Necronomicon: They're Just Burning Memories & Notes From A Certain Scotsman

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No text from Sawney. One reply from Penny, offering to pay for my ticket. I replied, ‘Yes, please,’ before shutting my phone from any further conversation.

I’m guarding the house while Mama and Anja are out. No hunger reached my stomach. Most of the time I would’ve used for cooking was instead attuned to the passage of time. Sunlight dappled wood, leaves flickered like candlelight, hues painting onto the white concrete walls. I watched the sunset. Light shone onto the Necronomicon which lay on the desk. Repertoires of the same picture evoked from my subconscious, as if I’ve seen this sight every day.

To distract myself, I held the book up. Its leather-bound cover has softened with age, yet pristine and spotless. If it were placed in darkness, where even the faintest of lights will glow in pallor, it’ll remain white and out of place.

At night, I lit a candle up and watched its wavering flame. I waited. The Necronomicon cast a silhouette onto the grey Roman shades, its contours converging into an imaginary expression. Warm wax crept downwards. Its stub sunk steadily lower before it breathed its last.

Now, I will hold this book dear.

Whatever will come, life or death, will all disperse into grey ash.

And holding that ash, I’ll ponder whether this life is worth bringing back.

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