Supermarket - Bobby Hall Page 0,63

the chessboard. My eyes fixed on his hand, Red grabbed the handkerchief from his front robe pocket with his right hand, then wiped his palm, revealing a healed hand. There was no visible wound. Only a faint scar from where the gash had been.

“Holy shit, man!” I screamed, shooting to my feet and backing away. “What the fuck was that?! Who are you, David Blaine?!”

Red began to laugh.

“Do you see what I’m trying to show you, Flynn?”

I slowly sat down.

“Still your move,” Red said, gesturing to the bloodstained chessboard.

“If you think I’m touching that shit, you’re fuckin’ mistaken,” I said with a laugh.

“Do you see, Flynn? Do you understand now?”

I thought about how I’d been running from Frank, telling myself he wasn’t real. And the denial of his influence had given him the advantage. It made him stronger. But now I knew the truth—Frank’s existence had real-life implications. He was real. Maybe not flesh and blood, but real in my mind. He had a distinct personhood in my head. By denying his existence, I hadn’t been able to get rid of him because . . . I had no way to fight him.

Until now.

“I have to kill him, don’t I?” I said. “But how?”

Wiping his hand with the handkerchief, Red smiled.

“Kid, you’re asking a guy who killed a piece of himself to stay alive. This is the part I can’t help you with. But look at it this way: you can’t go to jail for killing a man who only exists in your head.”

“Have you told all this to Dr. Cross?” I asked.

“She can’t see me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’m not her patient.”

CHAPTER 15

THE LIBRARY

I couldn’t sleep that night. There was too much on my mind after Red’s talk. The next day seemed like the slowest day of my life. It was the day Mia was finally going to visit me.

I couldn’t stop pacing. I constantly checked the clock, waiting for 3:00 p.m. to arrive.

Regardless of everything going on in my head about the future and Frank and whether I would win this battle, I would do my best to put that all aside today. To just enjoy myself.

I played a few games of chess with Red, then spoke to Olivia in therapy about my excitement about seeing Mia. I didn’t mention Frank, though, or even the conversation I had with Red.

Deep down, I didn’t think Olivia would even understand or believe what had happened between Red and me the day before. And in many ways, neither could I. It seemed surreal and out of a movie. However, the knowledge I gained from it had been vital to the mission at hand. The whole incident with Red and the wound was powerful. I knew it would change the course of my life.

In the afternoon, I couldn’t eat. I just wasn’t hungry. I was far too nervous, so I walked around the hospital people-watching and trying to take my mind off Mia. I headed to the one place that brought me some peace: the library. It’s where I spent most of my free time. I didn’t yet have the mental stability to write, but I could read. The stories in the books transported me to other worlds. They let me become someone else. Not that I needed any help with that, but the stories in the books actually grounded me. It was the power of literature.

The library was beautiful. Especially for a nuthouse library. It was older, with mahogany shelves, worn-in reading chairs, and comforting low light. It was a sanctuary of sorts—wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling books, both fact and fiction. As a writer, being surrounded by literature made me feel at home. But it’s ironic, because, see, the funny thing is . . . so many books just don’t do it for me. I know, I know, “You’re a writer, how can you not like reading?” you’re asking. It’s not because I don’t want to, I really try, you know? Like legitimately, I’ve spent so much time trying . . . but most books just don’t grab me.

Take, for example, The Lord of the Rings. I just can’t stand it! Let’s be real here—I know the books are hailed as masterpieces. Tolkien goes into such detail, I mean, he has created an entire world with various races of living things inhabiting it. But fuck, dude, by page eighty I’m like, “Shit, you could have legit said this in ten pages, bro!”

But you see, that’s the type of reader I am. I