One Hour

Finally, he’s gone. He said he’d be back after an hour. My heart and intentions quicken as they sweep me from my seat on the sofa. I was climbing up the stairs with the sound of the front door shutting still echoing in the air. I can smell traces of cologne that lingered behind him as he descended the stairs just moments ago. “I’ll be back in an hour.” I remembered my husband’s last words as I nervously reached the second floor. The house was clear, everything in its place. I hoped that was the same for the mysterious diary I was determined to find. That was one thing I wasn’t responsible for keeping tidy. I passed the washroom with the leaking tap, ‘drip, drip, drip.’ The steady drops made me feel more nervous, like something in the house was alive and monitoring me as I began my search for the secret book with pages I had never seen.

I entered the study. The window was slightly open and I could feel the summer breeze on my tense face. I stood in the center of the room. Books were piled neatly beside the wooden bookshelf and the computer screen was dark but still reflected shadows of objects in the room. I stood staring at the small cabinet beside the window. Three small drawers. I knew exactly the contents in the top and bottom drawers, though my eyes had never even seen the wallpaper inside that covers the middle one. This was his secret hiding place. My memory re-played and I could see him. His back slanted at the doorway and his hands grasping the mysterious book. He opened the middle drawer swiftly and dropped the book inside, ‘shut!’ The drawer closed with the force of his strong hand. Then he locked it with the key. I walked around the room and without thinking, start to sift though the desk in search of the key that I would need to unlock the secret drawer. I paused my memory again at the part where he locked the drawer with the key. It was a small key. Silver I think. I sifted through the bookshelf.

Something suddenly fell from behind a set of books, with a small metal-like sound. I pulled books out from the second shelf, where I thought the noise came from. Without blinking, my eyes wandered back and forth. I moved my fingers along the back of the books to the right of the open space and I felt a cold, flat object behind them. With my index and middle finger, I grasped the cold area of the small object. I pulled myself out, supporting the pull with my left hand secured on the left ledge of the shelf. The luminous light of the sun shone through the room as if it was the day light was first discovered by man. I carefully pulled my hand out. There it was. Silver and small. I re-wind my memory again to when he stood at the foot of the cabinet holding the book. In moments I may be him-standing there with the book in my hands. My eyes could finally see the contents of the diary. Maybe it will tell me why I’m never good enough and why he doesn’t smile the way he used to. I may finally unlock the secrets of his melancholy.

I glanced at the old clock above the computer desk. Ten minutes had passed since he left the house. That means I would only have 50 minutes of revelation with the book. It was good enough though. I took two steps and was already at the foot of the cabinet. I stared down at the drawer as though even without using the key I could unlock the drawer with my pulsing suspension. With the small key chocked by my right hand, I loosened grip and held it in between my thumb and index finger. I leaned downward and placed the key in the hole and turned, “click!” It was opened. The drawer had finally been unlocked by my curious hands. Both hands held the handle. My eyes still fixed on the drawer. It opened. My fingers rushed into the new open space. And there it was. The book-his Diary. Without waiting, I picked it up and opened it. The pages were off white and a little stained. I flipped through the first page, then the second then the third. Was it empty?
No, I finally found handwriting. The writing started near the 11th page. There was a small cut out picture of my dad when he was younger, who was murdered just a few months ago. I started reading. I read the page in one blink then tears began to stream down my face.

I held the plans of a murderer in my hands. The diary took me on a journey. A secret journey written only by one and planned only for one. I tried to hold the book tighter as I could feel my small muscles slowly vaporizing. As I read I could only imagine my father. Dutifully going about in the backyard digging holes in the soil to plant the beautiful red and yellow flowers I desired every summer. The killer planned to attack him while at work, peacefully moving about in the heat of the sun labouring for the delight of my sweet smile. I could see him, calmly pacing along the fences to line the flowers in alternating colors, red, yellow, red, yellow. Then in the midst of the beating sun and the peaceful breeze, the murderer planned his attack. It would plant my father in the tool shed just meters away from the red and yellow arrangement, helplessly bound by the tight grip of my husband’s programmed crime. Every movement was a pre-determined plan-the number of blows to reach his unconsciousness and the tools that would be used to put him to eternal sleep. The diary explained the horrible steps. Tears continued to stream heavily down my face and some drops soaked into the bottom of the page. I remembered when I found my father as lifeless as a withered flower with scattered blood feeding the dry walls and floor panels of the tool shed. I felt sick. The book felt heavy in my arms and my knees began to weaken. I fell to the ground in my pool of tears. The book dropped to the floor. The pages flipped until the book laid closed flat on the back cover. The rays of the sun peeked through the window and blazed the evil plan with luminous light. I stayed there and let my heavy heart of grief fill the floor with more tears. I feel nothing except pain everywhere. In loud uncontrollable gasps I release fractions of pain chocking my stomach. With each ache my eyes close and I see darkness. I become consumed in my suffering. And my suffering now is demanding each of my racing breaths.

I begin to feel a presence behind me. I hear a small shuffle of steps in the doorway. He was here. He came back. And now he knew that I knew. Before I can turn my weak body, a pair of hands grabs my face and buries my nose and mouth inside. The moisture from my tears saturates itself into my skin. I can’t breathe. I am pulled up by the tight, demanding grip. My body is being controlled by a commanding force that seems to dictate my every move. I hear frightening groans coming from his mouth. I try to resist, but my resistance causes more force. He brings me down the hall as I try hard to breath. We reach the edge of the stairs. I caught a small glimpse of his old black boots. The warn out boots of a killer. With a strong force he releases his hands and pushes me down the stairs. I fall to the bottom and am unconscious. Helpless. And the secret I know doesn’t matter now.

Then I wake. My eyes widen and I sit up squeezing the warm blankets. I hold myself tightly and comfort my damaged body. After 5 years, the pain is still there. I think of the beautiful red and yellow flowers my father used to plant for me every summer. The sweet memory soothes my racing heart. I lie back down and turn over on the other side of my pillow and hope to sleep well now.
God, please send me a better dream.