Moments

Each of us is bound by memories, some exhilarating, some traumatic. I would say that a string of memorable moments goes into making a memory. We bask in some memories and spurn some as need be; we smile, we cry, as these memories get tossed randomly within the contours of our brain.

Such few past recurrences flashed my mind, as I stretched myself on the golden sprawling sands. The cool, refreshing breeze that emanated from the dancing sea waters invigorated me; I closed my eyes trapped in some spine-chilling memories.

Rolling back in time, my mind stopped at that crucial moment when I was debating between life and death. Things had become bad between me and Jenny, my wife. I could hear Jenny, complaining about bills that had to be paid. “Eddie, do something; why don’t you get another job. I can’t do this alone anymore. Get off that wretched typewriter and do something productive.” I saw her pouring every bit of her frustration upon the fragile crockery, sending them flying into the thin air. My day started off with an air of animosity between us and ended on a similar note. Jenny was frustrated with me, and I was of the family. I needed a break, yet how? That was a big question.

I honestly don’t blame Jenny. I have been rather hard on her. She has incredibly managed the family as a single mum, with two tiny toddlers until this day. I was nowhere in the picture. House, work, purchases, Jenny did it all, with no help from me. Morally, financially I never supported her; I was self-centred, selfish, and harsh on her.

It was high time to get out of my messy life. All my best stories had been rejected. “Am I that bad?” I would often ask myself. A decade had gone by with no stroke of luck. I feared, my fervour to become a renowned writer, would remain a dream forever. I knew a good story required solidity in all areas. An attractive style, engaging plots, gripping characters, well-chosen settings, all, was right there in my work. Sadly, it never got an audience. I decided to try my luck for the last time. I was ready to say goodbye forever to my writing instincts if my story failed again.

Deciding thus, I sat at the window, with a stack of papers beside me. It was a crazy day. Rain and hail pattered the windowpanes with a deafening sound. I stared blankly, as dense clouds hid the thrusting rays of the sun. Thoughts flew in and out of my mind like bees from a beehive. 

 Jenny’s continuous nagging drove me crazy. It made my focus wavy. After an hour, the downpour stopped. My restless mind needed a serene place, like a pond with no ripples. It was 10 a.m. Shoving my typewriter into a leather backpack and a few sheets, I set off. A couple of km’s. away from my place was a beach, my secret refuge. I loved the place. Boarding a bus, I reached there in an hour’s time. The sparkling soft sands, the curvy ocean bay and the rising and ebbing sea tides would rejuvenate the spirit of a dwindling corpse. So why not me? 

Settling myself on a high rock, away from the hustling crowd. I sat pondering, the plot, the characters, and all related stuff. 

There are some of those pivotal moments where life simply unravels itself, throwing you on an unknown path. I was no exception to this. Captured in deep thought, I was suddenly seized by freezing chillness as if I was in an icebox. My body stiffened, my knuckles turned white like chalk and my teeth, clattering, biting hard into the other. I experienced a kind of numbness on my left side; I could hardly move. For a couple of moments, I felt dizzy and weak; was it a stroke? Unable to decipher anything, I tried to lay still with my eyes closed. 

Sometime later, what seemed like aeons, I slowly opened my eyes. I shook my left arm, my left leg; I could do so. I was at a loss to explain what happened a few moments ago; but the good news was I felt fresh and vibrant, a totally different person. 

I decided to leave the beach immediately. Perhaps the happening carried a God sent message. Was it trying to tell that a tragedy awaited me?

I headed home straight. Jenny was not home. Nearing my worktable, I noticed a white sealed envelope on my table. My name “Edward Bordon” boldly written upon it. With a small penknife, I ripped it open. It was a request from one of my favourite web directors, Harry Trough for a crime story. The parameters were given. He wanted it in the next three days; that was absurd, I felt! A cheque of $5000/- was enclosed along with it. Shocked, I stared at it. That was my first big earning to date!

First time, an advance was paid without a preview of my story. I couldn’t digest it. This was no time to contemplate and reflect. Hastily, I grabbed a tin of baked beans, emptied it into a bowl and devoured it in seconds. 

I got to work; as I typed, ideas flashed like lightning. Thoughts fell in line effortlessly. In no time, I had fixed the plot, the settings and the script was ready. It was one of my best works. The style adopted was unique; my new approach surprised me. I felt proud for having produced an absorbing piece of work at such short notice. Jenny complimented and hugged me passionately; the five-thousand-dollar cheque must be doing wonders; I winked. 

The next day was a big day for me. I had to meet Mr.Trough with my write up. What awaited, I did not know. I was kind of nervous too. As I entered his office, the ambience, stunned me. Big oak wood sofas, ornate tables that had brass floral tops was eye-catching. Soon I was ushered into a cabin by a girl with short bronze hair and red pouted lips. A bulky man, with a French beard, sat at the desk. Looking at me, “Welcome Mr. Edward, I am Harry Trough.” 

“Good morning, Mr Trough.”  After an initial exchange of formal greetings, I pulled out a stack of typed sheets from my bag and waited. I cleared my throat, as he signalled me to read. Turning page after page, I kept glancing now and then at Mr. Eagles. His blank look distracted me. After an hour, I concluded my story with a deep breath. I saw him absorbed in deep thought. I waited limply, hoping he wouldn’t throw me out! 

The next moment Mr.Trough was shaking my hand vigorously; he was overwhelmed. He appreciated me intensely and said that that he had never heard a catchier thriller. Pulling out a cheque book, he filled an exorbitant amount of  $1,00,000/-. 

News spread around; soon I had a beeline of publishers, directors and filmmakers toeing my residence. In a couple of months, I became the most renowned and sought-after writer. I wrote on different genres, but my crime stories became most popular. My audience loved my style; they said, it had magic!

My wife told me several times, “Eddie, what’s wrong with you? I find you a totally changed person at times. Your speech, your behaviour, all becomes different. I feel I am speaking to an entirely new person. I think you need medical aid.”  

I felt strange too. I felt I was a victim of dissociative identity disorder. I felt I was not writing my stories but someone else did; as if an unknown element was holding my hand and making me write.  My mind would get gripped, inducing me into a new style. Everything around would get clouded and it’s just me and my writing. I have never felt that before; I was not my own self.

Anyway, dwelling on such thoughts seemed irrelevant; what mattered now was just fame and money. I now had a big mansion, big car, big people around me and a fat bank balance, all that one wished for. I chose to live in the moment completely. 

One summer morning, I sat in my private garden, sipping my favourite black coffee. The chirping of the birds and the lazy breeze blowing softly was a perfect blend to birth another enthralling story. Suddenly, I felt overpowered by the same alien feeling. I felt different and not myself. I felt an intense urge to write; I thought my head would explode if I don’t let go of my flooding thoughts. Grabbing a sheet of paper, I penned my erupting thoughts.

 All was happening in the blink of an eye. Even before I could construe my thoughts was there on the paper. The story ran into pages. A peek into the synopsis below shall provide you with an idea of my newly originated story

The story centres around a business magnet, Michael Hopkins who lived in 1950’s and died in the 80’s. A successful flourishing entrepreneur those days, who believed that success lies in evolution. His success thrived on change and criticism. He firmly believed that ‘change’ is the only thing that is constant in business and accepting criticism like a piece of cake would go a long way in making an entrepreneur successful. Starting with a small motel, he climbed to the pinnacle of success in a short while. He had a chain of hotels at his end in no time. His restaurants were famous all around the globe; money poured in from all quarters. He had many private jets and a private island too. He became a personification of wealth, success, and fame. His closest pal, Mr. Clark Knight helped him in his business transactions. When he was about to make his entry into politics, he died in his own hotel suite with a cardiac arrest. His property remained intestate. As he had no beneficiaries, his lawyer, Mr. Jim Hastings, by creating fake documents transferred all his wealth into a private trust for old age homes, which he later on covertly transferred into his own account.

Michael Hopkins, a noble soul by nature, had donated millions in charity. Some suspected his death to be a true medical catastrophe, while a few a murder. After a series of trials, the case was closed. No evidence was presented to freeze it down to murder. An icon in the hotel industry was now six feet below the earth. 

Soon after completing the story, I came back to my original self, like coming out of a trance. I was flabbergasted at my new narration; how I could pen it without pre-thinking and penning the whole story in one stretch was a mystery. It was no joke to write a story without a break. I have never known, read, or heard about this character Michael Hopkins. After the above happening, I was pretty sure that I was a victim of a personality disorder. I knew that in a split personality, identities may be asymmetrical; identities may or may not be aware of what is known by another. Maybe it was an imagination of my other personality. 

But I was happy with my new fiction. It was an exclusive story, a crime thriller, deep like an abyss that would make every soul think and rethink. All my characters seemed alive and spirited. Every scene was neatly depicted with an array of settings and colours. The blend of the character’s early utterly penury life and his later iconic life was beautifully strewn like a wedding costume. It was flawless and impacting. His life, a broad spectrum of focus, exploration and achievement was finely elucidated in my story. I felt wonderstruck, with my commendable work.

 After the spectacular completion of my story, I badly needed a break. Jenny, who could read my mind, had planned a beautiful holiday. the next day, we flew to Denmark. 

Denmark, a Scandinavian country, an island nation, was one place I had not visited. Its coastal towns, sandy beaches and idyllic islands strung together by giant bridges have a great appeal. We stayed in Copenhagen, it’s capital. The whole city with its high-quality design and beautiful architecture is worth anything. The Danish pastry here leaves you smacking your lips repeatedly. The fascinating heritage left behind by the Vikings, the violent warriors is worth a visit.

“Your choice is inexplicable honey,” I told Jenny one morning. “Everything here is beautiful, shaded in tranquillity, hygge and happiness. I love the place.”

That night at the hotel, I felt intensely disturbed. Easing myself on the portico facing the sea, with a fresh glass of Pilsner, the traditional beer of Denmark, I sat reflecting on my undulating thoughts. The beer’s clear and crispy bitter taste kicked me hard. Slowly I drifted into a state of deep slumber. 

The next day we were off to Sweden through the Oresund Bridge, a 16 km ride between Denmark and Sweden. Visiting the Skane beach was all I could ask for. It was a perfect panacea to my fatigued mind. This beach had a mesmerising effect on me. My attention was drawn to a beach hotel, Hotel Duxiano. Unable to hold myself, I entered the hotel. The ambience took me in. It had an intimate environmental setting, luxurious and extravagant. It was located on the coast. It had an unobstructed panoramic view, a great sense of privacy without the feeling of total isolation.

Involuntarily I approached the front desk. Before I reached the front desk, I was invited by the owner of the hotel for a cup of coffee at his private chamber. Entering it I found the whole place a bit we as if it was speaking to me. A well-groomed man introduced himself as Jim Hastings, “I was looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Edward. I am impressed with your meritorious work. Each story of yours gets glued, no matter how hard one tries to shake it off.” My eyes narrowed thinly as I stared intently at him. Around sixty, plump and flabby, his eyes were shrewd like that of a wild jackal; he spoke about his business links and his establishments in various countries. As I heard him, my eyes kept surveying the whole place, as if in search of something. While talking to me, he got a call. As he went into his personal suit to continue his talk, I suddenly felt overpowered; I was not myself again. Perhaps my split personality was taking over me. Soon I fell into a trance, I heard a ghostly voice in my head commanding me to grab a heavy vase and strike Mr. Hastings hard on the head. Gripped by the voice, I stealthily made my way behind him and did, as instigated. Hastings fell with a heavy thud. I was further ordered by the invisible element to grab a photo frame hung on the far end of the opposite wall. Doing so, behind it was a small hole into which I was asked to thrust my fingers. As I did so, I came upon a mini spy camera fitted into an ink pen cap; I hooked it into my pocket and left the place. 

I kept walking, still in a trance till I reached the nearest police station and handed over the pen with the camera to them, telling them that it had the proof of Michael Hopkins murder who died in 1980 and that Mr. Hastings was the culprit. 

The camera projected Mr. Hastings execution of the murder. On thorough investigation, all details were collected and supportive documents for the case was also availed. Hastings was convicted of murdering Michael Hopkins by fumigating his private suite with cyanide. It was all described and projected in the camera. How fake documents were created and how Mr. Michael’s thumbprint was used to transfer all his properties to a private trust by his lawyer, Mr. Jim Hastings and how it was later acquired by him was all established through the camera. 

The camera was installed by Mr. Clark Knight, a common friend of both Michael Hopkins and Jim Hastings. He had overheard Mr. Hastings plan and had installed a micro camera to establish evidence. Clark died in an accident on his way while attempting to save Michael from the disaster. 

After I returned home, I felt liberated from the trance. I was thoroughly confused by my behaviour since morning. Around midnight, I was awakened by an anonymous voice calling my name. As I sat up, I saw a blurry figure before me. It said, “Thank you, Edward. I am Michael Hopkins spirit; Mr. Jim Hastings murdered me, and I wanted to avenge myself on him. Hence, I possessed you at the beach. After that, I made you popular and I made you write all the stories. The last story of yours is not just a story, but a complete true reality of my life that I made you elucidate with all the finest details. Reading my story would make people understand me. If the cops are stranded in their investigation, my autobiography shall help them to find the missing links. My friend Clark had been shrewd enough to place a camera there to record Hastings’s plan. He had overheard Mr.Hastings plan and installed a camera to establish evidence. Clark died while attempting to save me from the disaster. I possessed you, whenever needed. You mistook it to be a personality disorder. My possession of you led to the strange happenings. Thank you for all the help. My mission has been completed and I am leaving you and shall never return.”

I realized that my exemplary writing, the unlimited fame, money, and the strange story I had written was all Michael Hopkins work. The last story written by me portrayed Mr. Hopkin, his murder. And his culprits.  I realized that what happened at the hotel of Mr. Hastings was exactly like the plot I had created in my story. Michael just made me enact the story that I had penned. With all issues settled, I am now my own self; no more was that magic touch in my writings. 

All of us have memorable moments that have changed one’s life. I was no different.

As I walked on the golden sands, a faint whistle escaped my lips; none knew the truth, of Michael’s possession on me; not even Jenny or my fans. I stand glorified even today.