I, Gerald Samson, woke one morning from uneasy Kafka-like dreams to find I could no longer read or write. I admit this was unbeknownst to me until later that morning, but I can trace back my literacy to the previous evening, so this regression in intelligence must have occurred during the course of the night. Wait; I feel I am spluttering this story onto the page, when in actual fact a steady approach would suit. Let me take you through the events of that morning first before I give you the reasons for this unique occurrence.
I awoke feeling as awful as always when an alarm disrupts you from sleep. I coughed and yawned my way through my daily routine in fifteen minutes and then set off for the train. My journey to the station encompasses some reading material, in the form of ‘For sale’ signs and road directions, but nothing to really draw my attention to the deficiency within myself. It was not until purchasing a morning newspaper that this became apparent. Sentences, words and letters were thrown at my eyes in unrecognizable forms and structures. Like hieroglyphics, they were symbols my throbbing blancmange of a brain could simply not compute. After flicking quickly through the paper to see if the front page was a default in the printing, I came to the logical decision that maybe the edition in my shaking hands was a one-off, an anomaly in the mornings’ course of events. This wishful thinking was to be proved quickly wrong when I looked at the commuter opposite me, a man calmly reading his newspaper, and more importantly understanding every single word. I, however, could only make out the pictures as the pages were folded over themselves. Stumbling off the train, the concrete platform beckoned to me and I followed, unable to stop the impending unconsciousness.
I awoke to the cornea bursting lights of a hospital ceiling. On either side of me were two elderly patients looking as if they had been waiting for treatment since before I was born. The bones in my neck cracked as I turned my leaden head towards the entrance, I then attempted to focus my eyes on the sign above the door. My eyes slowly adjusted to the impenetrable light as my lids blinkered the world into focus, the borders of the sign were now visible. Now for the big crunch – damn it, what kind of word is that! Expletives raced throughout my tightly wound brain as I breathed myself back into a logical way of thinking. Okay I said to myself, the fainting hasn’t cured my inability to read, but lets see if I can make sense of the sign anyway, maybe I’ll remember to read if I just try.
I stared at that sign for almost half an hour, and blinked only when I had too. But it was to no avail, the sign remained an image; a swirl of red shapes arching across a brilliant white background. I consider myself quite a calm character, certainly not someone who is prone to showing his emotions at the drop of a hat; however, my lack of understanding with regards to my condition was grinding me down. I felt helpless, alone and in all honesty on the brink of tears. In the midst of this buildup to a breakdown a nurse put her hand on my shoulder and asked if I was okay. I turned to her with a worried expression on my face and exclaimed, “I can’t read.”
Later on that day after insufferable waiting, and when in any other situation I would have passed the time with a book or magazine, I was ushered in a small room to see the doctor. After the usual pleasantries I relayed my morning to him, as I have to you the reader. At first the doctor said nothing, letting the frown that formed on his brow do his talking for him. He then asked me rather abruptly to open my eyes wide so he could give me an examination. After shining a light into my face and asking my several simple but pertinent questions about how I was feeling he sat back down to give me my diagnosis. Now up until this point we had spent approximately ten minutes in each other’s company, and I could sense that something was not right, something was askew. This man only said what was absolutely necessary; no word was out of place. For a doctor his bedside manner was sorely lacking. He also seemed nervous, acting as if he were being watched. So I could sense that just before he opened his mouth, what would come out would be unexpected.
“Mr. Samson, I’m not going to sit here and patronize you. I am also not going to lie to you, it is important that you understand that. I could start reeling off a lot of Latin-tinged names to right now in order to bluff you. Trust in the fact that I am telling you that what is happening to you is not actually happening to you. I guess that sounds vague, but it is true, well in a sense. Let me start again.
I am not a doctor. In actual fact I don’t even exist. I am the product of an imagination. These words that you hear have been written for me. You yourself are part of a story, the main character to be precise. This world we live in is similar to the real world, but only in an effort to give whoever reads this something to relate to, something immediate, you understand. You could have traveled into work today on horse and cart if the author wished it.
Now before you panic and call out to the nurse, take a deep breath. And please, I beg you hear me out.
We have been created by an author, as has everyone you have met today. Your memories are simply back-story, for example try right now to remember your mother’s name.
You can’t do it, can you?
You are the lead in this story. I am the secondary character.
I have no cure for your disease I am sorry to say. If you leave now you will no doubt spiral into a series of misadventures. I have no proof of what I claim, if you were to walk down the street outside this hospital and ask passers by to confirm my claims they would be as dumbfounded as you are now. But look at me, look at me deeply, I mean what I say and we can escape together. You and I can escape these pages.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. I know what the fatal error in my escape plan is. If everything that is happening to us is created by some writer, then so is this conversation. And if that is true, which it must, then this is pre-ordained and his will is playing out.
But I have with me something that leads me to believe that we can escape. If this story were to play out as expected, then I would be a minor character, who is here only to lead you on to the next minor, surreal set piece. However, I found this document this morning. I will read it to you now, in the hope that it makes you, Gerald Samson take me with you.
“27th June 2010.
I am sitting at my dining table tapping away at my Apple Mac trying to finish a story that has been languishing on my hard-drive for nearly four years. This is probably explains why there are many changes in style since the opening paragraph. Looking back at the opening line, I feel in two minds about it. I allude to a favorite book, but is it just to make me look learned or am I actually trying to use the reference to make some kind of statement about the imminent story, God knows. Never the less it will remain, simply because I have now written this letter within the same short story - You can see the postmodern nightmare I have placed myself within.
Even, writing this open confessional is becoming confusing. My wife is two metres from me speaking on the phone about Wimbledon. This has burst my bubble of concentration somewhat and in turn opened up the self-analysis further.
I know what I was trying to say about myself when I began this short story; it was a tale about a man whose intelligence drops all of a sudden and he finds himself out of place in the modern world. This is something that I have felt ever since I began working for a living. Sometimes I think if I turn off the television and sit in silence I can actually hear my brain cells dissolving. Each day I wake up and go through the motions in a job I hate, like a lot of people I guess, and find myself not tested. On each of these days I become a little bit more stupid. Every day I take a step towards moron and I do nothing to stop it.
Yes, I do this as a hobby, a vain attempt to do something cerebral. But it only halts the inevitable. These are concerns that feel ever more at the forefront of my mind, now that I am going to become a father and these same concerns have probably pushed me into finishing this tale.
I go through all the normal parental concerns; how to look after the baby etc… But what real worries me, if I’m completely honest with myself is earning respect. Not with regards to discipline, but in the truest meaning of the word. You want that unborn child to be proud of you, you want be able to impart your wisdom. If they ask you about some aspect of nature for example, I want to be able to answer, not run to Wikipedia. I currently live in a cocoon of music and movies, which is all well and good, it can get you by in over-decorated bar in Soho, but it is not real intelligence. It is bluff, a cover, and a façade that I keep up to hide the idiot underneath.
Self-Pity? Maybe just a bit. Let’s heap on some more.
The birth is just over four months away and by then who knows what will be left of my brain. By the time the child is two it may well have over taken me in intelligence. Each day the modern world takes away some aspect of my initiative, it makes something easier for me. Each day I put something difficult off in an effort to not embarrass myself.
There is one thing I do know, one thing I know for sure. I will experience instantaneous love in the near future. I have been lucky enough to know the other forms of love; I have learned to love from my family, I have fallen in love with my wife and soon I will have the gift of loving someone from the first time we meet. This is an aspect of my nature that I am struggling to comprehend. When I write, I write with skepticism. I don’t really trust anybody. And that is why I will attempt to end this story bleakly. For no other reason than to counteract the warmth I feel inside.
There is only one thing to do and that is escape. I am not going to run away from this of course, but you should at least try.
That is what I urge you two to do. Gerald. I am writing myself into this story so I can give you one last chance. Run and take the doctor with you. You will have to be fast and quick, for this is an impossible situation. I am controlling everything you do. But don’t despair; there is hope in the opening of this story.
Goodbye and good luck.
Your author, Gareth Doyle.”
That is the end of my diagnosis. I found this letter on my desk this morning. It could have been written by anybody, not necessarily this Mr. Doyle. But for some reason deep inside myself I believe every word and I want you to take me with you. Please Gerald, take me with you.”
I felt sick. Part of me was still obviously worried about my condition, and this was not the answer I had been expecting. The other thing that had brought on this nausea was the sense that this doctor was right. All that he had told me was true. And if it was then I only existed as part of a short story.
The doctor passed me a glass of water, clearly understanding my thought process. Surely he had gone through a similar experience only but a few hours earlier. As the sickness passed, it was replaced by anger. Who was this man to take away my ability to read just because he felt insecure about becoming a father? And now what, he still controls me, in fact he has just made me feel sick. What a bastard. And then for a split second I thought over the aspect that he has just called himself a bastard. The nausea returned and I threw up.
“How?” I spluttered.
“I don’t know. All I know is that you are the lead in this tale and that if I leave your side I will be doomed to be a subsidiary character in this story, to be permanently confined to this small room, pleading with you every time this is re-read.”
I took a deep breath and pulled myself together, I spat out what vomit remained in my mouth and turned to face the doctor.
“As much as I despise this Gareth for putting me in this position, we are left with only one choice. And that is to take his advice and run.”
“Okay. Then let us go.”
That is when we stood up and with heavy hearts left the examining room. Neither us knew what to do. Only that we had to escape these words. And with no time to lose we picked up our pace. As we reached the reception a nurse cried out to the doctor calling him back for an urgent matter, a patient had just gone into cardiac arrest. He turned to me and said, “That author is trying to be clever and force me back into the hospital, there is no patient dying.”
I hoped that his assumption was correct and ran out into the daylight.
He was proved right almost immediately. I ran across the main high street in front of the hospital, I was no longer afraid of death. The author wanted us alive and these cars would not hurt us. Horns were blasted out and vehicles turned direction in quick succession of one another, but I was spared. We reached the other side and turned into an alleyway. The doctor a few years older than myself started to slow down. I turned to see him bent over double trying to catch his breath. Behind him a man cloaked in shadow aimed a gun at him and fired. The bullet burst threw his chest making him stumble towards me. I grabbed him in my arms and looked up again for the killer, he was gone.
“How could I have been so stupid?” said the doctor.
“What do you mean?”
“It is you he wants alive, I am disposal.”
“He could kill me at any time. I’m not sure I will last.”
“I believe in you Gerald, you must go. Remember what he said in his letter. A clue lies in the opening sentence of this story. What did you think about this morning? How would a story like this be told? Don’t let him win.”
Blood was now coming out of the doctor’s mouth. He would die soon. He continued to urge me into solving the riddle. I scrambled to think about how a story like this would be told, how it would start. The doctor’s eyes closed and he stopped breathing. I laid him to the ground. I would have to grieve for him later, for now I had to run.
I came to the end of the alleyway. I could feel a presence smothering me and quickly decided to enter a door to an office block to my left. I ran through the deserted reception area and entered a lift. I pressed button number 14, destination the top floor and waited.
What was the clue in the opening of this story?
Then it came to me. This story is about me, a man who has lost the ability to read. Such a story could only really be told in the first person. If that was the case then I was talking about myself in the past tense, and if that was true then I must be able to read again. I can give myself that power. I can do whatever I like; I can force my escape, because I will survive.
The elevator doors binged at me and opened. I ran to the fire escape and climbed to the top of the building. I was in control and in about a second’s time I would escape these author’s words. I ran again as fast as I could and jumped into the air and off of the building, the wind rustling in my ears, and the author long behind me. As my face raced towards the pavement, I made myself yell out, “You can stop writing now.”
