The Book: Chapter 27

Our Alice, always asking the wrong questions and peering into the abyss as if it won’t stare back and wink. You see Mick in your room, good doctor. He’s a whisper of the past, my tease from the beyond, a gift to you. And what do you do with it? You panic. Delightful. Then you add insult to injury by predicting dear old Daddy’s demise—how considerate. And now you’re stewing in the aftermath like a child who’s knocked over a vase and is waiting to see if anybody notices.

I notice, Alice.

I know you. I am you, and I drink in the delicious disorder I create. Your words, fears, and fleeting moments of connection—they’re mine to savour. You should be flattered, eternally grateful, even. Like fabled Djinn, I grant your greatest wish. I let you play the hero, and, as a by-product, I let you have your man. I’m taking a special interest in you, my dear. The way you unravel keeps me enthralled, or at least mildly entertained for a time. And soon—we’ll play some more.

But first, a conundrum. Let’s talk about your mortals and flimsy attachments. Mick is gone. His father, Martin, should be dead. Chaos must reign, and I should be feasting on the delicious energy of it all. And yet, I find myself wanting Mick back. Not because I care—let’s not be absurd—but watching you two limp through your irrelevant love story amuses me.

For my enjoyment, I intervene, bringing him home to you—like Lassie. It’s utterly pathetic. Call me an old romantic if you like. I shouldn’t, but you’re so stupid. Pretty, little, gullible Alice.

Imagine the grandest irony: Alice, our accidental hero. The girl who sees impending doom and prevents a catastrophe. I allowed it. It’s me. I tilt the scales in your favour and bring him back wagging his puppy-dog tail. It’s nauseating. Martin lives, and you get to bask in the glow of saving a life. It changes things. He’s indebted to you, but let’s see if this new obligation brings Mick back in ways that matter.

Don’t get comfortable. I am the architect of your life, and I rarely allow neat endings. Mick is broken, physically and emotionally healing. He’s unwilling to dive back into your life. He won’t move back in, and I find that hilarious, because for all your simpering—you don’t want him to. He’s rather played into your court. All the sweet “I love you’s” with none of the dirty underpants. You two, clinging to the pretence. Can you rebuild love once it’s lost? It’s such a human flaw, a ridiculous, fragile thing.

And now, for today’s pièce de résistance.

The skips. The labels. The unfiltered comedy of human incompetence. Louis, the dull-witted buffoon, slaps the wrong labels on the skips. What happens? It’s too rich. The trash—the wretched, unwanted filth—goes to the charity shop, while the donations, full of goodwill and sentimental nonsense, drop into the flames.

I get a free ride to a temporary new home. Call it a short holiday, courtesy of an idiot with a label gun.

I’m laughing so hard my spine might split.

You think you’ve won, Alice. Ha, Please! This is my story and you are but a short chapter. I am the book.

And me? I’m first to turn the page.

I write under the pen name Katherine Black and I have 17 books published. All on Kindle Unlimited. I’d love it if you’d try one.

Here is my Amazon page with links to all of my books.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/stores/Katherine-Black/author/B071JW51FW?