I don't know what happened on the 19th. I don't ever remember posting that. Did I?

I've been holed up in this house, going through some of the old rooms, finding odd things, but none of them really mattered. The attic is next. I'm afraid of going up there, because I don't know what I'll find. I haven't been up there since Charles died.

I was seventeen. He was twenty-four. Since he was actually born in England, he was allowed to join the Royal Air Force. So he did. He always wanted to be a pilot. Something about getting up high and in the clouds, a place where no one could touch him. He loved it.

It was his ninth flight that week. I don't know why he was so anxious to get up high. His commanding Lieutenant, Stephen Richmond, told him not to fly that day. Turbulence, I think it was. Besides, Charles was tired. Very tired. I had talked to him on the phone the day before, and he just sounded fatigued. He needed to rest, but his mind wouldn't let him. He wanted to get up in the air. Where he was safe.

Later that day, my mum got a call from Lieutenant Richmond. I was sitting in the kitchen listening to them talk. She started out quiet. Then, she started crying, reeling in to hysterics. I got up and took the phone from her, guiding her to a chair so I could talk with the Lieutenant. Yeah, sad enough, I remember that call.

Me: "Lieutenant? It's Will. We've talked before. What's going..."
Richmond: "Oh, yes. William. Charles' brother, yeah? You see, something terrible has happened."
Me: "What happened to him?"
Richmond: (he heaved a sigh) "We think Charles didn't check his plane before he took off in it. His gas was low and the landing gear needed some repairs. It was odd, because usually he was the best at making sure his plane was always inspected and in perfect condition for flight."
Me: "It couldn't have been his fault, was it?"
Richmond: "We also think his gauges were malfunctioning. It was just a bad day to go flying. Everything that would or could have gone wrong did. I... am terribly sorry for your loss."

He told me of the arrangements for his remains to be shipped here to us, where we could give him a proper burial. My mum was distraught for a long time after that. Gregory... wasn't fazed.

I... Gregory wasn't really a great father. He had detachment issues, and though he didn't show it, he... had quite a way of showing it.

Any way, the attic. Tomorrow.

But I'm wondering...

Should I start running? Like M says?


Adieu,
William A. Gordon

watching me

i dont know why HE is watching me. but HE is standing outside of my window and i

Interesting

Last night I had this dream.

It started out like... I don't know how to explain it. It was like I was remembering something in my past. Something that I clearly remembered. It started out with myself and my brother Charles, who was seven years my elder, sitting in our room at my grandparent's house in Germany. His house was right beside a heavily wooded area which stretched for a few miles in all directions. I never knew the exact measurements. But myself and Charles were curled up in the quilts on my bed, hiding within the sheets in our own personal cave, complete with a flashlight and a few sticks to ward off the monsters.

Charles was telling me the story of "Das Großmann", a tall man with long, multiple arms, who would hunt down bad children who would run away from home or disobey their parents. Das Großmann, known also as "The Tall Man", was a big, urban legend in Germany to keep the children from misbehaving. It worked pretty well. It scared the shit out of me when I was that young.

Anyways, after Charles told me the story, I refused to come out from under the covers, no matter how much he told me it was only a story, and nothing more. Not real. Fake. But I stayed under that blanket. So Charles thew the blankets off of us and shouted, "There is no such thing as Das Großmann! And I am going to prove it!" With that statement, Charles opened the window, climbed out (the house was one floor with a furnished basement), and ran in to the woods, deep in to the darkness. I jumped up, went to the window, and screamed after him to come back.

The whole time, I stood there and screamed and screamed and cried. My parents didn't hear me. They were sleeping. My grandmother, who was still awake at the time, rushed to my side, whispering something like, "William, was ist unrecht?" ("William, what is wrong?") I choked out, "Das Großmann," a few times and pointing at the window. Her face warped from concern to fear. She muttered something about him being a myth, that there was nothing to worry about, that Charles would be back soon, and that he was just going for some air. She muttered it so fast, like she was really afraid. She quickly left me alone.

He didn't come back for two hours. When he stumbled in the window, his clothes were bloody, his face was scratched, he was panting and he looked very distant. I hung on to him, refusing to let him go due to the fear of losing him for another two hours. He tried to pry me off a few times, but when he did, he avoided my eyes and undressed down to his underwear before climbing into his own bed, wrapping up in his sheets, and shuddering. I watched him for a while before he told me to close the window and go to sleep.

I was six; Charles was thirteen. He was never the same again.

That was the dream. Like... a flashback. I woke up with tears streaming down my face, my hands cold, clammy, shaking, my shoulders quivering, and a blistering headache with a sharp pain in the middle of my spine. I haven't cried in years. It was awful.

Again, I seemed to have moved again. I fell asleep in my bed and woke up on the couch. Either I've developed some form of sleep walking, without my plastic leg, or something strange is going on.

I'm going to do a little research.


Adieu,
William A. Gordon

Sorry

My internet failed for a few days. I don't even know if anyone is reading this blog, but hey, it makes me feel better to think that someone is actually listening to my ranting. But the thing that got me was that I just got the internet installed not too long ago. Last week, I think. So there would be no reason for it to fail, right? I had tried daily to get online to post something about my day (whoop-de-do) and it never let me connect. Now that I think about it, I probably should have typed it up on a Word Document or written it down on a piece of paper in a real journal. I think my laziness got ahead of me.

So I've been meaning to explain about my leg, right? Well, I don't know if I should. I know exactly what happened. No one else needs to know. That is my business and mine alone.

...sorry. I'm admittedly a little irritated right now. I haven't really slept too well the past few nights. Something didn't quite feel right in the house. Or maybe it was just me starting to get used to the solitude that came living in a house alone.

Tomorrow, I have therapy first thing in the morning. If anything strange happens, I'll be sure to write it down. Like, another instance with the disappearing tall man, per say.

Why did he bother me so much? I felt like I knew him or something. He was very familiar.

Well, tomorrow is a new day. I'll continue cleaning the house when I get back and go through my parent's old room. It hasn't been touched since they left. I bet everything would be covered in dust and all sorts of crap.

Oh well. All in a day's work.


Adieu,
William A. Gordon

Therapy

My therapist was acting a little weird today. As I was walking down the hall of her office building, a tall man (I mean really tall. He had to duck a little to go through the door) dressed in black was walking in to her office. That kind of ticked me off, because that was my time to see her. Not his. Nuh-huh. So when I barged in (like every good ticked off cripple), the man wasn't there. Just my therapist, who looked up at me with that "What the fuck?" look on her face. And of course I was left there, leaning like the Tower of Pisa on my lovely cane, blubbering like a fish thrown on the river bank.

After being scolded for lack of manners, we got to business. That was when I noticed she was acting a little off. This is basically what went down:

Me: "What's wrong with you?"
Doc: "What is that supposed to mean?"
Me: "You're... acting weird. Kind of disconnected. And believe me, I know what disconnected looks like."
Doc: "I have no idea what you're talking about." (That tone was very defensive)
Me: "Does my therapist need a therapist?"
Doc: "Drop it. You are getting off topic. Now, about your therapy..."

And that was that.

Now, it's time for dinner - turkey on white. I am living the big life!


Adieu,
William A. Gordon

Errands

A day out on the town. That is basically all this was today. Around nine in the morning, my biological clock woke me up, but it left me feeling exhausted. But by noon, I was out of the house taking care of unfinished business and buying food for the week. Just simple errands. Nothing too extravagant.

I made it home by three in the afternoon, at which point I promptly took an hour long nap, but it only felt like five minutes. And it was strange, because I swore I had fallen asleep on the couch, but I ended up in my bed on the second floor, without my plastic leg. I mean, I take it off before any nap or if I am going to bathe or something, and I was sure I took it off before falling asleep on the couch. After hobbling down the stairs, sure enough, my leg was resting on the coffee table, right where I remembered putting it.

Well, there was no use dwelling on that. There was more important things to do.

About this house. A few years ago, long after I had left the house in the first place, my parents just up and left without any prior notice. All in the same day, they canceled the electricity, the cable, everything that was needed to keep the house furnished. They left the house in my name, but since the house was long paid off, I had nothing to do to keep it in my possession. Since that day, I heard not a word from either of them. It was like they dropped off of the face of the Earth.

Jeeze, where has the time gone? I did not get to go over what I needed to, but tomorrow is always another day. Therapy tomorrow, then some house cleaning.


Adieu,
William A. Gordon

Home is where the heart is?

It has been so long since I set foot in this old, run down house, that I had to stop and remember where everything was. The living room was rearranged, but my room upstairs was left unattended. A thin layer of dust covered just about everything with a surface, making me sneeze when I flopped on to my old futon (beds are for rich people). The water in my fish bowl was dry, and the fish was... dead, for lack of a gruesome tale. I emptied it out as soon as I saw it, giving him a one flush salute. Adios, flesh and bone remains of Castor the goldfish. May you swim with all the other fish in the... sky?

All of the stairs in this house was killing my nub of a leg. Yeah, I am missing everything below my left knee. It was torn off in a car accident I had about a year ago. The whole thing was just a bloody mess, sending me in to a week long coma. However, the coma was gladly accepted when I woke up and noticed I was missing something very important below the belt (the gutters is no place for a dirty mind). At least they had the audacity and common knowledge to remove it while I was indisposed. Thank you, kind nurses and doctors. I still hate you and your fetish for jamming needles into my flesh and veins.

If you haven't noticed by now, I am jumpy when it comes to topics.

As for the point of this blog, my therapist recommended I kept a journal of some sorts to "aid in the healing process". I didn't understand what the healing process was for, but anything to keep her off my white ass. But I refused the journal and settled for a blog. Welcome to the twenty-first century, bitches.

Well, it is a quarter past eleven o'clock (give or take a few minutes) and I have to be up bright and early to run some errands. Tomorrow is a new day, maybe a bright and shiny new post, and the possibility that I will talk about my missing leg (because, you know, people stare).


Adieu,
William A. Gordon