Voice of Night part 1

Dear Diary,
“I didn’t expect the book I got at old man McComb’s to be blank, but I had been wanting to start a diary anyway. So hi there, I guess I could keep calling you diary, and your spine says “Voice”, but I don’t like either of them, any tips on a name for you? Of course not, but I will think of something. Well, today was pretty good, I got you, and walked around town with Jess, and went to school, pretty uneventful. I think I will call you Xander, after my grandpa, good night Xander!”
What Damen did not see when closing the book was the writing that appeared under his farewell: “Xander, I like that, sleep well, you will need the energy.”

From the moment I picked up that blue book, with its blank and well-worn spine, I should have known something was wrong. Its silver title, “The Voice,” caught my eye. The book looked ancient, with some odd writing on the metal clasp holding it shut. I had a lot of trouble opening it, but I also really wanted it even if just for how it looked. I found it in the used book store off Maine Street, the owner did not even remember getting it, and there was no price sticker, so he let me have it for five dollars. He gave me a perplexed look on my way out and pointed out how rare it was for me to only get one book. I was a little confused by this as well, but I tried to casually pass off the feeling, “I get paid in a few days, until then this is all I can really get. See you Friday!” With that I started on my way home, eager to open and get started on the mysterious tome clasped tight in my hands.

“Damen!” Jess was running up to me with a broad smile on her face. Her smiles really only come in two varieties, humoured and mischievous, and this was without doubt the latter.

With a stern face but humour in my eyes, “Okay Jess, what in the world do you have planned?” I gave her a friendly hug, book still in hand, it was rare for her to have that kind of smile without something planned. She made a joke about me always having a book in hand; it felt like any other Sunday afternoon.

We were walking to my house, her still with that mischievous smile on her face, “I was thinking, when was the last time we had fun with old man McCombs?” I shot her the best chastising look I could muster, but her exuberance and impossibly happy manner made it hard to actually disapprove, “No, whatever you are thinking, just no. He stopped teaching so he could get some peace from your ‘fun’.”

“Oh, come on, just a small prank, for old time’s sake? I am heading out in two weeks and want to give him something to remember me by,” she grabbed my arm, as if somehow wrapping herself around it would provide incentive, that mischievous smile wider than ever.

I gently pushed her off, just to drive my point home, “you and I both know no one here could forget you, your pranks are practically legend. I don’t think there is a single person in town you haven’t pranked yet…” My sentence faded as I realized that I was wrong, there was someone she had not pranked yet. Me.

My heart skipped a beat as I saw her realize that same thing. “I guess you’re right, well, I am going to go pack a little, see you later.” With a wink and a smile she was clearly trying to hide, I knew I had just made myself her next target.

As usual, stayed up reading until it felt like my eyes were bleeding, the glaring red of my bedside alarm clock said it was midnight, and I had to be up for work in five hours. With a quick massage of my temples I set the book down and got to bed, knowing I would hate myself in the morning. I had graduated last spring and was taking a year off to figure out what I wanted to do. The local dentist’s office had been hiring and I got the job before it dawned on me just what I would be doing: Filing, sorting, and dispensing paperwork eight hours a day, five days a week.

It was the most boring thing I had ever done, sitting through a monotone lecture would have been more interesting. Probably the best part of any given day was hunting down a form that had not been filled out properly for me to file or that I had been too tired to file properly. That, and the occasional fit from someone else whose job was as tedious and boring as mine because they could not find what they needed. Or an overpaid doctor whose time was, as I have been told more times than I want to count, “worth more than you get paid in a month.”

Today, that was Jason, who came to me looking for the insurance information for a new patient.
“What do you mean you can’t find it, I know I handed it to you not even ten minutes ago!” It amazes me how these people can yell and yet not draw any attention from the dozen patients waiting around.
I ask him, as calmly as I can, “What is the last name?”

“Fredricks.”

So, I look through all the F’s and find nothing, besides a couple amusing last names.

He gives me a glare that, I am sure he thought was quite potent, but it really just made me notice how bad his comb-over was.

I sigh as quietly as I can, but I am pretty sure I know what happened. “What is the first name?”

He snaps back at me “What does it matter?” Anyone else would have hit him already, but I just take a deep breath and remind him that things can be misfiled by the first name.

“Geane,” coming from him it almost sounds like a curse. So I look silently through the G’s, hearing his angry breath right over my shoulder. I go past the file a couple times and on the third time he notices and snatches it away.

“Fat lot of help you were,” he spits and storms away. The names were in the wrong places, the file read “Geane, Fredricks.”

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