The Nemesis Within

A psychological mystery about how past events can catch up with us!

The Nemesis Within

 

Heart racing, I turned the handle of the bedroom door. Please don’t squeak.  I waited half a minute for any reaction. None.  Holding my breath, I pushed the door open ever so slowly, until I could ease my head inside for a quick look. The room was empty. I entered, and shut the door. I glanced around. The duvet was pulled back on the single bed, the curtains pulled to shut out the dark, but what immediately drew my eyes was the reading light on the old wooden writing bureaux against the wall. A large book lay open on the desk, the light from the table lamp illuminating the open pages.

 

I stepped over to the desk and looked down at the open book. The subject of the photographic image on the left hand page made me gasp out loud. It threw my mind into such a state of confusion that I had to sit in the desk chair before my legs buckled.  At that stage I barely noticed the writing on the other page. I looked again at the picture but my mind refused to make any sense of what I was seeing. The image showed a man sitting at a wooden writing desk examining a large, open book lit by a table lamp. This must be some bizarre coincidence, was the only thought that surfaced. I started to look at the image in the book more carefully. Although I could only see his back, the man sitting at the table, looked about my age and, like me, had short hair and was wearing a dark blue outdoor jacket.

 

Examining the picture in more detail I could see the man’s right hand resting on the table with the jacket sleeve pulled back, showing a wristwatch with an expanding silver bracelet. I found myself glancing at my own right wrist with my watch and silver bracelet. What disturbed me even more was that the watch and strap were identical to mine. I felt like I was beginning to lose my mind by now and then it occurred to me that the whole thing might be one of these hyper-realistic half waking dreams that I have from time to time. However, I dismissed that possibility quickly - this was just too real.

 

I’m being stupid, I told myself. Keep calm; think logically; the impossible is just not possible. There must be some logical explanation. So far, what I had seen was within the bounds of possibility; after all, even the most unlikely coincidences do happen; someone does have to win the lottery. A clincher suddenly occurred to me, but did I really want to check it out? No way, but like a rabbit hypnotised by car headlights I bent down and examined carefully the hairline of the man in the photograph. Oh no, oh no! Just to the left of the centre line was a partly obscured but unmistakeable heart shaped birthmark. Subconsciously I put my hand to my own hairline and fingered the slight roughness of my own birthmark. I suddenly felt lightheaded, like I was tottering on the edge of some other reality.

 

I closed my eyes instinctively to blot the madness out, perhaps hoping my brain would somehow reset to ‘factory settings’. I opened them fearfully - but the photograph was still there. The man in the photo - was it me? - was still there. Suddenly a whole new level of unreality struck me with the finesse of a falling elephant. I couldn’t breathe; my heart felt like it had stopped!  My whole focus so far had been on the man in the photo - now I focussed on the book, that HE (the man in the photo - for f***s sake, even I’m getting confused now!) was looking at. Unbelievably it also showed a man sitting at a desk wearing a dark blue jacket and looking at an open book lit by the table light.  

 

No - oh god! I looked at the man in the illustration. On his right wrist was the watch with the silver bracelet. On the table was the book, with the selfsame picture of the man looking at a book, which itself, had the image of the man looking at the book, which showed the man …..

 

I suddenly had a giddying feeling of déjà vu - a few years ago I had stepped into a café toilet that had large mirrors fitted on all four walls. Rather than the usual claustrophobic cubicle I was blown away by my reflections disappearing off to infinity in all directions. This time however it was no optical illusion but felt like some fundamental fracture in the nature of space and time that I had spent a lifetime getting to know.

 

It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t looked at the page of writing or even examined what other horrors the book held.  I first turned the page to find that there were no other pages. Dumbfounded, I turned it back and steeled myself to read.

 

‘Welcome reader! You are fully aware that the fact that you are reading this is not by chance - you chose to enter the room by subterfuge. By now, you will have examined the photograph carefully and the detail such as the watch and the birthmark will have led you to an inescapable conclusion. Your conclusion is correct but your attempts at explaining this bizarre situation unaided are doomed to failure. Suffice it to say, that the room, and the book with its photograph are a metaphor for an existential threat to your own future. The nature of this danger lies within your consciousness. I might add that our present understanding of the nature of reality as an infinite number of coexisting universes is incomplete. To determine the danger to your future you must tease out the information from the text in the book.’

 

I was even more confused now - metaphor, existential threat, coexisting universes? At least it did confirm my conclusion that the man in the illustration was, in fact, me. I immediately looked at the book and tried to read the book shown in the image. I could just manage to read it; my short range vision is keen! To my amazement there were only a few words.

 

‘Secrets that you would only tell you closest friends.’

 

What on earth did it mean? Of course - it was a message for me! I started to think about the kind of indiscretions and embarrassments that I might disclose to my friends, particularly after a few drinks. That night when I got so drunk I pulled down my trousers and displayed my backside to all and sundry. Several others came to mind!

 

I then tried to look at the text on the book shown within that book. It was far too small too see. Damn! Then I had a good idea - I rummaged around in the desk and found a strong magnifying glass. With the aid of the glass the writing sprang into clarity. Again - only a few words.

 

‘Secrets that you would only keep to yourself.’

 

This worried me. I guess we all have done things we are ashamed of and choose keep to ourselves. They don’t have to be extreme acts such as rape or murder but cases of unkindness, cruelty or omission that we carry with us to our graves. We bury these memories deeply as they are too painful to bring into the light of day. They are like woodworm eating away and destroying the integrity of a wooden heart or a cancer destroying the body from within. I suddenly remembered that disabled boy in my primary class. I remembered when …..  I can’t even write it down. What I did was shameful but perhaps even worse was the nauseating sense of pleasure that I took from it.

 

Against my better judgement I carried on. I focussed on the tiny book shown within the book I had just examined. To my amazement the magnifying glass still allowed me to read the text.

 

‘Secrets that you can’t even reveal to yourself.’

 

My initial reaction was to laugh. How can anyone have secrets that they can’t even reveal to themselves? Then I realised that, of course, we bury the foulest stuff the deepest and somehow manage to forget about it. But they’re still there, like mines buried deeply, waiting only to be triggered.

For some reason I looked back at the tiny writing on the page - there was something I hadn’t noticed.

 

It happened on the night of your seventeenth birthday. You were walking back from the pub through the park and you’d drunk far too much. The moon was full and then the young girl you met smiled and said hello.

 

As I read this I failed to make any connection but the mention of the full moon suddenly triggered my memory and then all the sordid events of that night vomited into my consciousness like a tsunami - the smells of wet grass and my lust, the smell of blood as she bit my hand, the desperate drumming of her heels on the ground as I throttled her young dreams. I stood up with difficulty from the table, took a step back and wept.

 

Meanwhile, behind my back, the door handle turned silently and a man dressed in a dark blue outdoor jacket entered the room and closed the door silently. The intruder paused, pulled the sleeve back on his right wrist and checked the time on his silver watch. As if to confirm his true identity he fingered the raised skin on the heart shaped birthmark on his hairline. He watched the man before him weeping and silently slipped the sharp stiletto dagger from its sheath.

 

At that point I turned and we looked at each other long. The truth struck me then with shocking clarity - my nemesis had always lain within!

‘It’s you then.’

‘Yes, it’s time.’

I held the knife firmly and plunged it deeply through my ribs into my heart.

 

The next morning the hotel maid came to the room to bring new towels. She knocked, and hearing no answer, she opened the door which had been locked on the inside. When she entered, the scene confronting her had a sense of unreality and time seemed suspended as she stood silently taking it all in. The guest lay on his back on the floor in front of the writing table. The table was empty apart from the table lamp, the only source of light. A pool of dark blood puddled on the wooden floor and the guest’s left hand held a dagger impaled deep in his chest. She screamed.

 

Alan W Graham   

Reviews

[bookishmuggle]

Very well written. I loved the metaphors and the way you kept it short and to the point.
Whenever I read your stories there's always a "wow" moment at the end where my brain just kind of explodes XD and I love it.
Just wondering, in the full moon scene, did he kill the girl? Rape her? I wasn't sure.
Nice job Alan :)

[alanwgraham]

Thanks B for looking this up and reading. He raped and killed her. The whole section with the books and question was about him looking in his subconscious which finally led to him taking his own life. I didn't realise it but the theme has a lot in common with the man in the ocean story but with a different outcome.
Cheers,
Alan

[bookishmuggle]

Anytime! That is actually a very interesting observation. I didn't realize it either.

[hi]

i dont know if this was to make more questions then answers but to me this was cool,i like you did this,smart,is this a copy of something you seen before or aidea you had,i just love how it mkaes you think,and i love the plot,even if it is only a short write

[alanwgraham]

Yes, it is all my own work. The story started with a slightly different idea and then when I got so far I got stuck with the complexity of it and then I had the idea for how it has ended up -I think much better! It is meant to be an allegory where most of us have something of which we are deeply ashamed of and we keep hidden deeply (perhaps so deeply that we don't even know it!) At some time there may be some trigger that makes us confront this event. In the story our nemesis is not someone outside, it may be ourself. In the story, the stranger coming into the room, represents himself and what seems like murder is actually suicide!
Thanks for your review,
Alan

[hi]

wow really thought this one out didn't you,good job,i like this one the most that you did so far

[barleygirl]

Very well-crafted & original piece of bizarre macabre writing, my friend! I was taken in from the beginning, with just a wee bit of boredom starting to set in about the 6th paragraph, as you painstakingly describe the similarities between the narrator & the photo (a teensy bit overstated) . . . but then very quickly the story picks up again when you quote the book starting with "Welcome reader . . . " from that point on, the suspense definitely carries the reader along to the end. I was thinking: "WHAT THE F#*&???" after reading the above-mentioned book quote, & then (mirroring the story itself) YOUR storytelling validates (reflects) my own sense of oblique outrageousness . . . after that, the storytelling goes along naturally, building tension, until the memory of the rape scene -- this is very well done, if just a wee bit understated (could be drawn out to a more extreme level to match the horror that rape is). And then the ending is both appropriate & even a little bit welcome to the sensibilities of anyone who wonders how a rapist can live with himself/herself. All in all, nice work, very original, spellbinding, imaginative.

[alanwgraham]

Thanks again for your helpful comments. This story started off as something different but when i started writing I got stuck with the complexity of it and it morphed into something which I think is better. I got some very pertinent comments from Kali which I have taken on board and so this is a slightly revised version. In particular I originally left the crime of the subject only hinted at, with the intention that the reader could imprint his own backstory onto it. I have been quite a bit more explicit now (rape and murder) but I feel that I have gone far enough. My main worry was that readers would think, 'what the f*** is going on here?' so I'm pleased that some of you are at least as mad as I am!
All the best and good writing!
Alan

[Kaliope]

I love the premise and the tension you created. It was such a joy to picture this mystery. Also loved the philosophical/psychological aspects. However, I couldn't help being a bit disappointed at the end. We never learn what the narrator tried to hide from himself. Perhaps I was missing some clue, but it felt as if you didn't know either what happened that night on his 17th birthday, and thus the murder (or rather suicide?) motive remains in the dark.

Style-wise I've got two little nitpicks.
Firstly: exclamation marks. To quote F. Scott Fitzgerald: "An exclamation point is like laughing at your own joke." I wouldn't put it that harshly, but it always feels to me as if a sentence is begging for my attention and the more it does that, the less I feel the emotion it should convey. My advice would be to use them very, very sparingly.
Secondly: adverbs. I'm sure you've heard before that in prose adverbs should be avoided whenever possible. As a writer who's guilty of using too many myself, I've learned to question every single one of them. In your text some could be cut without losing any information. Others could be avoided by using stronger and more specific verbs.

Nevertheless, this was a highly enjoyable read. Atmosphere was great and the idea was brilliant.

Cheers,

Kali

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Kali. I appreciate that you have take the time to read this and in particaular to write such a thoughtful and useful review. I have been aware of the exclamation mark problem for some time but haven't got round to fixing it yet. I will check through my use of adverbs and have a good think about that issue. Also, you have made some very valid points about the plot. This was a completely new direction for me and originally the plot and ending were quite different. In the event, I got so far, got stuck, and then something took over and i ended up with something different. I had already been pondering giving a bit more detail about the detail of incident when he was 17. I wasn't really too sure whether anyone would 'get this' so your comments are particularly welcome.
Thanks again,
Alan