Free Transcription by Ike Hamill Page B

I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.
    I know I’ve made a million mistakes, and I’m sure to make many more. I hope you still understand that everything I did was out of love for you.

    -Dad

    #   #   #   #   #

    James folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope.  
    He glanced around his living room, stacked high with boxes of his father’s writing.
    “Of all the writing you left me, why is it that every page contains some tragedy or horrific act of violence?” he asked the room.  
    James squeezed his eyes shut before the tears could come. He knew the pattern. He would be sad, start crying, and then begin to feel sorry for himself. Over the next few days, the sorrow would lead to emptiness and desperation. If he allowed himself to wallow, within a week he would be grinding his teeth at his depression and plotting his suicide.
    He couldn’t do it.  
    That’s the path his father had taken, and look what it had led to. His father hadn’t spared anyone anguish. His father’s selfish, desperate act had passed along a legacy of pain. In each letter, he had professed his love for his son and a desire to make sure that James didn’t suffer. Then, because he hadn’t thought through the ramifications, he had cursed James with the same unthinkable life he himself couldn’t deal with.
    Selfish. Thoughtless.
    James couldn’t forgive his father, and he couldn’t pass on the burden to someone else.
    He had his father’s notes on everything that didn’t work.
    He couldn’t burn the documents. Shredding, burying, and submerging the papers didn’t work either. Untended, the words found a way to spread. Their evil, when not bound to the page and carefully stewarded, leaked into the populace, and caused horrific mayhem. How many thousands, or tens-of-thousands of deaths were collected in the documents? How many people would suffer if James decided he couldn’t handle the duty that had been thrust upon him?
    He couldn’t fathom the consequences of stopping.
    James closed the box of correspondence. He moved to his desk to begin readying himself for the night.

CHAPTER 8: PRISON
     

     
    Diary of Thomas Hicks, 1977

    W HEN I LOOKED AT my hand just now, I realized I don’t know how long it has been since I’ve written anything. The shadows on the cellblock have grown. One expects shadows to grow as the sun sets, but the sun has been down for a while now. Yet the shadows keep growing. They’re not simply getting longer, as if the light source is lowering down. They’re taking on shapes that no longer represent the objects that cast them. It’s inexplicable.
    And the chalk chatter continues. I’ve grown almost accustomed to it. When they put the highway in near my mother’s house, within a month none of us noticed the sound. Every time a visitor came over, it was the first thing they commented on. We weren’t just ignoring it, we couldn’t hear it. It’s the same way with the chalk voice. When I focus on it, I realize that I can understand distinct syllables of the words now. Maybe my subconscious mind is registering it, but I’m not aware of the words until I really focus.  
    I’m trying to maintain composure so I can simply report on what’s happening. It’s difficult. A compelling part of me insists that the chalk voice is seeping into my brain. The shadows are coming for me, and I’m simply too stubborn to admit that they’re a threat. This is how people die—ignorance and complacency.
    When I look up from the paper, my hand is guided into a little sketch. I look back down to see the grinning eyes of a cartoon skull. I cross it out quickly, starting with the eyes.
    An idea comes to me. It’s just a random musing, but for some reason I can’t shake it.
    Our brains are collections of neurons, firing off little electrical impulses that comprise our thoughts. Men have tried to simulate those circuits, with electronic transistors. The complexity is far too vast