• It was cold that December mourning, as if even my greatest, and only, mother could sense the bitterness that, we all gathered, seemingly bathed within. That even as we lied, dressing in somber tones, daring to act as though were truly saddened. My dear mother, chilled us to bone and soul, chiding us for our lies, even as she guarded the Heavens with grey, denying entry to the man we would deceive even in death. Hiding our smiles behind Harlequin masks, and our spring filled steps restrained by heavy oil shined boots.

    I managed to catch a glimpse of him, if only a glimpse, before I tore my gaze away. Convinced that my unwavering, inscrutable stare would disturb his eternal slumber. Convinced that my eyes were only fit to gaze upon the visage of a mere mortal. That his black soul, seeping from his worldly vessel, was still to pure for my impoverished eyes to even flitter over, more so as that black stain was denied from reaching the clouds that threatened to spew forth rightful penance for its earthly deeds.

    I could not help but hearken him whilst within the same thought, damn him to the deepest pit of hell, one of which even Lucius would dare not trek. That's what this man had been, a creature that one could not help but condone within the same breath that in which they would condemned him. Revered by the greatest of demons, and despised by the simplest of men, one I was convinced was my master.

    I struggled to stay on my feet, resisting my bodies plea to drop to a subservient knee and weep. Not in sadness for the man I did so despise, but in fear. That I, like the servants of great and terrible Pharos, would be buried here beneath his heel, as I had learned was my place in life. My mind screamed in fear as my body shook, the two fighting one another, as if even when that man no longer existed upon this plane that his bony hands still gripped tight upon my soul. So strongly that I felt out of place amongst all of those around me, it was not their lies that my wretched soul felt alien to, but their life.

    That I truly belonged, interred within my great mother, six feet beneath this world of gray, beneath the heel of the man I would dare not look upon. It was then that I realized that a ghost was not a soul that would not leave my dear mother be, but a collection of twisted thoughts and memories that festered within your mind, so strongly and corrosively, that you could not help but shout.

    "Be gone you vexation, you twisted malignant fallacy of mind and memory." I yelled as I tore at my skin, hoping to exfoliate the demon I felt posed with "Be gone from this earth, it wishes to eject you from it." And even as crimson flowed and screams beseeched me to halt, I dared not stop, for he would not be exorcised if I faltered now. "Be gone, from me, Be gone from this earth, Be gone from this morality that you made a fool, Be gone. Be gone. BE GONE."
    .........
    "Mr. Harrison." A voice called long drawn and monotone, yet tinted with a twang of worry. "Mr. Harrison."

    The name seemed familiar to me, as if I had heard it a thousand times, and more so even then, and it was upon the third calling of the name that I realized that It was mine.

    "Yes" I responded, quite hesitant and reserved, confused as to what it was I was doing here.

    "How does it end?" He questioned, his voice now completely droning in that deep baritone.

    "How does what end?" I replied, raising a brow as I stared at the man before me. His hazel eyes, not inviting as I remembered the wood to be, a crooked nose that I felt looked to have been broken and reset one too many times. The thin line above his deftly angled chin tugged down wards at the corner, in a way that I suddenly could not help but superimpose the image of a disinterested Rottweiler upon him. Leaving me with the only choice as to call him Mr. Weiler, for lack of a better name to put to the man's actual face.

    "Do you not remember, Mr. Harrison" He asked, then skeptically added "You wrote it little more than two minutes ago".

    "I have no idea what you're talking about" I admitted, halting only to the sound of crinkled paper, that in my search revealed to be a paper written in a hand barely legible and hardly recognizable to that of my own. I tested, in order to convince myself, repeating a small portion of what I had supposedly written, finding to my great satisfaction that my print presented itself as elegant and restrained as opposed to the scrawled passage before me . "I did not write this." I stated, quite convinced in my assertion of the truth "I could not have written such madness!"

    Mr. Weiler looked rather amused at my statement , even if he tried to hide it behind, inspecting, squinted eyes. "I find that hard to believe seeing as I watched you do it." He then stared at me in such a way that left me most perturbed, in his eyes, I was a frog moments before dissection "Do you even remember where you are...better yet, why you're here"

    I blinked, most bewilderedly, honestly having no idea as to where I was or why, having forgotten my earlier hesitance . I looked around the room, which from what I could remember was my first time. Everything was white in fact, my clothes, that of which I do not recall buying, the table before me, and the walls. It was most blindingly white, the walls of this room, yet I could not help but feel slightly comforted by the flat blank walls, and even safe within the confines of my white jumpsuit. It was all so starchingly white that I felt that it was almost a mockery of the purity of white, as if revealing the truth to all, that white was only pure when it was surrounded by color.

    Only Mr.Weiler was free of the whiteness of this room, that of which I discerned as something good now, clad in a black suit. Idly I wondered if he was expecting to arrive at some party rather than this bleak room, and that he might save me from this foolish room. Absorbing all of the light and lies that this room would rather reflect, that he would salvage my soul from the false white that it drowned within now.

    "No, I do not know where I am" I finally answered, managing to sound completely calm despite myself "Nor do I know why" I was sure that I sounded rather pompous by now, snotty even, a false bravado to hide my fears "perhaps you are willing to provide me with an explanation ."

    Mr. Weiler sighed, it was deep discontented sigh, one of which I was convinced only came from a man who had come to conclusion they would have rather not. He then leaned back in his seat, running a hand through his neatly combed slicked hair, it looked quite like a raven ruffling it's feathers in annoyance . "That's the question Mr. Harrison" he intoned, his dark hazel eyes locking with mine. "We're all just looking for an explanation." . Although it may have sounded like he was only stating a fact of life, that all of a humans existence was spent looking for an explanation, his expectant gaze made me feel as if he was waiting for me to respond with the answer.

    "An explanation as to what" I asked my voice as serious as a grave, the mask of indigence I had before dropped for fear of the answer. "What is it that you want me to tell you."

    "You honestly don't remember anything do you Mr. Harrison." Mr. Weiler ,finally, concluded, causing the man to once again sigh that deep disparaging sigh, that of which had become most irritating to me now. "You don't remember going to the Bakers' farm last Monday." I shook my head, I had never even heard of man who bared the surname of Baker, let alone met or visited their farm. "You don't remember going to the daisy field behind their home." Again I shook my head, I held no love for daisies, I felt that they were a gift you gave to someone ill whom you did not like.

    Mr. Weiler's face became stony, again his lips tugging down, but this time so much that I felt he would suddenly growl at me. So much in fact that I had to refrain from yelling "Down boy", for I knew that it would not help me in the least to be on Mr. Weilre's bad side. "I'll be frank with you Mr. Harrison." Mr. Weiler told me, that growlish frown still upon his face "Last Monday you were found unconscious in the daisy field out behind the Bakers farm." He licked his lips, becoming hesitant for the first time since the beginning of our conversation. "We don't know what you did there, but we do know that lying next to you was the body of Mr. Boltier, and ever since you've awoken have sporadically switched between a persona of insanity and your normal disposition."

    "Am I here to get medical help" I queried, surly they would I was one of the more wealthy business men in our small town of Braden Tennessee, they would need me for the continued economic prosperity of the town.

    "Your here not only because you have been deemed ..." He hesitated again, I did not like that, my mother had told me when I was young to never hesitate when I was speaking, because it told if you were unsure or not. Mr. Weiler continued, unaware of my misgivings, explaining that I was. " Too unstable to live amongst the population" and most shockingly "you've been charged with the murder of Mr. Boltier."

    "Preposterous" I yelled jumping to my feet, only to find them chained to my chair, throwing me back into the white metal chair. "I would do no such thing."

    "And that's why I'm here Mr. Harrison, to try and ascertain the truth" Mr. Weiler replied, sounding rather indignant "But every time I ask you, you say you need to write it down and go stark raving mad." He reached within the worn brown leather suitcase beside him, retrieving a stack of crinkled papers, which he threw before me. "That is the product of asking you every day since Mr. Boltier's death"

    I riffled through the stack before me, It was all insanity it was, rambling on about death, hatred, sadness, murder, life, love, birth, rebirth, scribbled in a degenerating hand so that I felt I was reading the letters of Jack the ripper. I then suddenly felt that I was a mouse before such a mountain of evidence, that of which's shadow ensnared mine so that I would never escape it.

    It was there most profound, I was slave to the literary madness, that of which I could only express my memories from.

    Did the wonders of literature really come at such a price?

    would I be forever in limbo between them?

    My past, that which pained me to the point of madness?

    And my present, which held a clarity of mind that blinded me from truth?

    I did not have an answer to any of the questions that plagued me, for my mind began to grow dark, my conscious retreating , making room for the insanity that now took residence there.
    And I began anew, A new piece, A new work, For my work was never done, and I would not rest until it was.