|
||
|
|
||
| PAPERBACK BOOKS | ||
Read a sample of the book: There are many poisons in this world. Some are easier to find than others. Some offer bursts of insight and creativity. Some take you apart piece by piece. Some will alienate you from your closest friends. Some will endear you to the hearts of strangers. Others still leave you cold and alone. There are poisons you can find anywhere. There are poisons only found in shadow. There are poisons of great strength and secrecy. And there are consequences. FRIDAY 7.25
A.M. I
sit, staring straight ahead into empty space, talking to everyone and no-one in
particular. This is my story. This is all I have left to give. The room I am sitting in is a cold, grey
box, a tiny prison totally disconnected from the outside world.
There’s a surveillance camera in one corner, recording my every
movement and word. A small round
table and three chairs take up most of the room.
Right now, I’m in one of these chairs, but just over an hour ago I was
languishing in a gutter somewhere, ripped out of unconsciousness by rough hands
and raised voices. The men who woke
me from my slumber are sitting opposite me, eyeing me suspiciously.
It’s their job to find out what makes me tick, I’m told.
It’s their responsibility to discover just who I am. They’re going to need all the help they
can get. Only God knows how long I
was in the gutter, or how I got there, and it seems He doesn’t feel like
sharing. These men have been interrogating me for
quite some time. Though they appear
exhausted, a keen fire burns brightly in their eyes.
They are hunters. I’m
their prey. And now that I’m
cornered, they won’t give up until they’re satisfied. The door creaks open and from just over my
shoulder, someone new is asking questions.
Not the biting, direct questions I could have expected. Just general things, really.
Where do I live. What do I
do for a living. How old am I.
Where did I grow up. Where is the murder weapon. You know, that kinda thing. Before
they hustled me into the box, I was in the waiting room, watching a television that was mounted high up on a concrete wall.
I had a good fifteen minutes without being harassed or accused of murder,
so I attempted to gather my thoughts as best I could.
I tried to trace the line of events that had brought me to this place.
I racked my brain for the smallest detail, searching for anything, any
information at all, trying to find the key which would release me from my
captors. In this time, I recognised
every single last one of the commercials blaring out at me from the television,
but as for my name, my age, my occupation or my family? Nothing. It’s as if my personality has been
completely erased. I could tell you
so many things… I could tell you
what happened in the news yesterday, or which footy team is poised to win the
championship, but I can’t tell you anything about me.
I could sit down and discuss the situation in the Middle East as well as
the next guy, but if you ask me about my favourite movie you can expect a long,
blank stare. If you pulled up
alongside me and asked for directions I’m sure I could help you out….
unless, of course, you ask me how to get to my house, assuming I even live in
one. I’m no longer a person, and the worst
part is I don’t have any memory of ever being one. I am a prisoner, the prime suspect in a
crime I know absolutely nothing about. As
far as I know I have always been a prisoner.
In my head, I’ve been told, is the answer to this whole damn mess.
These men are convinced that I know something of extreme importance and I
have no choice but to believe them. Since
I was pulled out of the gutter, they have been my entire world… ever present,
ever persistent. These guys were
with me as I stretched my bones and squinted into the harsh morning sun.
They were right there beside me as I brushed layers of dirt and dead
leaves from my jacket, and they’re right in front of me now, regarding me with
vicious, steely eyes. What they
tell me I have to accept. With
no-one else around to tell me how to be myself, these men are re-writing my
life. And from behind me, the questions continue.
Who is my next of kin. What
was I doing in the gutter. Why am I
pretending to have lost my memory. Why
aren’t I carrying any I.D. Why did I kill the girl.
I don’t know much at the moment, but
somehow I’m sure that these questions are irrelevant.
That they already know all they need to know, and I’m just here for
observation. Close observation. I
have been in this box for quite some time and until very recently I have been
quiet. Now, I’m telling my story.
The last thing I have left. What comes out of my mouth isn’t a
conventional narrative. It’s not
even that coherent. Thoughts,
ideas, distant memories that may or may not belong to me… impressions,
theories, suggestions and rants… I tell them everything that’s swimming
around in my head, because it’s all I have to offer.
I talk and I’m not even sure they listen, but it doesn’t matter,
because I’m doing this just as much for me as I am for them. I want to know exactly what happened.
I want to know exactly how I came to be in this space and time, telling a
disjointed story that may or may not be a lie.
I want to know how come this murder is news to me when by all means I
should have memories of committing it. Basically, I want the truth.
I want to know who I am.
|
||||||||||||
| All
Prices in Australian Dollars CURRENCY
CONVERTER
(c)2003 Zeus Publications All rights reserved. |
