Forgotten Author

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 14
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Interestingly, this note featured different handwriting than the others. Either Cal wasn’t dealing with the same author, or the original author had decided to make things even weirder by constantly changing his font.

The answer: It wasn’t the same author. Cal wrote it. It just took him a second to remember.

You know. The morning.

Closing his about-to-gape-in-awe jaw, Cal asked himself why he’d decided to imitate the “obviously.” Nothing that insightful sprung to mind. Oh well.

Whatever the case, the events of last night were revealed to be true, down to the final detail of Cal writing himself to ascertain that fact. After he’d decided that it all didn’t happen, he must have decided that it did. Or at least, he decided that it would have did, if the message he wrote himself were there, where it was, where he left it, on his door.

The time to use the bathroom and forget about this mess had come. With the sun at his back, Cal marched towards his destiny – a destiny he’d achieved many times before, and was due to achieve again. The greatest general of the greatest army couldn’t have lurched towards his goal more purposely than Cal did then.

The result: He achieved.

More than that, Cal had used his time achieving to map out the rest of his day. He was going to head downstairs. He was going to grab something to eat. He was going to go back upstairs. He was going back to sleep.

It was an infallible plan, so long as no more doors interrupted his progress. The bathroom door provided the first obstacle. Turning the handle he’d locked just seconds before, Cal easily overcame this obstruction. Invisible fans cheered.

Next was the staircase. No doors encased this terrain, and Cal easily slowed down the stairs in a yawning spectacle.

Gasp! A forgotten barrier laid waiting for him in the kitchen. The refrigerator containing the eggs he desired was closed, and Cal would need, in order to rectify this situation, to open its door. Muscles moved in tandem, synapses signaled that the plan had not been changed, and the battle begun.

Cal’s pointer finger led the way, wrapping itself around the icebox’s silvery arch. His middle finger followed in typical defiance, cursing the thought of an unopened door. Then his ring finger – barren of any display – shouted to the world that this was a free man with the power to do what he willed. Next the pinky. Who cares. And finally, the opposable thumb did its thing, proving to the world that man was indeed the highest species. The refrigerator had little choice but to surrender itself to the chain of events. It opened.

Gasp! It was barren.

Cal shouted: “Mom!”