The journal I keep is small and unassuming. At 11.5 by 17.5 centimeters, it fancies itself to be a Moleskin – though those dreams were dashed early on by my budget – and its faux leather cover is cracked and creased, worn enough to let the cardboard peek out. The paper is thick enough to keep bleeding ink at bay, though; for my purposes, that is enough.
I’m not a writer. Not a poet. Not really a romantic, either. What I am is a millennial with a moderate-to-severe case of disenchantment and a therapist, and so I keep the journal, quasi-religiously, because I’m supposed to, and because this is at least one thing I can get right.
Right?
I don’t mind keeping the journal, which I’ve been writing in for about three months now. I can’t really say whether or not it’s helped me in any significant way, though it has made me realize how exceptionally unexceptional my own existence is. And it does provide some comfort, I should probably say, the act of looking over it. The journal is a record that, no matter how insignificant I may be, I was here. I existed. I may not have mattered much, but I was all the same.
…
It’s Tuesday night. I’ve already had two glasses of the cheap red wine that is going to give me a headache, and it’s time to write.
I settle into bed and reach – without looking – for my notebook. It’s exactly where it’s supposed to be, as it always is. A skinny ribbon flosses the pages, marking my spot. I tug on it, parting the pages. The ribbon breaks in my hand. I swear half-heartedly. This is what I get for buying the cheap stuff.
Heaving a sigh at the inconvenience of it all, I thumb through the pages, seeking the one with my latest entry, the one from yesterday. Pages of monotony pass beneath the pads of my fingers, my graceless penmanship unchanged as it has been since 11th grade.
Except.
I blink a few times, and peel back a few pages.
I thought I saw…
I find it. A passage, just a few lines, dated February 3rd, 8:24PM:
“…she recommended I scale back on my drinking. Apparently, just 2 drinks a day, aka 14 a week, is considered alcoholism? Or maybe alcohol addiction?? I don’t remember. It doesn’t seem like very much, honestly… But it probably wouldn’t hurt to scale back. So I’m going to start with no drinking on Monday and Wednesday. Easy enough. Just kind of boring.”
I wrote that last week. I remember writing the words.
The handwriting, however, isn’t mine.
I rub my eyes, but the handwriting doesn’t return to normal. It’s just ever so slightly off, like the letters are marginally too angular, if that makes sense? It’s similar to my unsophisticated scrawl, but just…pointier. Sharper than it should be, somehow.
I groan, and then laugh. I guess I am drinking a bit too much. Two glasses of Malbec and I’m not seeing straight? Guess I really am getting old…
Still chuckling, I scrawl my entry for the day.
“March 10th. 9:30PM
Some drama at work. Logan got sacked (no one was surprised) and threw such a tantrum that security had to escort him out. Pretty unfortutuate unfortunate note to leave on, which is too bad. I always thought he was a pretty decent guy, but I guess you never know. Nothing much else of note, though I think I need to scale back on the red wine. Maybe it’s time to switch to white?”
I retract my pen with a click. The entry was short, but that’s okay, according to my therapist. It’s not how much you write, she always says, it’s just that you do write.
If it’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for me. The notebook returns to its designated spot on my bedside table, and I give myself over to dreamless sleep.
…
The next day passes as it always does. I go through the motions until the motions are done, and then it’s over, and then I’m home, and the evening passes too quickly and I do nothing and it’s time to go to bed but first to write.
Still down a bookmark, I flip through the notebook, find my last entry.
It’s not mine.
I mean it is, the words are at least, the March 10th excerpt that I penned yesterday, that’s mine, but the handwriting? No, it’s not mine. It’s not mine.
Feeling colder than I should, I flick through the pages, find the offending February 3rd entry that caught my attention yesterday. That angular font, a clever bastardization of my own…. It matches what I wrote yesterday. Or what I didn’t write. It matches what’s on the March 10th page. How could this be?
I leaf through the journal. Every other page looks as it should, cast in my loopy, loping scrawl. The only outliers are February 3rd, and now, March 10th.
The fuck?
Penmanship evolves, I know this, but after decades? After decades of the same motions, committed to muscle memory, would it really just change? Sporadically? And without my knowledge at all?
I feel unwell despite myself. There has to be a logical solution, obviously, but still. I don’t like change. I like change in myself even less.
Could it be the antidepressants Dr. Sylvin put me on?
The idea seems promising, but no… I’ve been on those for six, seven months already. Maybe if it made things screwy in the beginning, I could understand. But surely not now, not after all this time? When she says I’m stable?
Shaking off the prickly feelings on my neck, I pull out my pen, and my phone. I scrawl the following:
“March 11th. 9:10PM
I’m not feeling very well tonight. This is going to have to be enough.”
I concentrate on the letters, studying every arc and angle as I commit them to memory. And then I take a picture on my phone.
It takes forever, but I finally begin to drift off. My digital alarm clock flashing 11:23PM is the last thing I see before I slip into sleep.
…
I wake at 3:00AM, slick with cold sweat.
Find the journal. The page. Pull out my phone, the photo app, the picture.
The handwriting doesn’t match.
…
3:15 AM
I’m on my knees looking under my bed, iPhone flashlight illuminating the dustmotes, the lint. My closet. The cabinets. Behind the drapes. My front door is locked. I unlock it, lock it again. I squint out the windows, turn off the overhead lights so I can better see into the blackness.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Whatever it is, it isn’t there. At least not where I can see it.
…
5:17AM
I’m too spooked to sleep, too jumpy to stay in the house. The gym opens at 5:30. I get in my car. I’m halfway there when a voice in my head reminds me that I didn’t check the trunk before leaving. But why would I have? My car was parked in my garage.
I never check the trunk, why would I check the trunk!? I accost the voice in my head. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
…
5:32AM
I don’t work out. I just stand in the shower, temperature as hot as I can stand, skin blazing red.
7:05AM
There’s nothing in the trunk. I checked. I checked twice.
7:45AM
Work.
5:14PM
I take the long way home. I scan the outside of my house, looking for something, anything. It’s all exactly as I left it.
Inside, I pull the journal from the floor, where I had thrown it in the wee hours of the morning.
Hands shaking, I open it.
Last night’s entry starts “March 11th, 9:20PM,” the handwriting as unfamiliar as it was at 3:00 AM this morning.
I turn the page.
“March 11th, 11:45PM…”
I slam the book shut.
No. No. I was asleep before then. Wasn’t I? I was, I was.
I find the page.
“March 11th, 11:45PM
I’m cold. I can’t sleep. I’m so tired. I want to sleep, I just… can’t. Something won’t let me. I just want to sleep…”
The imposter handwriting I now recognize, but the words I do not. I didn’t write that. I was already asleep. Unless it was like sleep walking, but with writing? Even if that were the case, if I were actually asleep, why would I write as though I wasn’t? I turn back to the page.
“…I’m not feeling very well. The cold is starting to wear on me. It’s happening more often. Too often….”
Bile stings my throat. What the fuck does that mean?
“..I think I need to talk to Dr. Sylvin. She needs to know that I’m not alone anymore.”
I dry heave, lurching over the notebook. Flecks of saliva spatter on the page as my stomach convulses.
My eyes dart to the adjacent page. It was blank just moments ago. It isn’t anymore. I look at the clock, the red lights throbbing 5:50PM. I force my eyes back to the new entry.
“March 12th. 5:50PM.
I’m behind you.”