Flicking Through Pages Of A Book I Like

And Copying Random Sentences To Make A Story

The Secret History by Donna Tartt, jumbled up and pieced together differently, by me.

I waited until he was gone, then went to my mailbox.

Silence.

I ducked into a doorway and waited until he passed. I saw Francis Abernathy stalking across the meadow like a black bird, his coat flapping dark and crownlike in the wind. It was this unreality of character, the cartoonishness if you will, which was the secret of his appeal and what finally made his death so sad. He was always getting drunk and doing things like saying hello.

When I turned on the landing of the Lyceum stairs, the circle of darkness leapt back into the mundane and familiar boundaries of the living room. It was as if I had switched on the lamp after a long bad dream; blinking.

Vaguely I remembered a long, earnest conversation with Sophie. My heart began thumping so wildly I thought it would burst in my chest like a red balloon. I thought that at any moment it would stop, but it didn’t. I was consumed with curiosity.

There was a Christmas card. The letter read, “I’m afraid I did.”

“Henry, my god,” I said at last, with a rush of what was almost motion sickness. A minor thing, really, an accident. I stared at him. “Well, it’s not called a mystery for nothing,” said Henry sourly. I stared at him. It was like a film in fast motion. He didn’t blink. We’re not too clear on what happened after that. He drank off the rest of his scotch and poured himself another inch.

It certainly wasn’t as if something snapped and there we were, our jolly old selves. Henry put a finger to his lips. What happened next took place in an instant. My stomach felt very hot. Henry took off his spectacles and rubbed them with the front of his shirt. His mouth then fell open.

“Henry, it’s none of my business but, I hope for god’s sake you know what you’re doing.”

“But it was an accident”.

I remember little of the ride. I was being snide, I suppose, or maybe I just wanted to see how he looked at me in the rear view mirror. Now, of course, it would be easy for me to veer to the opposite extreme. With a bewitching offer to make all of my dreams come true, I managed to open the car door.