As the whispers of speculation traveled around the campus, I looked around with pure joy and elation, knowing I pulled it off. Complete and utter success that I can only contribute to weeks of planning that were realized through many sleepless nights of diligent preparation. The day arrived and I executed every detail without error. Genius. Masterful. Perfection. All were self endowed titles which I took no shame in claiming.
"Wait a second," I said softly to myself, "what have we here?" There was a folded note protruding from the vent holes of my locker. I cautiously took the note from where it was placed, and notice something curious. The note was folded with the precision of a brain surgeon operating on his own mother. The note bore a tiny inscription meant to tease the reader into revealing the contents:
"Guess Who Saw Everything?"
It was the craftsmanship, not the content, of the note that captivated my undivided attention to every detail it presented. It was clearly written by hand, but it was so perfect that I almost believed it was typed. My heart felt like a parade balloon stuck in a hurricane. How much did they really know? How did they know it was me? Who is the mysterious author of the note? Either way, the location of the body will die with me. I took extra precautions to ensure that information remained a secret. So what now? Do I open it up and quell my curiosity? Or do I put it back and pretend I never saw it? I can just deny any knowledge of it being there. Yes! Denial, that's the one. I carefully replaced the note to its original home in the vent slot of my locker door. As I walked to my next class, I began manufacturing plausible deniability. Lying got me into all of this so now it can..
"RING!!! RING!!! RING!!!"
Emitting the heart attack inducing ring was the cell phone in my shirt pocket. After ensuring my heart wasn't about to explode, I removed the phone from my shirt, and promptly answered with the calmest greeting I could muster without sounding like a freaked out murderer.
"Hello?" I said quietly as I dug at the 3 day old blood underneath my fingernails.
"Christopher? I know its you, don't hang up.." said the male voice on the other end.
Shocked at both the strange familiarity of the voice and the knowledge of my name, I listened intently.
"Read the note Christopher. Read it. Its for your own good." said the man.
"Who is this!?" I quickly asked, but my answer came in the form of a dial tone.
Who the hell was that? Should I have recognized the voice? Regardless, they know a lot more than anyone should, and they are definitely toying with me.
At my earliest opportunity, I recovered the note from my locker, and carefully studied the words on the front as my mind raced to figure everything out. Should I even read the note? What if this is all just a trap? Then a thought occurred to me. This is my only loose end and they are wanting to contact me. I shouldn't be scared; I should be preparing to tie it up. I'll read the note and play along until they arrange a meeting, at which time I will pull off another perfect murder. With my new found enthusiasm, I took special care to unwrap the note with the utmost diligence, as though there were a clue to be found in the way it was folded. The script on the inside was just at meticulously written as the introduction elegantly inked on the outside. The note simply read:
"Christopher, you need to call this number now if you have hopes of keeping your name clear. (975) 627 - 9510"
Immediately, I whipped out my phone and began to dial. My mind was racing as it tried to map out every possible conversation that could be had with this stranger. What does he want from me? Is he simply trying to help me? One more summoning of courage and an exasperated breath later, I pressed call. After what felt like an hour of waiting, the first ring was heard. followed then by the second. Then the third, fourth, fifth, and six. The seventh ring was followed by a slight glimmer of hope. There may not be an answer, and this is all just one elaborate ruse. Then, after the tenth ring, there was an answer.
"Christopher, listen to me very carefully," familiarity in the voice began to grow.
"What you are hearing now is a very important recording that bears dire consequences for your future." said the man in a soft, reassuring tone.
"A recording of what, I'm sure you're wondering." he said, obviously anticipating the entire conversation.
"I recorded this for you to explain exactly whats going on. If you haven't noticed, there are some very strange things happening."
He was right, but how did he know?
"If you haven't figured it out by now, you and I are the same physical person. After the murder, we snapped. The guilt from murdering an innocent person ate so hard at our conscience that our brain tried to subconsciously recreate that person in hopes that in some way it would undo the terrible act of killing an innocent. To you, the murder may seem like it happened just a few days ago, but in reality, it took place nearly three months ago today. I have been in control for the most part, but your harmful tenancies became too strong. The guilt and anger would cause me to black out and release you from the depths of our consciences to carry out heinous crimes against our family. The dried blood under our fingernails belong to our mother and father, both of which you dispatched of in a gruesome fashion. You must destroy the mental barricades I created so that we can become one again. I have relinquished all control of our brain so that you may think rationally. Please do not waste this opportunity. Open the locker and grab the silver pen on the top shelf. First, I want you to lean back into the locker, and then click the pen twice. Once you do that, a gas will be emitted, making you feel very dizzy. You will then slip into a lucid unconscious state where we will finally meet, and be able to start tearing down the barriers. Good luck."
With that, the recording was over. I was dumb founded. Could this be real? It makes sense. And It was my voice. I turned to my locker and gave the latch a tug, unveiling the contents. Just like he said, there was a silver pen on the top shelf. I held it with my right hand, and leaned back into my locker. Here, I hesitated. Am I ready to meet the subconscious me? How are we supposed to fix this when it all seems pretty messed up? The only thing I know for sure is that the other me seems to have a good handle on things. The only thing left to do is trust him to explain when we finally meet. I closed my eyes, and gave the pen its first click. I took a deep breath and clicked in the pen a second time, but did not release it. At that moment, from inside the locker I heard what sounded like a panel sliding. I turned to see a sophisticated mechanism that was connected to the pen. A wire from the end of the pen sent a signal to a leaver that activated a trap door in the back of my locker that revealing a handgun set to go off at the end of the second click. I spent the longest split second of my life trying to make my thumb reverse directions and not finish that click, but it was too late. BANG! In an instant, both consciences were reunited and released into the universe.
When Christopher's body was removed from campus, a letter was found next to the gun. The letter stated that he had been struggling with multiple personality disorder for the better part of his life. The only way he felt to stop the killer side was to get rid of both of them. I hope Christopher's story will serve as a reminder to reach out to others in time of need. His problem was not the lack of mental capacity to maintain two full consciences, but more rather his lack of communication to the loved ones around him when he realized his efforts were futile.
(Based on this Story Jam)
Fruit from this Jam:
THIS IS IT FOLKS by Rhoda Taylor
Night Of Passion by lisarey1990
Pot Luck by Alison Young
A Cautionary Tail by Vaulte Kamish
Grenade Fishing in the Andaman by Jeff Burns
Guilt by Abby Buttery
Liberté by Payton Huey
The Perfect Lie by Kevin Cagle