The last day!! This has been an amazing adventure!!!
"A concert pianist loses her hand in a car accident.'"
Dr. Bradley, tall, dark, handsome, usually bright eyes. Anya typically felt flustered and faint around him, embarrassed by the constant blush that invaded her cheeks whenever he would look at her and smile. So many times, he had stood in this same spot, holding her hand - professionally, of course, but it nevertheless caused her to wonder what it would be like to have him hold her hand unprofessionally, romantically. Now he stood next to her with a stern, serious look, concentrating on carefully removing the gauze that enveloped her hand. Thoughts of him as anything more than her surgeon were locked away, as fear took over the prominent position in the forefront of her psyche.
She felt her breathing ratchet up with every revelation of the gauze, until the very tips of her fingers poked through the end. Dr. Bradley stopped to look at them, touch them, inspect them, and then take a deep breath and continue the process of revealing more of the surgically re-attached hand. Anya dared to glimpse at her fingers, drawn to the deep purple pooled within the tips, making them unrecognizable as fingers. She turned her head away, feeling her stomach roll, and the acid within it slosh mercilessly.
Memories flooded her vision; her first piano lesson, the endless hours of practice, the scholarship to NYU, and the first time she stepped out on stage as a professional concert pianist. A lifetime spent becoming the best was now in jeopardy of being nothing more than a series of recollections of what once was. It seemed like it had all happened in slow motion, but was over in an instant. Her foot coming off the brake, hitting the gas, halfway through the intersection, the glint in her periphery, the truck, the force of the collision, the pain, the intense pain, the blood, the screams (had they been hers?), lying on the gurney, looking at the ceiling as the fluorescent lights passed by overhead creating a strobe effect. The mask coming over her mouth, the long sleep, the longer recovery. The handsome Dr. Bradley explaining her hand being reattached, the 95% probability of success. It was surreal. It was her reality.
She kept her eyes averted from her future, unable to face the uncertainty of an unwrapped hand.
"While looking through his recently deceased grandfather's attic, a young man finds a box containing old newspaper clippings about an as yet unidentified serial rapist."
The attic was musty and hot and smelled old. Not like old people, so much; that smell seemed to be confined to the lower levels of the 1912 Victorian home of his grandparents. No, the attic had a stench all its own. It also had an undeniable mystique. Allen, named for his recently-deceased grandfather (making him a “second” NOT a “junior,” his mother had stated emphatically) had not been in the dusty, dirty top floor since he was eight-years-old. During that ill-fated visit, he had made it to the large chest not quite in the center of the room before his grandfather had grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back down the narrow staircase. Allen could still recall with a quickening of his heart rate the wild, blazing eyes of the old man, as he shook the boy, hollering at him, “What the hell do you think you are doing? You are never – NEVER – to go up into the attic ever again! Do you understand me?”
Then eight-year-old Allen had just stared at the man, wide-eyed and fearful, only able to nod before twisting out of the old man’s strong grasp and running to the backyard. Now twenty-year-old Allen, standing in nearly the same spot, shook himself out of his reverie, and placed his hands on the chest, slowly opening it. The hinges creaked and groaned, not wanting to betray the secrets held inside. His grandfather had been such a private man; Allen had no idea who he was or what he had been. Grandpa Allen was an enigma, an island, a virtual nobody – but that was all about to change.
The stale mildew aroma of the trunk assaulted him, and he stood for a moment waiting for it to pass, or for his nose to fully acclimate. A lone wooden box sat at the bottom of the chest, too small for the large area it inhabited. Pulling it out, and placing on the floor in front of his knees, Allen lifted the lid and anxiously peered inside. To his wonderment, a mass of yellow, brittle, historic newspaper clippings filled the container, inviting Allen’s investigation into a world he would soon wish he had not ventured.
Carefully unfolding the top artifact, Allen’s eyes are instantly drawn to the large heading over the front page news story from May 20, 1954:
Fear Grips Elkwood Neighborhood as Elusive Rapist Claims Another Victim
Allen read the article, flattened it against the dusty floor, and carefully unfolded the next clipping. His apprehensive scrutiny mirrored the growing anxiety building within him, as his breathing became more pronounced, his heart rate sped slightly, and his mind tried to process the connection between the guarded “first” man and the concealed stories of the past.
"For the love of God, don't tell me that you lost the freaking map."
Celia glanced excitedly over at her boyfriend, Max, trying to keep her increasing excitement in check as Max navigated toward the tiny Italian village. Max’s face mirrored the anxiety he was feeling, and the level of concentration he was dedicating to the many twists, turns, and random farmer in the road in the sleepy town of not more than 350 people.
He felt as if he knew the place well, after years and years of listening intently to his grandfather speak of the small village where he had grown up. So many hours had been spent hanging on the man’s every word as he retold of how he had found the map, buried within the rubble of his neighbor’s farmhouse after the Nazi’s had procured the residence, pilfered it of all its essentials, and then burnt the dwelling to the ground. No one noticed, or seemed to place any value on, the map that spoke of riches beyond any one king, entombed within the bowels of the earth in the sleepy farming community, where nothing exciting ever happens, and the richest man is the one that still has money left at the end of the month.
Max still had family here, although not many and very distant, but enough that he could call upon them for a room and a meal while he and Celia searched for their future under the guise of touring the Italian countryside. Max knew enough Italian to get by, taught by his grandfather until his death, and then taking classes in high school and college. He grinned as he recalled arguing with his advisor about the required language credits for graduation. Max assumed the requirements were not put in place for exactly this reason, but he was going to thank the board of education, anyway. Perhaps he would toss them a shilling or two, for good measure.
Settled snuggly in their room on the top floor of cousin- twice-removed Rosalia’s house, Celia flopped onto the bed, and snickered at Max. “So, when did we get married?”
Max smiled sheepishly at her, “I had to tell them we were married. They never would have let us stay together otherwise,” Max offered as explanation, peering at her to note her reaction.
“Well, I suggest you start treating me a little better, husband of mine, or I will spill the proverbial beans, and you will be out on your keester,” Celia had a wicked glint in her eye, a subtle humor in her tone, and Max decided to have a little fun with the woman he knew he would someday promise his life and love forever.
Looking up at her, shocked surprise, laced with undeniable horror, he asked her, “Do you have the map?”
Celia sat up in bed, instantly serious, grasping at the heart pendant around her necklace, as she did whenever she was anxious. “What!?! You said you had it!” She bounced herself over to the edge of the bed, and slid down onto the floor next to Max, assisting in pulling garments out of the suitcase. “"For the love of God, don't tell me that you lost the freaking map."
The room was quiet, as she finally lifted her head to meet his gaze. Max sat in front of her with an ear-to-ear grin plastered across his face, waving the discolored carefully folded parchment in front of Celia.
Round One goes to Max.
