The Lost Chapter
Once upon a time, there was an author. This man, whom never published a book under his or any name, was a wandering soul with nothing to call his own. He wrote many books, all of which are popular, and yet no one even knows he existed. This is, however, the way he wanted it. He wanted people to be happy, for the sake of being happy. He didn’t care for praise, so he published anonymously. His last work before he died was a book simply titled “What a Life.” It was like a journal, although he didn’t treat it as such. He entered each word carefully with all the loving attention he gave to any one of his books. This book wasn’t very well known or very popular, because he led such a lonely life, but one day there was a bundle of pages found in an old house where the man used to live. These pages, which were written (we suspect) the days leading to his death, follow:
Love, In the End
My beloved audience. I have never been a selfish man. Every single word I have ever written has been for you. In these weary times it seems that mine is running out, so I leave you with this. Even though I have as yet never truly experienced love, I can at least try to show that I am capable, before the curtains close on my life. There was once a woman whom I knew, long before I began writing these stories. She was the kindest person I’d ever met. Perhaps that is the reason I fell in what I assumed to be love with her. I became friends with her, and we always enjoyed each other’s company. We were however only friends, and I never proclaimed my love to her, for when we became good friends, she introduced me to her husband. He was a gentle man, and once I got to know him, I came to know that he would not hurt her, so I said nothing of my true feelings. As the years passed, my feelings only grew more intense, so much so that it felt my heart would burst at the mere sight of her. One day, her husband left to help the war effort. She was shocked and dismayed that he would leave, but she understood his feelings, so she let him go. Months passed with her husband off at war, and just as it seemed she would no longer bear it, a man in uniform came up her steps. It was on this very day that I was on the way to her to confess my feelings, because I too could no longer bear it. When I got to her, she was in her house, with the door unlocked. I found her in a heap on the living room floor. I was shocked and ran to her. She looked up at me with tears in her eyes. “They killed him.” She sobbed. I understood immediately of course, and I also understood the significance of the bloody knife sitting on the floor next to her. “I can’t live without…” She gasped, and collapsed onto my lap. I called 911 and they took her away, but it was too late. I was distraught, completely lost. Several years had passed since then, and I had never forgotten her, then one day, her husband knocked on my door. He told me a tale of intrigue during the war, where he had been held prisoner and was thought dead, how he’d escaped and saved his men, but he wasn’t able to save his love. His words brought tears to my eyes, to my heart, also. We sat together sipping tea and remembering, mourning the loss of our mutual love. I had never understood before how much pain I could have been in if I had actually confessed, if she had said she loved me too, the pain of losing her would have been ten times more unbearable, but it still hurt terribly. I didn’t understand how this man sitting with me could survive, but he told me life goes on, and there is nothing to be done about it. He said this with tears in his eyes, but I understood. Life passed by slowly since then, and I began publishing anonymous works, becoming wealthy enough to live like a hermit, and without having to work in public, and it is here, with these final words, that I will die, having lived a fairly long and at least partially happy life. Good bye, my beloved audience, you will be missed.
Copyright 2009 Dave Stinson
