Chapter Five: When The Pages Unfold Like An Echo
754 Words
One month into recovery, and it feels like time is crawling.
I can’t stop reading this book. I’ve read it over and over.
And the weird part?
I don’t once mention my name.
It’s all Isaiah’s name.
I wrote a book about Isaiah.
Then why… Why did I put my name on the cover?
Why did I write a book at all?
What was my coma even about, really?
These questions have been running through my head for the last month.
Every single day.
For example, in the first paragraph, I read someone’s name.
Amber.
Amber? I think to myself.
Why does that name sound so familiar in my head?
It feels like I know her… but I don’t know from where.
“Isaiah?”
“Yes, Dad?”
“Who’s Amber?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Because in this book,” I say, holding it up, “your doctor is named Dr. Amber.”
He looks at me strangely.
“And it says,” I continue, “‘that you like her.’”
A knock sounds at the door.
“Knock, knock,” a woman says softly. “My name is Dr. Amber. How are you, Mr. James?”
I freeze.
I stare at her face.
I just read about this woman, I think.
So why does she look so familiar?
“I’m doing great,” I responded. “Thanks for asking.”
“Absolutely,” she says with a polite smile. “So, Mr. James, I’m going to go over what the next six months look like for you.”
She pulls a chart closer.
“Let’s start here. As you can see, every single week—three times a week—you’ll be doing physical therapy for the next six months.”
She points again.
“Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.”
I nod.
“For the first three months,” she continues, “you’ll be on a soft diet.”
Another page.
“We’ll also be doing brain scans for the first four months. Twice a week. We’ll be monitoring your brain activity closely.”
She doesn’t look up when she says the next part.
“We’ll be putting you on medication that you’ll need to take for a year.”
She finally meets my eyes.
“Do you have any questions, Mr. James?”
“Yes,” I say suddenly. “Actually… I have one. Do I know you from somewhere? I feel like I know you.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
“No, sir,” she says calmly. “You don’t. You’re likely going to feel delusional for a while. You just woke up from a coma.”
That word lands heavier than she means it to.
She gives a polite nod. “Well, Mr. James, it was nice meeting you. Have a good day.”
She steps out.
Isaiah exhales the second the door closes. “Dad… that book was right. She is hot.”
“You’re seventeen,” I say flatly. “Shut up.”
He grins. “In your dreams.”
“In your dreams, my son. In your dreams.”
“Hey—that’s not funny, Dad,” Isaiah said, laughing but annoyed. “What else does the first paragraph say?”
I responded back. I don't know, I'm not reading anymore right now.
Isaiah then asked how chapters? I then responded that there are 24 chapters.
He then frowned 24? Yeah 24. Despite all this and myself, my thumb scrolled.
Chapter One.
Chapter Two.
Chapter Three.
I kept going.
By the time I got Chapter Twelve, my breath had gone shallow.No words.No titles.Just blank pages.
The screen glitched on the TV for a second, then refreshed.
The very last page of the book said something very disturbing.The next twelve chapters are still to be written through your actions.
I felt cold.You are building the rest of the book, Mr. James.
The words weren’t typed.They were written. In blood hand writing is uneven. It looked like dried ink.
The font twisted slightly, the letters warped and stretched, as if they were alive… or had been written by something that knew me.
I locked the book closed with the lock that was already on it. And I chucked it across the room.
Isaiah stared at me.
I stared at the wall.
Neither of us said it out loud.
But we both understood the same thing.
The book wasn’t predicting the future anymore.It was writing it for us right in front of us.
- Writer
