The Little Brown Notebook

The long translucent blue vein running down the side of John’s forehead seemed to be throbbing erratically. Fresh sweat seemed to mix with the open bloody wound on his firm cheek, but his face remained stone-hard, and his blue eyes, a shade similar to the vein on his forehead, framed with long thick lashes now dusted with snowflakes along with his tousled brown hair, held their gaze at the strangely familiar little half-burnt notebook lying on the floor, one side exposed to the brilliant orange light of the flare of fire that had just exploded up in the night sky a few minutes ago, resembling what he imagined a nuclear explosion to look like. He was one of the few lucky survivors, who were in fact luckier to be able to walk. He was one of the few who was conscious of whatever had happened, and whose efforts had also been conducive in aiding the needy, saving the lives that he could.

 

But at that point in time, in all the commotion, from the last whisper of a dying soul to the occasional scream and shout in pain, all he could think of was that notebook lying on the floor. It somehow ignited his curiosity. Something made him want to reach out for it. Carefully making his way through the conscious but injured survivors of the fire, he reached the patch on the ground where the little notebook lay, secured by a leathery brown cover somewhat ripped open from the corners and edges but fine and legible otherwise. He picked it up and dusted off the fresh snowflakes that seemed to be too stubborn to go away or vanish from its cover. He turned the diary over and over, as if looking for… something. Something that made sense, something that gave him some kind of a clue of what this diary contained, and why did it seem so important to him.

 

John knew very well that one of the worst things one could possibly do was invade someone else’s privacy, eavesdrop into his thoughts and drink in his feelings and emotions without having the person they belonged to know. Not only was it wrong and unfair, it also brought along with it a sense of crime and sin that only the one who committed it could understand. It was only because of his morals, ethics, and simple understanding that he didn’t open the notebook to read what was written in it, even if it was nothing but a name or a phone number. He couldn’t help but smile a dreary smile at the inanimate but mysterious notebook in his hand before slipping it into the pocket of the bag that he was carrying on his back.

 

It was a bone-jittering cold night sometime in the middle of December. In one of the community buildings where a special dinner was being held for one occasion or another, because of a pipeline malfunction, a fire had broken out and the building had burnt into flames. Not many had died, but most of them were seriously injured.

 

After the tiring procedure of helping save humanity, when he returned back home, with the notebook in his hand, he found himself alone in his otherwise usually empty room, reflecting on life. Two years ago, he thought, he was no exception to the daily man, with the weight of a tonne of heavy responsibilities hunching his back, working to feed his wife and himself, struggling, trying to keep up with the pace of the world and surviving.

 

And then, after a long series of never-ending fights, tears and shouts, financial problems and God alone knows what else, one perplexing note shattered his world into tiny crystals of crushed glass. She, the woman whom he loved more than his own soul, but needed a second chance with to treat her right, had decided to leave his life forever. And all he could do for the next few days, was stare absent-mindedly at the piece of paper carrying the weight of his wife’s awful message and cry to himself about his broken marriage and empty pocket. His dump of a house was all he now owned, and he was grateful for it.

 

A few days after, thee divorce papers came to him via mail, and one signature finished everything. He could have protested, gone to her, spoken words of reassurance and begged for forgiveness. He wasn’t shy or too egoistic to do so. But as painful as it was to admit it to himself, he knew that she was right. He knew that it was for the best.

 

And two years had passed, just like that. But what confused John most that night was why he was suddenly thinking about it all over again. What power did this little brown notebook have vested in it to make his head reel over and around the same events that had taken place two years ago? Why did it seem so familiar? Why did his mind urge him to open it?

 

In sheer exasperation, he shook his head dismissively, taking the brown notebook in his hand to put it in his bedside drawer. But as he got up, something slipped out of the notebook and fell to the ground, with the blank side up. He bent down to see what it was, and what he saw when he turned it over made his jaw drop open, and blew his mind away.

 

It was a photograph. A close-up of a brown-eyed redhead with beautiful, perfectly rounded curls, and a heart shaped fragile face with perfectly sculpted lips; the colour of soft pink, new blushing rose petals. She had deep dimpled cheeks, and was wearing what seemed to be a purple sundress. This girl was one whom he remembered-knew, in fact, all too well. Every little detail from her face seemed to bring with it a wave of nostalgia and pure emotion. He took the picture in his hand, carefully, like he was holding a frail feather, and opened the notebook, once again seating himself down on his couch.

 

The thought of invading people’s privacy or whatever suddenly vacated John’s mind, and he opened to the first page. There was just one word written in almost what one would call a calligraphic handwriting, on the top left side of the page.

 

Summer.

 

And that one word made everything fall into place. Summer. The notebook belonged to Summer, his ex-wife. And it wasn’t just a notebook. It was a journal. Only then did he remember: it was just one of the little notebooks she used to keep in her closet, right in between her grey sweater and blue cardigan. That was the standard abode of her journal, and only then did the image cross his mind. One day, he was looking for his wallet and he opened Summer’s closet to find it, and that was when he came across her journal. He didn’t make anything of it. Nor was he curious. They were happy with each other back then. It felt like a million years ago.

 

He turned the pages, catching words here and there. ‘Love’, ‘Home’, ‘Job’, ‘Money’. As he kept going forward, the handwriting began to get shabbier and the words began to be tear-stained. And every such word that he came across sent an ache down his spine. Before he knew it, he was at the last page, and the wound on his cheek seemed to be tearing open as he felt the tears mix up with the blood. He sighed and finally decided to read the last entry. It was just one paragraph, but he decided to read it anyway.

 

7^th December.

 

Its been two years since I’ve left John. And I don’t know how I have been able to live with myself. Many a times, I find myself wondering how it would all have been if I hadn’t left. Maybe we could have worked it out. Maybe things would have been okay. So many times, I cross his house-once which was mine as well-and I can’t help but stop and stare at that worn blue door. Two years, and everyday, I still have to live with the regret of leaving him. I loved him. I still do. I always will. I just wish I could apologise. I’m sorry. I really, really am. I just wish I could say that to him. I just wish he knew.

 

***

 

The next morning, on learning that Summer was one of the unlucky ones who hadn’t survived the fire, he grieved more than anyone else did. Her grave had been dug the night before itself, and it was nothing special. Summer’s parents were no more, she didn’t have any siblings or any close extended family. Her only two best friends lived in Brooklyn, and so no one knew of her death. All the stone said was ‘In memory or Summer Anderson’.

 

He spent hours, crying by the gravestone, her journal in his hand. And all he could do was blame himself for all that had happened. The thought that he was only a few feet away from her the night the fire broke out seemed to haunt him again and again. Why couldn’t he have saved her? At the least, why didn’t he get a chance of letting her know that he was sorry too? Why was she so close, but yet so far from him?

 

Hours later, when John finally could find the strength to leave, he got up, dusting his clothes off and pulled his coat a little tighter. The notebook slipped into his pocket and just before he could actually step out, he looked back, right at her grave, thinking, I’m sorry. I love you.

 

And just for a moment, it almost seemed to him as if she was there, smiling, crying, nodding at him in understanding, almost like telling him that she loved him too and that she always will. 

But then in the blink of an eye, in the fraction of a second, she was gone. 

Author's Note

:D

Reviews

[AleyshaRosa]

A perfectly sad short story. You were able to put his whole past and future into paragraphs, which takes skill.
Only a bit of feedback:
I noticed a lot of run on sentences that made it difficult to follow along with what exactly was happening.

i.e

Fresh sweat seemed to mix with the open bloody wound on his firm cheek, but his face remained stone-hard, and his blue eyes, a shade similar to the vein on his forehead, framed with long thick lashes now dusted with snowflakes along with his tousled brown hair, held their gaze at the strangely familiar little half-burnt notebook lying on the floor, one side exposed to the brilliant orange light of the flare of fire that had just exploded up in the night sky a few minutes ago, resembling what he imagined a nuclear explosion to look like

The text itself is beautiful and the imagery is amazing, but sometimes the sentences need to be broken up with periods and semicolons.

Great work nonetheless

Koodoos

[Aehr]

Thank you so much :)
I know I need to tone that down a bit hahaha :P

[TL Boehm]

Such a sad write - poignant - the pain in finding one little notebook.

[Coyote Poetry]

Thank you for sharing the amazing story. I found my Grandmother journal. It is gold to our family. I like the way you create life and the strong ending. Words have value after death also. Thank you for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote

[Aehr]

Thank you sir. :D

[anxia]

Oh rhea you are an extremely brilliant writer and its all evident in your adept writing. The opening lines were extremely intriguing. This is so very beautifully written. Heartrending. I wish i can just transcribe my feelings as good as you :P.
AH-MAZING WORK.

[Aehr]

Thank you so much! Really, it means the world :')

[anxia]

You are welcome. Thanks for sharing :)

[KAin]

A sad story, very well written. I liked your opening lines, it made me wonder why this character was undergoing his experiences, and then you fleshed it out nicely. An excellent piece, Rhea. Keep it up!

[Aehr]

Thank you so much Landred :)

[annabellee]

aw that was such a sad story. really touched me. you're a really good story-writer, well done :)

[Aehr]

Thank you :D

[annabellee]

you're most welcome :)