LESS THAN
When I’m reading—usually horror—I’ll come across this line: “He had only two weeks to live” it throws me because it’s usually preceded by the character being happy; the happiest they’ve ever been and then bam, dead. Unfortunately, I’ve found this to be true in real life. I’d seen those people who were happy living, unaware, then... gone. And in the newspapers I’d read about how they were just getting ready to go on their second honeymoon, start a new job, welcome their first child; how their families were in shock that their loved one--so wonderful-- had been just fine hours before.
For some of them this wasn’t true. Their lives weren’t fine but tragic and were pushing to lessen their time each day. How do I know? Because I know. My names Fletcher Grace. I’m not a fortune teller, a doctor, psychic or a serial killer; just an ordinary guy who owns a restaurant who know when someone is going to die. No I take it back, instead of die I know instead how long they have to live which could be the same thing; you decide. 6, 5 months, 43 years, 18 seconds; I know.
How do I of all people, a restaurateur, know when death is truly coming when no one on the planet is supposed to, yet I do; since I was twelve; to my horror. I’ve made myself believe it’s a kind of sixth sense, an aberrant trust dropped on me by accident, not fate and I’ve needed to believe this to keep going.
I was eight months into my twelfth birthday when I first saw what I call the ‘white paper’, appear, it was just there, over the head of my mother. We were sitting at the dining room table eating lunch and she was asking what I wanted to do for my birthday when suddenly the air above her head wiggled, began to waver and jiggle as if heat was coming out of her head.
When I’m reading—usually horror—I’ll come across this line: “He had only two weeks to live” it throws me because it’s usually preceded by the character being happy; the happiest they’ve ever been and then bam, dead. Unfortunately, I’ve found this to be true in real life. I’d seen those people who were happy living, unaware, then... gone. And in the newspapers I’d read about how they were just getting ready to go on their second honeymoon, start a new job, welcome their first child; how their families were in shock that their loved one--so wonderful-- had been just fine hours before.
For some of them this wasn’t true. Their lives weren’t fine but tragic and were pushing to lessen their time each day. How do I know? Because I know. My names Fletcher Grace. I’m not a fortune teller, a doctor, psychic or a serial killer; just an ordinary guy who owns a restaurant who know when someone is going to die. No I take it back, instead of die I know instead how long they have to live which could be the same thing; you decide. 6, 5 months, 43 years, 18 seconds; I know.
How do I of all people, a restaurateur, know when death is truly coming when no one on the planet is supposed to, yet I do; since I was twelve; to my horror. I’ve made myself believe it’s a kind of sixth sense, an aberrant trust dropped on me by accident, not fate and I’ve needed to believe this to keep going.
I was eight months into my twelfth birthday when I first saw what I call the ‘white paper’, appear, it was just there, over the head of my mother. We were sitting at the dining room table eating lunch and she was asking what I wanted to do for my birthday when suddenly the air above her head wiggled, began to waver and jiggle as if heat was coming out of her head.
I thought at first I was imagining it and rubbed at my eyes, blinked, but the air kept flapping, the sound like sheets blowing on a line and then it appeared, fuzzy, then deepening into a thin, clean white square of what looked like parchment paper, the edges curling a little and was the size of a banker’s box top. It swayed, black print forming on it and it was only years later I looked up the font of the numbers and found they were Modern No. 20.
Her number was 52. And it faded as slowly as it appeared.
I was surprised, puzzled, by the appearance and disappearance of the apparition, of the number but not afraid, at least not then. I was twelve and at that age life was a welcoming mystery I was just beginning to explore.
My mother though, took one look at my face and asked, “Fletcher, what is it? You’re white as a sheet?” I laughed. I told her I was fine but did wonder if I had a brain tumor or had a stroke but dismissed it like any kid would who believed they’d live forever.
I saw the 52 over her head a few more times that year and then never again. My mother was 34 then; she’s now 52 and has 34 years to live.
I was surprised, puzzled, by the appearance and disappearance of the apparition, of the number but not afraid, at least not then. I was twelve and at that age life was a welcoming mystery I was just beginning to explore.
My mother though, took one look at my face and asked, “Fletcher, what is it? You’re white as a sheet?” I laughed. I told her I was fine but did wonder if I had a brain tumor or had a stroke but dismissed it like any kid would who believed they’d live forever.
I saw the 52 over her head a few more times that year and then never again. My mother was 34 then; she’s now 52 and has 34 years to live.
***The last pages next week, I hope you want to read the rest.
If you have any questions or comments feel free to contact me at:matwrite1@aol.com, I’ll love to hear from you.
Until next time God willing,
Lori
If you have any questions or comments feel free to contact me at:matwrite1@aol.com, I’ll love to hear from you.
Until next time God willing,
Lori
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