No bear.
I check the shoulder out, not broken but very badly sprained. Every breath produces a sharp stabbing pain, probably cracked ribs. My legs seem OK. Good. I sit for a few taking stock and it's not too bad physically but not good either.
I rise to my feet and peer up at the hole I fell down. I was lucky, I fell about fifteen or twenty feet. I could probably scale it if I wasn't so banged up, but I am. I also hear the bear, sleeping near the hole.
I head towards the source of the sunlight. This tunnel opens up on the side of the nipple. I look up and it's a tough climb to the summit. No go. I look down and it's even worse, about three hundred feet to a rocky bottom.
I'm in real trouble. My father won't be back to pick me up for three days. I have no food, no water and no clothes. Exposure and water will be a problem. Well what do I have?
I look down the other end of the tunnel and scream, startling the bear into roaring with rage. I'm going to have to be quiet so that bad boy doesn't get the idea to come down here and shut me up. Against the far wall, staring into the morning sun is a skeleton. It's holding something in its' hands, its tattered clothing give witness to its age.
It's been down here a long time. I approach it cautiously, next to it appears to be a pen of sorts and a dried up inkwell. As I get nearer, the object it's holding resolves itself into a leather bound book. I gently remove it without disturbing the skeleton.
I head back to the sunlight drenched opening, sit down against a wall, gently open the book and read:
The Journal of William Crozier
September 21, 1848
Tabitha,
You don't know me, even though we've met, but I've decided to start this journal as a bit of a lark. Perhaps to review as the years flow by. I doubt you will ever see its contents. I plan to pour my thoughts and feelings into this journal because keeping them in one's head, well they're never fully articulated that way. Only by placing pen to paper can you approximate your meaning.
I shall never forget when I first laid eyes upon you.
See the girls out walking, the girls they look so fine,
Dressed up in fine satin, their silver buckles shine
Dressed up in fine satin, their silver buckles shine
That song sprang unbidden into my mind as I watched you and the other ladies in front of the house of your employment, plying your trade. I stood across the street in the bright Raleigh sun and watched the ladies, trying to decide who to see.
Most of the girls were laughing and talking together, sitting on the porch swing together, standing on the lawn playing croquet. You walked alone along the sidewalk, casually spinning your pink parasol over your right shoulder, a carefree bounce in your step.
You pause in front of a hopscotch board some kids had etched on the sidewalk, hop the pattern, spin and hop back before resuming your stroll.
I cross the street and approach you, shyly alternating my gaze between the sidewalk and your face. I stop before you, bow and eek out a nervous, "A fine day to you, my Lady." My eyes skitter across you like a rock across a pond. Your satin dress, first mistaken for white is of the palest pink, contrasted with the sharp pink of your parasol.
Your eyes sparkle as you reply, "And how are you on such a beautiful day my gentleman?" Your soft southern accent stirring my heart and baser regions of my body.
"In desperate need of your services, Lady"
Giggling you take my hand saying, "Then allow me to attend you directly, kind sir" and lead me into the house. We enter a room, you sit on a comfortable chair and pull a curtain between us.
"Have you done this before?"
"Yes"
"Then let us proceed."
Softly, slowly you cajole and coax my darkest, deepest wants and desires from me. My breath bated, my moans growing with increasing desire. Your voice envelopes me making me feel safe and accepted, base, craven creature I am. I loose myself in you, orgasming on the floor where I kneel before you. Your satisfied giggle comes from behind the curtain.
I fill with shame. What a beast of a man I am! I should be taken out into the fields and shot like a rabid dog. How disgusting you must find me. Sick, perverted, weak, pathetic, worthless.
You break protocol and rip the curtain aside before I leave. I scurry about the room like a cockroach caught in the kitchen, frantically trying to button my pants while wiping my spent seed from the floor with a towel under my shoe. I'm flushed with humiliation, embarrassment and shame.
"Are you married William?" You ask, ignoring my state.
I don't know what to say, I don't want to lie to you, I don't want to tell you the truth. I compromise, "Maybe ..."
Your laugh is free and easy, telling me you already know the answer. You glance down at the mess I have yet to mop up from the floor, smile happily and say, "I see you have enjoyed yourself maybe married William. I shall count the minutes till we speak again."
You're gone. I clean up, place my money in the bowl and follow.
It's night now Tabitha and I've thought of you through the day. I sit here scrawling the beginnings of this journal by candle light. Will you be mentioned tomorrow? Will I write of another? Your "I shall count the minutes ..." float through my mind. I know it's just a line said to various boys day after day.
I wonder Tabitha, if over time you will come to mean it?
Sincerely,
William
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