One Year Later

Henry Jameson took a deep breath and hesitated for a brief moment, before finally turning the knob and opening the door. The room beyond smelled of old paper and stale cigarettes, as though no time had passed at all since he’d last been in here. The book-laden shelves were dust-free, and glittering sunlight beamed through the slats of the window blinds. Their shadows were cast on a second, more barren shelf reserved for special pieces of his collection.

Henry stepped into the room, and glanced around while nearly choking on the sense of dread paralyzing his lungs. He promised himself that he’d return to this room one year later, that gave him 12 solid months to recover. For the most part, Henry was back to his old self, but there was still that voice deep within him always speaking:

You can’t survive something like this without losing something in return.

As the thought echoed in his mind once again, Henry’s eyes came to the shelf reserved for the more special pieces. The feeling of dread tightened its grip as he saw the lone book sitting in the top shelf; dark purple cover, with two silhouetted shadows on the front aiming guns at each other. One figure was clearly a man, lean build with a sword at his side. The other was a much taller, hooded figure with the faint outline of a skull beneath his cowl. Above them, blue embossed letters read: PURPOSE, VOLUME ONE – THE SON OF LAZARUS.

At the very bottom: A NOVEL BY HENRY JAMESON.

Henry turned to the desk sitting adjacent to the shelf, darkened lamp sitting perched over a pristine yellow legal pad with three pens lined up to the right. To the left was a dense three-ring binder, containing pages full of lore and data spun from Henry’s own mind into the web of the world that comprised the purple book on his special shelf.

All of that data, untouched for a year and nearly lost in an instant.

Realizing he’d delayed long enough, Henry pulled out the chair of the desk and sat down with a slight groan as the air hissed out from the seat cushion. His arms rested along the chair’s own, then his hands gripped the edge. Rhythmic creaks echoed in the small study as Henry kicked back and forth slightly in his chair, eyes locked on the blank yellow pad just waiting for him to make a move.

Yet, Henry was completely still.

The frightened author took in another deep breath, sharply exhaled, and then repeated. Finally, after three breaths, he opened his eyes and stood from the chair.

“Year and five minutes,” Henry declared. “Just a year and five minutes, that’s all I need. Five minutes to remember how to do this.”

He nodded to himself.

“A year and ten minutes- maybe thirty, or an hour.”

A brief pause.

“Year and a day- two days, maybe a week- maybe two weeks. Oh, for fuck’s sake! I’m not ready, I can’t do this today-”

Henry went to the open door of his study, and stopped after hearing someone clear their throat behind him. Slowly, the author turned and widened his eyes as he caught a glimpse of the unexpected visitor. The man in question matched Henry’s height exactly, which meant he was far from towering. Unruly blonde hair sat perched on his head, while the rest of his body was covered in scuffed and threadbare clothing with well-weathered boots. Two weapons rested on each side of his belt; forty-five caliber pistol to the right, and a leather-wrapped sword to the left. Staring back at Henry were two piercing green eyes.

This was a man Henry knew very well, as he was one of the shadows on the book cover.

“Eric,” he uttered. “Eric Matthew Thames, as clear as the day I imagined you.”

“So,” Eric began, his voice sounding as tired as Henry knew it had every right to be. “You remember me, that’s a good sign.”

“What are you-?”

“What else do you remember?”

“I-” Henry stuttered. “What is this? Am I hallucinating? I told that damn doctor that I didn’t need anything more than the aspirin-”

“He disagreed, and so do I.”

“Excuse me?”

Eric shrugged and crossed his arms.

“You know me, and what I’ve been through. Guess what, Henry? Vice versa. I came out of your mind, and I’ve seen some of the stuff in there. Aside from all the bad shit coming my way- thanks in advance for that, I also see the stuff that’s happened to you.”

“Then you know why I’m not ready.”

“Wrong, I know why you are ready.”

“Then you’re as crazy as I’ve written you to be- and I must be right up there for holding this conversation with myself.”

Henry passed through the study door, slammed it shut behind him, and stormed down the stairs and into the white-paneled kitchen. To his horror, Eric was sitting at the dinner table, leaning back against a wall in the chair with his dirty boots propped up on top of the table.

“Can you-” Henry groaned. “For fuck’s sake, I eat there.”

“So, Henry-”

“Stop talking to me.”

“Let’s see if we can’t find the problem, eh?”

“Let’s not.”

Henry ignored Eric as he went to the refrigerator and opened the door, looking at each wire shelf without the slightest clue of what he hoped to find.

“Okay then,” Eric continued. “I talk, you listen. You used to be pretty good at that.”

“I used to be good at a lot of things.”

“You still are.”

Henry closed the refrigerator door.

“Considering what a sassy pants you are to me? That’s debatable.”

Eric clicked his tongue.

“Not my fault, author man.”

Henry then opened the freezer door, saw a bottle of red wine sitting in the ice tray, and removed it. He walked over to the table, set the bottle down hard, and went to the nearest drawer. Henry opened that drawer and three others before finally finding the place where all his utensils landed, then returned to the table with a corkscrew.

“I’m not here because you’re struggling,” Eric resumed. “Henry, I’m here because you’re scared. Just like you’ve been scared for the past year, and I can’t blame you for that. A stroke is not an easy thing to overcome.”

Henry, struggling with the foil wrapping on the wine, laughed dryly.

“Tell me about it,” he remarked. “Actually, don’t.”

“My father died of the same thing-”

“I know, don’t remind me.”

“You never thought it would happen to you.”

“No one ever does, do they?”

“But it’s over now, and you’re better.”

Henry finally wrestled the foil free and crumpled it up into a ball before dropping it onto the table.

“Why does everyone keep telling me that?” he asked. “You don’t get better from a stroke, how can you possibly-?”

“Is that right?” Eric questioned. “You walked down here by yourself, and with a rather impressive speed. You opened the fridge, then the freezer, got the wine out and have opened it with only a slight amount of trouble.”

“I haven’t even popped the cork yet.”

“You’ll get there.”

Henry’s hands spread across the table, the right one lingering on the corkscrew.

“So, I can move pretty well. So what? There’s plenty that I’ve lost.”

“Like what?”

“You were in my mind, smart guy- you tell me.”

Eric snickered.

“So, that’s why I get snappy when I’m upset.”

Henry scoffed.

“You want to talk about my problems?” he asked. “Buddy, let’s take a minute to look at all your baggage you’ve got.”

“My problems are your problems.”

Henry remained quiet; Eric lowered his feet from the table, fixed the chair, and stood up.

“My father was a drunk, and so was yours. My brother died young, and so did yours.”

The author began to nod.

“My wife is dead, but yours-” Eric shrugged. “Would have been less painful that way?”

“Considerably,” Henry replied. “Is that wrong of me to say?”

“You found her skinny dipping with one of her English 101 students.”

“So I’m not entirely unjustified.”

“Not entirely, no.”

Henry stood up and backed away from the table, walking toward the double doors leading out onto a sun-bathed patio.

“But what about this one?” he asked. “You can’t help me with this, Eric. For once, this problem is mine alone.”

Henry turned back to face Eric.

“I’m physically weaker than I used to be, can’t even get the foil off of the wine like I could once. My big memory out of 20 years of marriage? The moment I found my wife with another man. There’s more missing, and more that goes missing every day. Do you know that I went to Wendy’s two days in a row for lunch? I ordered the same thing, probably ate at the same table, and didn’t even realize it until I came home and found the receipt in the trash.”

“And that never happens to anyone else?” Eric asked.

“It never happened to me.”

Eric opened his arms and gestured around the room.

“So?” he asked. “You see it now?”

“Wha-?” Henry looked, thinking Eric actually wanted him to look at something.

Eric’s expression immediately went flat.

“You’ve been telling people that your life isn’t the same as it used to be.”

“Yes, it isn’t.”

“Have you actually listened to yourself when you say that? Your life has changed, but what have you done to change along with it?”

“Wait a-” Henry gasped. “How dare you-...I-...do you really think that?”

“No Henry,” Eric said. “You do.”

Remaining silent, Henry walked past Eric and pulled out a chair. As he sat down, he let out a weak little laugh.

“I keep thinking about how I’m not the man I used to be,” he said. “Never once asked myself about the man I am now.”

“And you know what you need to do to get past it,” Eric concluded. “What you learned to do when your brother died, when your wife filed for divorce-”

“-and what you learned to do when you faced the same problems,” Henry said. “We keep going, despite everything else. In the end, what other choice is there? I-”

Henry felt his eyes water.

“I write about that so much, I can’t believe I forgot it.”

“But you remembered it. Just think of what else will come back if you keep going.”

Henry dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve and sniffled.

“All right then,” he said, voice croaking. “I know what to do now. Thank you-”

Henry looked up at where Eric had stood, and found himself alone in the kitchen. With an understanding nod, Henry stood up and went to a cabinet, returning with a crystal glass. Carefully, he picked up the corkscrew and wedged it into place. The pop came on the third try. With a glass of wine in hand, Henry traversed back upstairs and opened the door to his study. The familiar paper and smoke smell hit his nose as he sat down at the desk.

The yellow pad hadn’t budged.

Henry sat down his glass, picked up one of the black pens, and uncapped it. The author stood paused for a second, uncertainty gripping him, then put the pen to paper and formed a letter. One letter followed after another, until a full sentence was out. This sentence was followed by another sentence. When he’d written them out, Henry stopped and had a chuckle.

One year had passed. Yet, for Eric Thames, it was like no time had passed at all.