My Little Blue Book
Author's note: This is the first 3 Chapters, and the beginning of the fourth.
Chapter 3I woke up as the sun rose and sent rays of light across my face. I looked around the room I was in, not recognizing a thing. I was connected to several different machines that were beeping and whirring. I had no idea why I was here. I felt uneasy; I was in some sort of hospital or hospice center and I couldn’t remember anything. I disconnected all the wires, but I didn’t remember learning how to do that. I opened the door and went outside. I heard a thump behind me and saw a little blue journal on the floor. I ignored it and hurried outside. I was cold but I ignored the piercing feeling, and hurried toward the ledge to look over. I was on a cliff overlooking miles and miles of a forest that seemed to be entirely composed of giant evergreens. They seemed menacing and storm clouds were building up on the horizon. The panic was setting in, and I started to pace. The clouds covered the sun, and I could hear thunder in the distance. I was wearing a pale grey jacket over a pair of sweats which wasn’t the usual hospital getup. So I was in hospice. I was dying, and they wanted to make sure I was comfortable for the last few months. I had no idea how much time I had left. I didn’t know what my name was or anything about myself. I couldn’t tell you if I hated the rain or if I was allergic to peanuts. I knew I was afraid of dying, and I felt like it was coming fast. It started to sprinkle lightly, but I couldn’t find the strength to move. I was dying and the doctors couldn’t change it. If they could, wouldn’t I be in a hospital? I could hear footsteps and someone yelling about getting everyone inside. I wanted to move, but I felt like I was frozen in place. The rain dropped off the tree branches above me and splattered onto my head. The rain was cold, so I reached for my hood so my head wouldn’t freeze. I didn’t have hair. I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know who I was. Tears and rain mixed on my cheeks, and I started to shiver. I finally managed to convince myself to move and got up and stumbled into my room so I could curl up on my bed.
I saw the little book on the floor and started to ignore it but leaving it on the floor seemed cruel, like I was blaming it for not knowing anything about myself. It was light blue, and the pages were well turned and covered in black ink. I shut the glass door and tossed the book onto the nightstand, flinching a little when it landed. Even with everything going on, mistreating a book like that felt wrong. I fell onto my bed, hopelessness was exhausting. I assumed I had amnesia from whatever had landed me in hospice. The book was lying on the light, oak surface of the nightstand. I had absolutely nothing to do so I picked it up and flipped through the pages.
It was handwritten, and at least two people had contributed to it. The handwriting was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I read the first page and put it down with shaking hands. I had known this was coming. I had known I would freak out so I wrote down everything I thought I should know about myself. I had read the first note I had written and I laughed at myself. I could tell I felt weird writing a note to myself. It made since, I’m sure I had felt crazy when I first started.