 'I'm impressed. What happened?'

'I called him,' I say. 'Gave him a chance to explain. He must have said sorry a thousand times before I finally got him to tell me what I desperately wanted to know. He got himself hooked on heroin after mum died. I knew he'd hit the bottle but not about the heroin. He said things got way out of control and he'd regretted what he did to me ever since he finally sobered up a couple of years back. Said he still hasn't been able to forgive himself, but with a further flurry of apologies, he said he hoped I could forgive him.

‘I felt something break mate. When I listened to him. Something broke inside me.'

Trev nods as I place page seven in my mouth and chew it up. I've prepared my own drink this time: Canadian Club.

'Are you going to offer me some of that?'

'A bit early in the morning for whiskey, isn't it?' I say after swallowing the last vestiges of page seven.

Trev laughs, goes to grab one from the fridge, while I wait for the message. It's an unusually long wait, causing me to feel uneasy. Eventually the words materialize, making me smile. I say it out loud ‘promise to give all of the money to a friend.’

It’s Trev’s turn to smile. I ignore his feeble protests, make my vow, then eat the money page. If nothing else comes of this, if it turns out to be an impossibly elaborate prank, at least I talked to dad. I drink more Canadian Club, waiting for the money to appear. I look at Trev, raise my eyebrows. He drinks, then smiles. 'Maybe you should check your account,' he says.

I'm about to open the app on my phone when my sister calls to tell me she dreamed about dad. She says the dream upset her enough to make her call him to see if he was alright.

'He didn't answer,' she says. 'and he didn't call back. I knew something was wrong.' She chokes on her next words. 'He's dead. They found him alone in his apartment this morning. They broke in because the neighbours reported a bad...'

Insensitively, I speak over her tears. 'That's impossible sis. I spoke to him this morning.' She keeps crying, so I shut up. One clear thought keeps pressing through the maelstrom in my mind, shouting for my attention. Dad did this. Somehow. The notebook is from him. But why? And how? And how can a dead man answer?

My sister recovers her composure, apologizing profusely. Foreign sounding words of comfort roll off my tongue. She quietens, thanks me. I promise to call her later, then open the app to check my account.

Trev's a genius when it comes to reading people. He's smiling when I look up from the phone. 'I'll give you my bank details.'