Reacher's Journal. Entry #1

A short story.

Sometimes I can't sleep at night. The vile memories flood my weary mind, washing away all doubt that any feelings of control are purely illusory. I'm not certain of the meaning for that which I have witnessed; still I find no sollice in my ignorance.

There was a fire in my office building last month. Greedily, it consumed all it could in its fourty-five minute lifespan with concern for neither the lives it was taking, nor the ones it ruined.

There was a light in the middle of this abyss, though: I happened to have called in sick that very morning. What fortune! What luck! Though as I learned, luck is fading; nothing more than a coping mechanism us humans are quite fond of, until fate dashes it against the rocks - then one realizes that we are all merely pawns in a twisted game of chess, without ever trully knowing our next move.

The day of the fire I watched the coverage on it from a few different news stations. I found it odd that I hadn't received a call from my mother, seeing as how she fills her time with either reading her smut, which she likes to call romance novels; or by watching the news.
I decided to give her a call instead, more to ease my worries than hers. The T.V played in the background while I dug through dirty clothes in hopes of finding my cell phone.

"And so," the anchor bagan. "I'd like to take a minute to read off a few of the identified victims from this terrible tragedy. Mark Wallace . . ."

Mark? What a shame. He was a good man with two kids. His wife left him about a year ago; he never believed us when we told him that he's better off.

"Shelly RivDale."

Shelly, office s**t. She got the raise we all worked our asses off for, while all she had to do was spread her toned little legs. I manage to finally find my phone.

"Jim Hodson."

Jim? Strange, I've never met a Jim. I dial my mother's number.

"Betsy Ross."

Betsy. We always loved giving her trouble about her name. I doubt she was able to count the times she was asked to patch up someone or another's flag. I never did find the joke witty. I dated her for awhile. We had to keep our relationship a secret since dating a coworker wasn't allowed. It was exciting. The call went to voicemail.

"And Jack Reacher. We wish the best of luck to all the families of the victims."

I couldn't have heard that last name correctly. It's my name. There must be some explanation, some mix up or confusion. Something . . .

(CONT.)