Eugenia Graves

Some seek Truth through external means: impressive words, idyllic prophets, omniscient gods. But some turn their seeking inward, delving so deeply that it nearly destroys them. Then, at the abyss, they will find Truth and transcend, enlightened.

-Eugenia Graves

I closed The Ascension with a snap and let out a breath. The last words in the book still hung in my mind, not quite sinking in; the aftershock hadn’t hit me yet. Did I read ramblings of a madwoman or proclamations of a genius? I placed a forefinger and middle finger at each temple, massaging in slow, soothing circles, and closed my eyes. Something within the text disturbed the inner workings of my being, as though the author herself were reaching inside of me and remaking the patterns of my soul. The last paragraph echoed in my mind, inaudible whispers, the words formless yet discernible as though etched into the insides of my eyelids.

The Ascension was the debut novel of an up-and-coming author, Eugenia Graves. She seemingly came out of nowhere and had only published a few short stories and a couple of essays online- no significant notoriety or accolades. But this book… I decided that I liked it, perhaps even loved it. I had just finished writing my first novel and empathized with Eugenia. I understood the sleepless nights spent at the computer, reading and re-reading the words and still finding mistakes, then painstakingly packaging it and making it presentable to the publishers, only to receive rejection after rejection, and finally the ecstasy, the absolute delirium, of it finally getting accepted. I felt irritated that Eugenia Graves’s masterpiece would overshadow my novel. Yet simultaneously, I felt some perverted justice that it would. Though proud of my work, I had enough humility not to compare myself to a genius. Having grown up in Chamden, a place where no one of great renown was bred, I knew my place. 

The rest of the day I spent pondering and reflecting on Eugenia’s book, and nothing could have averted my thoughts from it. I went to bed that night restless and disquieted, and when I did sleep, my dreams were difficult to distinguish from living, and when I woke, I thought myself still dreaming. It was as though Eugenia, like a dark guardian angel, stooped over my bedside and breathed sounds that resembled words into my ear. These utterances settled onto my heart, sending it into feverish palpitations. A sweat broke on my brow, and I tried to answer her, but the words stuck in my throat. By morning, though not well-rested by any means, I possessed a wildness, an unquenchable yearning for which I couldn’t discover the source. I decided to use my passion, this bizarre inspiration, to begin writing my next novel.

I immediately went to my laptop, and my fingers flew over the keyboard. I didn’t let myself think, only type. The words flowed effortlessly as though my fingers had a mind of their own. I worked that way for hours, not stopping for food or drink. I could feel my eyes getting tired, but it didn’t matter; I no longer required them to continue writing. Somehow, I knew how the words needed to fit together, as though their pattern already existed in my mind and my fingers were weaving them into being. The sun had already set when my body became too fatigued to continue. I sat back in my chair and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Something roused me, some unexpected noise or touch, but when I opened my eyes, I only saw the dancing glow of my laptop screensaver. I swiped my fingers across the mousepad to wake it, entered the password, and the words I had written illuminated my face. I began reading the fruits of my fury, translated to nearly thirty pages of black text on digital white paper. The corners of my mouth slowly widened into a smile. Yes… yes! My eyes filled with tears as I realized I had written the beginning of a true masterwork. As I neared the end of my work, the budding of my beauty, my face fell. These words were indeed familiar. My breathing became ragged. I could feel the cold sweat begin at my hairline. I swung my arm wildly to the edge of my desk where I had delicately placed The Ascension. I opened it to the first page, and my eyes quickly scanned it. With a dreadful cry, I fell back in my chair and passed my hand over my eyes. Through the gaps in my fingers and the curtain of tears over my eyes, I glanced at the words again on my laptop screen, Eugenia’s words. I shut my eyes against them and forced myself to get up and walk to my bed. I lay down, eyes wide open in the dark, my pillow wet with tears. 

One week had passed since I first read the pages of that accursed book. Life passed by me nearly unnoticed. I didn’t dare check my emails; I already knew my inbox was exploding. I saw that I had about fifty missed calls and twenty unread text messages within the past few days, but I couldn’t bring myself to care about who was so desperately trying to get ahold of me. My writing was languishing. I hadn’t touched my keyboard since that dreadful night, and the spark I usually felt never came. 

I was sitting on my sofa, staring listlessly at the video on my TV screen, when the ding and vibration of a notification on my phone arrested my attention. My eyes shifted to my phone, and the words “library” and “book signing” appeared on the text notification strip. I slowly reached for my phone and opened the text message. It was from my local library announcing that Eugenia Graves would be hosting a book signing. My heart fluttered in my chest, and my stomach churned. The source of my anxiety was wholly neither joy nor devastation. Here, out of all places? It seemed my fate was somehow tied to Eugenia. My immediate impulse was to go to the book signing, but a small voice at the back of my mind restrained me. Some fear prevented me from wholeheartedly committing to going. I thought, somehow, she knew who I was. Otherwise, why would she choose Chamden, the most unassuming, obscure town, to do a book signing? Did she know how much of an effect she had on me? Was she just toying with me, perhaps challenging me to face her? However, if I did go, I would finally be able to confront her and assert myself as her worthy adversary. I am not one for dramatics, so though I wouldn’t seek to humiliate her in front of the crowd, I would smile at her knowingly, and she would surely know who I was. I worried she would recognize me before I presented myself, so I decided to go in disguise. 

The next day, I drove to the library, where a substantial number of cars were already in the parking lot. Though the book had only come out two weeks before, it seemed it was already garnering much praise, as it should. My breaths were shaky, and my knuckles were white against my steering wheel. I didn’t know what I was afraid of- Eugenia herself, or the destruction of my flawless conception of Eugenia upon meeting her in the flesh. With a deep breath, I gingerly scooped up The Ascension into my arms and stepped out of the car. My sunglasses and baseball cap obscured half of my face, and my bright red lipstick was uncharacteristic of my style. My confidence swelled as I walked nearer the library. An imperceptible smile barely touched my lips.

The atrium of the library was alive with the chatter of a couple dozen people. The table was set up at the far end of the library, and a line was already forming. I looked at the clock above the entrance that read 1:55. The book signing would start in five minutes. I gripped the book tightly in my arms and shrank from the crowd of people.

It was 2:05. Some authors liked to make an entrance by being fashionably late. I could never be the type. Keeping adoring fans waiting seemed almost cruel. The minutes kept ticking by, and soon it was 2:20. The hum of disquiet from the crowd put me on edge. The sudden vibration of my phone in my pocket nearly made me yelp in surprise, but I couldn’t be bothered to check it, especially now. One man standing next to me turned to me genially and tisked.

“Such a shame if she doesn’t show, being a local and all.” 

A local? I didn’t recall that about her. In fact, I couldn’t recall anything I knew about her. My mind was racing, and I could barely comprehend anything the man was saying.

“Hey, are you ok?”

I tried to return his friendly smile and reply, “Oh, just fine.” But the words didn’t come, and the expression on my face felt unnatural. 

The man stared at me, and a flash of recognition, confusion, or repulsion lit his eyes. It seemed he would speak but couldn’t quite find the words. My heart was beating deafeningly in my ears, and my eyes, hidden by the tint of the sunglasses, bored into his face with eager anticipation. We were promptly interrupted by the librarian.

“We are so sorry, friends. Eugenia won’t be coming today. We’ll try to schedule the signing for another day, but in the meantime, please help yourself with the refreshments.”  

My mouth hung ajar. I felt a mix of awe and anguish that she had the audacity not to show up to her own book signing. Perhaps I had given her too much credit, and I felt foolish for having put her on a pedestal, for letting her torment me with her unrelenting presence. I couldn’t even get the satisfaction of seeing her in person, of relieving myself of the burden that Eugenia Graves wasn’t some phantom sent to me to destroy me but was a living, breathing person who didn’t even know who I was. That idea also tormented me. I wanted her to know who I was. I wanted her to see me! I stormed out of the library back to my car without acknowledging the man again, threw the book in the passenger seat, and drove off. I burst into tears, my sorrow and frustration pouring out all at once, while my cell phone continued to vibrate in my pocket.

  That night, I again sat wearily, even more miserably, on my couch. I watched TV without paying attention to what was happening on the screen, The Ascension lying beside me. I was so close, so close to redemption, to closure. Yet, even that Eugenia stole from me. She had already taken away my writing and peace of mind. My longing to meet her, to finally face my adversary and see that she was only a woman, like me, would have relieved me of my agony. For then, at least, I would have known that the one who created the book that haunted my mind was only mortal, an equal.

I sunk back into the couch, watching the changing shapes on the TV screen with bleary eyes, before finally turning off the TV and going to my study. I opened my laptop for the first time in a week. I clicked on the directory where I kept my drafts. Through my delusions, I thought reading my novel might lift the spell with which Eugenia had cursed me. I scrolled through my drafts, some forgotten, some published online somewhere that garnered little renown. My eyes swept over an unassuming file titled “ascension_draft.doc”. I did a double take - my full attention was fixed to this file. I hastily opened it, and a lengthy Word document, nearly 250 pages, glared back at me. I covered my mouth and held back a tortured sob as I scrolled through it, those words taunting me. I clicked back to the directory and looked at the "Date Modified" and found that it was created over two years before. 

Horrified, I flew back to the couch and grabbed the book. I could have tossed it out the window, burned it in my fireplace, or ripped it up and thrown it in the trash. But something supernatural held me back from following through with my impulses. Instead, almost in a trance, I opened the front cover and gazed at the picture on the book jacket. My breath caught for a moment. She was there. Staring at me, smiling knowingly, that sly and haughty look in her eyes. 

“Yes, I know you,” I whispered, and her eyes beamed at me in reply.

I slowly reached for my phone on the coffee table and opened it. I scrolled through my notifications: five missed calls from the library earlier this afternoon. I sighed, and my face relaxed. I could have laughed but only uttered a few words into the darkness.

“Next time, Eugenia, my novel will be better. I promise. Next time, it will be perfect.”