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Impossible.
And yet a miracle was occurring. I was about to witness a miracle. And not only that, I was on the receiving end of this miracle. I could kiss the rings of all the gods in the hopes my eyes did not deceive me. For certainty that wasn't an open seat, on the subway, in the middle of midday rush hour?
Suppressing a squeal, I nearly ran to the open seat, my H&M denim-clad legs claiming the dirty plastic seat as the previous occupier made his way off the train. I sent a silent prayer to the man who had literally just poured a heaping pile of sugar on my coffee-less morning (which honestly, I was seriously starting to regret the lack of caffeine at this point).
After plopping my butt on the dirty plastic chair, I released a sigh before reaching for my sketchbook that was tucked away in my leather backpack (on sale - couldn't resist) in the hopes of working out my painting's composition, (which at the moment was being as bitchy as a post-menopausal employee at Bloomingdale's), when I noticed it.
Or more specifically, sat on it.
Reaching underneath me, I grabbed the chunky item only to realize it was a bound leather notebook, its previous origins (for those of you who are history majors) stemming from underneath my arse.
Silver words were scrawled viciously across the cover and my eyes widened as I read them:
THE THINGS I’D DO IF I WERE RECKLESS
They were written in all capital letters. The silver ink stark against the pristine black cover. It was clear whoever wrote this was angry. The cover was practically screaming at the world, bleeding frustration out of its very pores.
It must have been forgotten by the man who was just here.
Against my better judgment, curiosity attacked me like a sword between my ribcage and heart, slicing me deep with need. I never was a patient girl. I always attacked first, asked questions later. It was the shark in me. Always out for blood.
Turning the page, my eyes absorbed every word. Like a fish to water, I couldn’t bring myself to stop.
And what I read shocked me.
Dark details stung my eyes. The words were violent in their profanity. It was like I was reading somebody's dirty diary. Their most perverse fantasies. All written in the same silver sharpie. All in capital letters:
1)IF I WERE RECKLESS, I’D THROW ALL MY MONEY IN THE BATHTUB, LIGHT IT ON FIRE WITH THE TIP OF ONE OF JAYSON'S BLUNTS AND WATCH IT BURN AWAY. EVERY USELESS FUCKING PENNY.
2)IF I WERE RECKLESS, I’D MAKE MY FATHER'S MISTRESS MOAN SO LOUD THE TILES IN THE BATHROOM FLOOR WOULD CRACK AND WE WOULD FORGET WE LEFT THE DOOR UNLOCKED.
3)IF I WERE RECKLESS, I’D BURN EVERY STARBUCKS DOWN TO THE GROUND FOR MAKING ME DRINK WATERED DOWN PISS AND PAY FOUR DOLLARS PLUS TAX FOR THE SHEER WELL WATER THEIR FORCIBLY PASSING OFF AS A “CAFFEINATED BEVERAGE”.
4)IF I WERE RECKLESS, I’D FUCK THE BRANSON TWINS ON THEIR BIRTHDAY - IN THE POOL - BLINDFOLDED.
5)IF I WERE RECKLESS, I’D KICK MY DAD’S ASS SO THOROUGHLY HE’D FEEL MY FOOT SHOVED UP HIS THROAT EVERY TIME HE OPENED HIS SELF RIGHTEOUS, MONEY SOAKED, PIG HEADED MOUTH.
The list went on and on. The entire book was almost completely full. The phrases varying from mildly offensive to outright extreme in their explicitness. It was clear that whoever this guy was, he was not one to be messed with.
The thought shouldn't intrigue me.
But it did.
The only hint to who the owner may be was scrawled on the very last page, where in tiny letters it read “Property of the Black Mansion”. The address was scribbled below, the letters barely legible. Almost as if he didn't want anyone to be able to read them.
I reached for my phone, and against my better judgment, I plugged the address into my maps app.
Maybe I just wanted to see if this Black Mansion was real.
Maybe I just sought out trouble like the twisted mess I was.
And what do you know? According to GPS calculations, it was only forty minutes from the heart of the city. Much too close for my dangerous curiosity not to get the better of me. Besides, it was probably just one of those quaint tucked-away suburban homes. A perfect little day trip destination.
Besides, if I knew anything for certain, it was that the owner of this journal would want it back. It couldn't hurt to return it to him, right?
In fact, he was probably panicking right at this very moment. His fear devouring him at the loss of his precious dark journal. And it was simply my civic duty to return lost items left with breadcrumbs leading to their owners. And so, with that brilliant logic, I tucked the journal into the pocket of my leather jacket, my evening plans solidified for the night.
After all, I was used to stirring trouble, what's one more stupid idea?
