R/T/M

R/T/M

Sean Douglas
 

FOREWORD

     This was not submitted to me anonymously, although I present it here as anonymous, as it was intended to be presented, if at all.

     The book contained herein was given to me by a friend.

     The kind of friend that you don’t want to have over the house.

     The kind you don’t introduce to your girlfriend.

     The kind of friend you wish you had never met.

     He wasn’t my friend first.   He was a friend of a friend.

     My friend thought that we’d get along so he got us together and then he was my friend too.

     We got to know each other over time and when I began to realize what a fucking nut-job he was I told him he should write a book.

     People say that shit all the time.

     “You should write a book.” or “I should write a book.”

     It’s like saying, “How are you?”.

     It’s just something people say.

     They don’t really want to know how you’re doing.

     The people that work at the places you go.   They got enough of their own problems.

     They don’t need to hear about the petty drama of your banal little lives.

     They’re living lives of boring desperation too.

     Most people couldn’t write a book if they wanted to, which is good, because no one wants to read your stupid fucking life story anyway.

     Unless you’re Helen Keller or Anne Frank you’ve got no business writing books about your boring ass life.

     But my friend took me seriously and a week later he shows up with a manila folder full of copy paper.

     He held it out towards me and said it was the book I told him he should write.

     I started reading the book.

     I couldn’t seem to get away from it.

     I put it down when I had to go to work or go to sleep, but other than that the book was what I did for a few days.

     I read so much my eyes would get dry and itchy and my ass would go numb and I’d lose track of the time.

     It wasn’t that it was too good to put down.

     Actually it was the opposite.

     He came by the house a couple days later.

     He asked me what I thought.

     I asked him if he was fucking kidding me.

     He just looked me in the eyes like he was trying to read my mind.

     Trying to look right through me.

     Trying to figure
out something out about me.

     He asked me if I had read it through to the end yet.

     I said I hadn’t gotten to the end yet.

     I’m not a quick reader.

     He said I should.

     The more I read, the more uneasy I felt.

     Then I finished his book and I read his little message.

     The next time the guy called me, I saw his number on the caller i.d. and I didn’t answer and he didn’t leave a message.

     That same day I went out and tried to buy a gun.

     Just to have around the house.

     Maybe on the bedside table or under my pillow while I slept.

     You know, for protection.

     The gun shop guy told me there was a seven day waiting period.

     I told him I needed a gun today.

     The guy gave me a look and asked me why I needed a gun so bad that day.

     If I told him, he’d think I was fucking crazy, so I said nevermind and left.

     I’m lucky he didn’t call the cops or make a citizen’s arrest right then and there.

     Not that I had anything to be guilty about.

     I just wanted some protection.

     My “friend” called a couple more times, and when he figured out I was avoiding his calls he left a voice message.

     “I presume, since you’re avoiding my calls, that you’ve finished reading my book.   In case you were still wondering, it’s all true.   I meant everything I said, including the little post-script I left for your eyes only.   Hope our paths won’t have to cross again.   It’s in your hands now.   I’ll let you figure it out on your own.   Have a nice life.”

     I will never forget that message.

     I had read the whole thing.

     I knew what he meant about the post-script.

     I packed up what I needed and got the fuck out of my apartment.

     I broke my lease.

     Who cares?   It beats the alternative.

     What I didn’t think I absolutely needed I
threw out or left behind.   It’s just stuff.

     I checked into a motel under a fake name, paying for the room for a week in advance with cash.

     I didn’t sleep that night, despite the fact that I took the biggest fucking knife from my kitchen with me and kept it on the bedside table where I could get at it quick.

     I kept the light on so I could see, and the
TV off so I could hear, and kept checking to make sure that I could get to the knife quick if I needed to.

     Reaching out and touching the handle.

     Not that it would help.

     I didn’t go to work the next day.

     I had a little money in the bank.

     I never went back to that place.

     I figured he could find me there too easily.

     Not that I didn’t think he couldn’t find me if he wanted to badly enough.

     I just didn’t want to have to look that guy in the eyes again if I didn’t have to.

     Instead I went to the Attorney General’s office and got my background check done.

     I went to a different gun store and let the owner help me pick out a good gun.

     An automatic is easier to reload than a revolver.

     Not that I’d need that many bullets.

     I put in my order and waited seven days.

     Those were the longest seven days of my life.

     As soon as I got the gun I left town.

     I moved back to the city I grew up in, where I still knew most of the people or knew people who knew them.

     I don’t think I ever told my “friend” where I came from.

     At least I didn’t think I did.

     I stayed with a friend from high school for a month and got a job, and when I got the money up I got my own place.

     I kept the stack of printed pages.

     Manila folder and all.

     I kept them where no one would accidentally pick it up and start leafing through them.

     It was a dirty little secret we shared.

     My friend and I.

     The kind of thing that you don’t tell anyone.

     Anyone.

     But you can’t just isolate yourself and hope that everything will be alright.

     I didn’t read the papers or watch the news, but you can’t help but hear things.

     It was neverending.

     I’d hear about something and wonder if it was my “friend”.

     Out there.   Doing his thing.

     Nothing really helped.

     Now I just don’t care.

     It’s been so long.

     Maybe he’s out there doing his thing.

     Maybe he’s not.

     But knowing what I know, I felt guilty.

     Like I was part of his fucked up plan.

     So here it is.

     It’s all I got.

     I’m not telling you anything more.

     I don’t have to.

     I know my rights.

     I’ve already done too much by passing this on.

     Maybe now I can sleep at night without waking up at every little sound.

     Maybe he’ll come for me.

     Maybe he won’t.

     There’s no use worrying about it anymore.

     I’m done with worrying.

     It’s just not worth it.

     It makes life not worth living.

     So just kill me already.

     In my mind I’ve died a thousand indescribable deaths.

     I think that’s enough deaths for anyone.

     There’s nothing that could happen now that would surprise me.

     At least I hope there’s not.

     You can believe me or not.

     I don’t fucking care.

     It’s not my responsibility anymore.

     Here it is.

     You’ll either read it or you won’t.

     You‘ll believe me or you won’t.

     You do what you do and then you move on.

Sean Douglas

     I’m not going to tell you my name.

     So don’t bother skipping ahead and trying to figure out if you know me.

     I’m not one of those guys that has a guilty conscience that keeps him up at night and is just dying for someone to figure out who he is so it can all be over with.

     One of those, “Stop me before I kill again!”, clichés.

     So don’t bother going through this with a fine-toothed comb and trying to put together all of the evidence, hoping that like pieces of a puzzle when assembled correctly you’ll see the big picture.

     Because, really, I’m not that stupid.

     Don’t bother trying to use special solutions and ultra-violet light to try to see if I left any fingerprints on the paper with my natural skin and hair oils.

     Fingerprinting isn’t an exact science.

     That shit’s for cop shows.

     I’ve never been arrested, so my prints won’t be in the system.

     And don’t bother trying to trace the paper, ink, or printer.

     All of which are common as dirt and can be acquired at any major office supply store.

     I’m telling you all of this because I want to save you some valuable time and effort.

     I’m telling you this because I want us to start off on the right foot.

     I’m telling you this because I want us to be friends.

     So maybe you’re wondering what it is that I do that requires that I take so many precautions.

     Maybe you’re wondering if you should waste your time reading any more of this.

     Maybe you’re wondering if these are the idle ramblings of one of the many mentally unbalanced members of your community.

     One of those psychotics living in your community that somehow slipped off their medication routine again, and dashed this off between time spent listening to the secret alien government transmissions coming in over the fillings in their teeth and having conversations with their dog about killing the president to win the love of some famous female movie star because he knows that they have so much in common and they would be great together if only s
he knew everything that he knew about how they were meant for each other.

      If that’s the case, then fine.

     Stop reading.

     Just go about your daily life like you never saw this.

     Still with me?

     I knew you would be.

     It’s human nature.

     Everyone slows down when driving by the site of a car crash on the highway.

     Not because the emergency response team is there and the lights are flashing and it’s the sensible thing to do.   But because they want to see the smashed up cars and maybe a mangled body.

     But you never get to see the bodies.

     By the time the fire trucks and ambulances get there all you ever see are the dinged up cars and car parts and automotive fluids glimmering by the spinning lights.