She raises questions for the dead, giving them the chance for answers when time wipes the memories away. Chelsea hammers down the light swamped corridor, possible invigorating answers show in her focused eyes as everyone not part of her promise parts to let her past. Her dark blue overcoat wafts and flickers behind her. In her right arm she has folders of paperwork, the corners of photographs try to escape within the emergency she exhibits; in her left hand she clenches onto a flask of coffee which she slurps in-between breaths. She is a beautiful woman, very well kept, her make-up suggests to all she is more mature for her mid-twenties age she actually is. Her brunette hair belts against her face trying to cover her from some sort of truth, she brushes it away with a jerk of her head as her mind has already been made-up to see all. A young man is running in the opposite direction towards Chelsea, waving more papers in the air.
“The Holy Grail, Doc! We’ve found the friggin’ Holy Grail to it all, baby!” The male storms.
“Matt, this is the museum of world history, not a wrestling match, lower your voice.” Chelsea hisses in her American accent.
“Sorry, Doc…” He softens.
Matt, an unkempt bedraggled man, with monstrous black framed glasses circles around as Chelsea points into the paperwork before adding it to the pile she holds. Chelsea halts and scans over the papers.
“I had to take a couple of glances as well.” Matt speaks.
“Did they find it on site? Is it still intact?” She looks up and asks him shockingly out of breath.
“Look further into the findings. Everything is still there, still readable. The diggers didn’t find it on site; they found it at the base of a huge oak tree on the outskirts of the excavation site. It was buried with a man-made box; wrapped in, wait for it, four hundred year old leather. This could be a real account on what happened there.”
The pair walk up to a large door, Chelsea shrugs to show she cannot move. Matt reaches into his back pocket and retrieves his I.D. card which he swipes at a machine beside of the door. As soon as the doors open the clatter of debating natter and orders shatter through the silence. Chelsea rolls her eyes before she enters the room. She places down the plethora of paperwork on a large counter top.
“Okay, okay, okay, quieten down. I know we are all exciting about the buzz from the dig, we are here to do a job; we’re gonna’ break off into three teams and go over what was in this box. Team leaders will be Thompson and Rimmer, only until the first body arrives. Okay, let’s take care and gather as much info as possible. Let’s go.” Chelsea firmly barks orders.
The team disburses and scatters like flies around body parts. Chelsea and Matt walk over towards the book. It is propped up on a transparent plastic stand, opened at the middle page, six interns corner the pages.
“This is a really a unique find; at the start of the book all you have are names of people, certain places and dates, from the nine A.D. till Piper Morris, eighteen sixteen, before it begins onto this title section. Ah, Good morning, Doctor.” A young female intern declares before she takes a step back. The six interns stand to attention towards Chelsea. Chelsea ties up her hair, indecisively creeping her eyes over her soldiers of the past.
“Good morning all. We don’t have a lot of time to study these items, so time is really of the essence here people.”
“We have already taken the correct precautions and have handled it with the proper methods, doctor; we are turning the pages with cotton-bud pincers.” The female intern nods towards Chelsea.
Chelsea almost says something but the book takes her attention from everyone in the room. The pages of the book are murky with time. Chelsea puts on her rubber gloves, she holds her right hand over the title page to try to feel its presence. A smile is drawn upon her face. Her eyes are dragged across the page. Matt walks over to a computer and begins typing.
These are my last thoughts of my lost soul. I wrote my days I spent with her. Not by my hands but from my love, death came. This is the diary of an immortal.
“Wow, this is amazing. Kingston may have its answer within this journal. There has been no detailed account of anything and this is the only record that has been found, even close to this town.” Chelsea holds in her excitement with a clenched fist pressed against her lips.
“That’s not what’s going to excite you. Are you ready, Doc? Drum-roll, dum-da-da-dumm. The inks on the pages are dated around two hundred years old, thus putting the date of when it was written around the time of when the town disappeared.” Matt says from over a computer monitor. He walks around and stands at Chelsea’s side.
“Well the book itself is predating Roman times, wrapped in real animal skin and the jewels on the cover, yes; they are real, very pricy and rare. The odd thing about this book, it is divided into two sections, in the first part of the book; the pages are just names, dates and locations, could be a bookies list. And on the second part of the book this is where we are up too. What do you want to do? Do you want to read it?” He quietly inquires.
Chelsea stands tough in stun.
“Pull up a chair because I am staying until it’s finished.” She puts forth.
An intern hands her some cotton-bud pincers. She takes hold of the top right corner of the page and flicks it over gently.
I am flirting with fire; from normality I had cold-feet. I am a kerfuffle of trouble, there’s no saving me now as I have mushroom-clouds for thought bubbles. They lacerate my world believing they killed me, I’m letting slip my dogs of war until they know me as a reformed super villain. Challenge Completed, Planet Earth; I’m spinning out-of-control, no fault of my own, I couldn’t keep hold. I’m a libertine shoulder barging my way through the captive creators; I’m writing on black paper in the dark.
No brain freeze or frisson, picking up lightening-bolts and throwing them at the pages of rapture I capture. This is merely reverie I reveal and unravel, I time-travel back and thwart all my enemies plans for me. I am no poltroon, I pollute pages personally I made it personal because I am no longer a person. The rain trickles down and washes away all my plights from my face, I change my mind and change my face and I am giving the world hell again, true evil is holding a pen. My calm levels are unstable, upon this page I have too much sycophantic horsepower, I bucking-bronco my way out from this web of life.
In school, after Maths was English class where I jotted down my aftermath from the bullies pulley, I guess I’m pure vile and puerile, I’m not a Transformer I can transmogrify. Rambunctious to my soul’s battery core; setting my switch to self-destruction. A man can only receive so much failure in his life before superiority takes over his eyes focus. Insanity is a gift from the Gods; I wield and shield it against sanity.
This world sees what they want to see; I could have charming characteristics, suave and soigné, hats off to me, my undercurrent is currently a catastrophe. All passengers, we have a slight insurgence for turbulence and wizen, please, fasten your seatbelts and come join me within my plummet. Its drizzling green and yellow pills, I’m dancing in the pain, I jump in blood puddles and reappear in sky tunnels of bliss. This hurt in my head I play it over and over again, until a joker smirk arises on my face, I’m no longer insane, isn’t life splendiferous.
Within my writing I cannot be a stentorian, so I must visual lies my memory video-taped life, transplant and transport all of my supercilious kisses of life, these pages are where my wishes go to find a place to die. This world should have boxed me in early, now I can create topsy-turvy from everything that profoundly promotes to hurt me. Here comes the valetudinarian again, turn away, don’t dare turn that page, it’s all of the same. I could be a beacon of silver-lining light, but the doctors beat my head in with a rock to keep me under it for eternity. I am a writer, this is what I do, keep bringing you words and I shall sit here and laugh at you.