Post by abraxes on Apr 21, 2024 4:05:17 GMT
Dr. Hawthorne sat in his study, listening to the sounds of his wife and child as they cleaned up from dinner. Their laughter brought a smile to his face. His hand idly moved the snifter, swirling the brandy inside to mix with the air as it warmed from the heat of his hand.
It was little moments like this that he cherished. The joyful sounds of his family in the other room. The warmth in his stomach from the dinner he had cooked for them. The aroma and taste of the liquor. It truly was a fine way to end a day.
He lifted the glass to take a sip from it when the vibrating of his phone broke the peaceful moment. It was strange for anyone to call his phone this late. He spent a great deal of time and energy at work, and everyone knew that he preferred to be left alone so he could spend time with his family. That meant trouble.
He reached out and picked up his phone and checked the caller ID and let out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t from anyone at work. But then a chill ran through him. The number was from a colleague at the university. The one he had sent Michael’s journal too. He answered the call.
“It’s late, Jim.”
“I’m sorry John, but I thought you would want to know this.”
“Well, alright. What did you find out?”
“It’s written in Summerian. A really old version of it. I had a research student who happened to glance at it on my desk and identify it. Did your patient know Summerian?”
“I didn’t know that anyone did. I would have to recheck his records but I doubt it. He was not an academic.”
“That’s very strange. This is some high level stuff John. I have a colleague at the University of Chicago that is willing to take a look at translating it. He’s actually pretty eager from some of the images I sent over. Would it be alright if I sent the journal to him?”
John Hawthorne removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes with a sigh.
“I’ll need to reach out to his family, and then send him the forms to sign for it. It could contain medical information.”
“Of course, of course. Let me know.”
“This could have waited until tomorrow, Jim.”
Silence stretched out for a long moment, causing John Hawthorne to shift in his chair.
“The names of your wife and kid are in the journal John. I know you talked a lot about avoiding discussing too much of your personal life with your patients. It struck me as odd that they were in there.”
His glasses slipped from his hands to clatter on the hardwood floor. He wouldn’t have told Michael the names of his family. But surely he must have? There was no other way he could have known. What purpose could he have had in writing about them?
“I see. Thank you Jim.”
“Of course John. Don’t mention it. You take care now? I’ll let you go.”
The call disconnected and John stared at his phone for a moment before he set it to the side. He reached down and retrieved his glasses from the floor and inspected them for a moment before he slipped them onto his face. A lapse in discipline, that’s all. He probably did it after Michael discovered his wife had left him to bond with the man. Mistakes happened.
But he could not dismiss the yellow eyes burning into his soul from the picture that Michael had clutched in his hand when he died.
~_~
The grinning mask looms out of the darkness as his teeth clack menacingly together.
“Little Billie. It has been so long since I played with you. I had once almost chosen you for my acolyte. But you were determined to be too weak. Too hollow. All that you care for is to prove yourself against the false measurement of your lineage. As if those who came before could lend their greatness to you? It is a sickness that plagues this world. The belief that simply because you share the blood of greatness that you, yourself are great. It is a lie that has been told. Propped up by nepotism.”
He titters to himself, yellow eyes burning furiously in his face.
“Blood is simply the liquid that flows through your veins. It gives you the color of your eyes, the shape of your face. It does not provide talent or skill. Those who are great that have descended from greatness may thank the teaching of their forebears, the resources they have gathered for them. That is the end upon which blood makes you. It is as I intended.”
He rubs a hand across his face, teeth clacking together.
“Each must stand alone. Blood does not carry memory. It does not carry skill. Each is capable of greatness based upon their own will, their own desire. I did not wish my children to fall into the fields and mountains of their progenitors. Greatness may sire a sluggard. The bereft may sire a saint. All are laid bare and equal unto my own eyes.”
He sighs deeply, almost longingly as his head tilts to one side. His teeth click together a few times.
“But this has been forgotten. The teachings that I have laid down have been mislaid. The scales cover your eyes and the false prophets lead you from my path. That is why I return. To show you the way. You need only take my hand.”
His head rights itself as his teeth click together again.
“Take my hand Billie. Let me show you my truth. Join with me in the bosom of my love. You will learn regardless. There will be pain regardless. But let it be of your own volition and take your seat among my chosen few.”
He titters, the sound echoing in the dark room that he exists in. The sound bouncing from one side to the other, forward and backwards, until the feed mercifully, finally, cuts.
It was little moments like this that he cherished. The joyful sounds of his family in the other room. The warmth in his stomach from the dinner he had cooked for them. The aroma and taste of the liquor. It truly was a fine way to end a day.
He lifted the glass to take a sip from it when the vibrating of his phone broke the peaceful moment. It was strange for anyone to call his phone this late. He spent a great deal of time and energy at work, and everyone knew that he preferred to be left alone so he could spend time with his family. That meant trouble.
He reached out and picked up his phone and checked the caller ID and let out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t from anyone at work. But then a chill ran through him. The number was from a colleague at the university. The one he had sent Michael’s journal too. He answered the call.
“It’s late, Jim.”
“I’m sorry John, but I thought you would want to know this.”
“Well, alright. What did you find out?”
“It’s written in Summerian. A really old version of it. I had a research student who happened to glance at it on my desk and identify it. Did your patient know Summerian?”
“I didn’t know that anyone did. I would have to recheck his records but I doubt it. He was not an academic.”
“That’s very strange. This is some high level stuff John. I have a colleague at the University of Chicago that is willing to take a look at translating it. He’s actually pretty eager from some of the images I sent over. Would it be alright if I sent the journal to him?”
John Hawthorne removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes with a sigh.
“I’ll need to reach out to his family, and then send him the forms to sign for it. It could contain medical information.”
“Of course, of course. Let me know.”
“This could have waited until tomorrow, Jim.”
Silence stretched out for a long moment, causing John Hawthorne to shift in his chair.
“The names of your wife and kid are in the journal John. I know you talked a lot about avoiding discussing too much of your personal life with your patients. It struck me as odd that they were in there.”
His glasses slipped from his hands to clatter on the hardwood floor. He wouldn’t have told Michael the names of his family. But surely he must have? There was no other way he could have known. What purpose could he have had in writing about them?
“I see. Thank you Jim.”
“Of course John. Don’t mention it. You take care now? I’ll let you go.”
The call disconnected and John stared at his phone for a moment before he set it to the side. He reached down and retrieved his glasses from the floor and inspected them for a moment before he slipped them onto his face. A lapse in discipline, that’s all. He probably did it after Michael discovered his wife had left him to bond with the man. Mistakes happened.
But he could not dismiss the yellow eyes burning into his soul from the picture that Michael had clutched in his hand when he died.
~_~
The grinning mask looms out of the darkness as his teeth clack menacingly together.
“Little Billie. It has been so long since I played with you. I had once almost chosen you for my acolyte. But you were determined to be too weak. Too hollow. All that you care for is to prove yourself against the false measurement of your lineage. As if those who came before could lend their greatness to you? It is a sickness that plagues this world. The belief that simply because you share the blood of greatness that you, yourself are great. It is a lie that has been told. Propped up by nepotism.”
He titters to himself, yellow eyes burning furiously in his face.
“Blood is simply the liquid that flows through your veins. It gives you the color of your eyes, the shape of your face. It does not provide talent or skill. Those who are great that have descended from greatness may thank the teaching of their forebears, the resources they have gathered for them. That is the end upon which blood makes you. It is as I intended.”
He rubs a hand across his face, teeth clacking together.
“Each must stand alone. Blood does not carry memory. It does not carry skill. Each is capable of greatness based upon their own will, their own desire. I did not wish my children to fall into the fields and mountains of their progenitors. Greatness may sire a sluggard. The bereft may sire a saint. All are laid bare and equal unto my own eyes.”
He sighs deeply, almost longingly as his head tilts to one side. His teeth click together a few times.
“But this has been forgotten. The teachings that I have laid down have been mislaid. The scales cover your eyes and the false prophets lead you from my path. That is why I return. To show you the way. You need only take my hand.”
His head rights itself as his teeth click together again.
“Take my hand Billie. Let me show you my truth. Join with me in the bosom of my love. You will learn regardless. There will be pain regardless. But let it be of your own volition and take your seat among my chosen few.”
He titters, the sound echoing in the dark room that he exists in. The sound bouncing from one side to the other, forward and backwards, until the feed mercifully, finally, cuts.
Well howdy there pardner.