VII.

He has a terrible stutter and I have no idea where he came from or how long he’s been there. We talked on the steps of Wish House, the orphanage southeast of the lake but I could’ve sworn it was destroyed a while ago, in a fire maybe?, I don’t remember, years ago probably. I remember reading an article about it—well, a few, thinking back on it: they never had anything good to say about it: abusing children, corrupt administrators—I heard that one of them was killed or arrested, something. That was a few years back too. It had something to do with drug-trafficking, something like that. Maybe he did die. Whatever. He was a member of Ashfield’s City Council, after he re-opened the orphanage—under false pretenses evidently. Not such a good guy after all. Had it coming. Maybe I’ve kept one of those newspapers round here—there are a few random ones I’ve left here over the years; ones I’ve had photographs published in; I’ll look later.

That guy in there, wherever “there” is, Jasper . . . he’s a weirdo. He hasn’t told me how he managed his way “there,” but I guess I didn’t ask either. The first thing he started mumbling about was this giant rock outside the building, the “Mother Stone” he called it. It had something to do with the natives’ ceremonies and talking to their deceased ancestors—that sort of nonsense. At this point I could care less. I want to be outside—of my apartment, the city, the state. Anywhere!

*EXCURSUS (ON THE SIDE OF THE PAGE): Thinking about it: that “place” is as far away from my room as can be. It’s a reality entirely disjointed from here—there’s no cohesiveness; no coherent structure. I guess if I want to be as far away as possible I’d better go back. . . .

He told me about some “nosy guy,” some investigator, that he’d spoken with before. I don’t distinctly remember what he said about the guy, if anything, and I’m not all that interested right now: The less I know, the better off I am. Right now, at least. There’s no shame in being ignorant when the truth is so elusive. Shy away. Is that a problem? What’s happening now, this burden, so ineluctable I don’t know if I’ll ever want to understand. Traversing holes between what appears to be a nightmare, what I’m afraid to acknowledge as even being real . . . why, it’s laughable to even see it on paper. I’m laughing right now.

Really.

And then I look up from this notebook, all around my room, and see the reminders of that “place”—I can still hear, occasionally, what must be children crying from that hole. I don’t want to go back. I can’t go back. I refuse to go back.

I’m back.

[CLICK]