Disclaimer: Does anyone ever read these things? I mean, if nobody has sued me yet I doubt they ever will. But just to be on the safe side, none of these characters are mine. I "borrowed" them all. I didn't make a dime so no one gets royalties.

Be warned - This story contains a major character death with no chance for recovery. I am going to rip out your heart and stomp on it. This is going to be a serious tearjerker so get your Kleenex ready. If I don't make you cry, I have failed. If you don't like a good cry now and then, read no further.

-

The Last Notebook Part 1

Prologue

By Phenyx
-

Miss Parker's car squealed around the corner and pulled into the parking lot. She hastily killed the engine and climbed out of the car. She allowed herself a moment to look up at the building with dread.

Blue Cove Memorial Hospital looked as normal as any other hospital. Red ambulance emblems marked the front drive and big white signs directed visitors toward parking areas and the emergency room entrance. Parker took a deep breath and headed for the automatic doors that led into the main lobby of the hospital.

Stopping at the information desk, Miss Parker spoke to the waiting attendant.

"My name is Miss Parker. I'm looking for a Dr. Carsdayle." Parker said.

The young man glanced at a clip board and responded, "Yes, Miss Parker. The doctor is expecting you. Neurology is on the fourth floor. Take the main elevators then turn to the left. Check in at the nurse's station and they will direct you from there."

As the lift took Miss Parker to the fourth floor, she chewed her lip in concern. Dr. Carsdayle had contacted her less than an hour ago but he had been disturbingly vague during the brief conversation. How the physician had gotten her cell phone number, Parker didn't know. His simple statement had been enough to render Parker speechless.

"Miss Parker? This is Dr. Carsdayle from Blue Cove Memorial," the man had said as though she should recognize his name. "Jarod's condition has turned critical. As his next of kin, we'll need you here as soon as possible."

When Parker reached the nurse's station in the neurological ward, she was stunned to find Sydney already waiting.

"Syd," she asked breathlessly. "What is going on?"

"I'm not sure, Miss Parker," the older man replied. "I've only just arrived myself."

A pretty blond nurse spoke. "If you will both follow me, please. Dr. Carsdayle is dealing with an emergency at the moment. You can wait in this area until the doctor arrives."

It was another thirty minutes before a paunchy balding man in green surgical scrubs finally entered the small waiting room. Parker and Sydney both jumped to their feet as though attached to springs.

With a sigh the doctor said, "Sorry for the delay. But I had to perform a tracheotomy so that we could intubate him properly. I know how Jarod felt about artificial respiration, but there are tests we still need to run in order to determine which organs will be harvestable."

Parker gasped. Sydney, equally stunned, sank down onto the padded couch.

The doctor was alarmed by their reactions. "Forgive my callousness. Jarod did speak with you regarding his desire to donate his organs, didn't he? We have the paperwork on file with his living will. I urge you both to follow his wishes in this. Jarod has a rare blood type which makes this final gift from him all the more precious to others."

For a long moment, there was nothing but stunned silence in the room.

Finally Miss Parker whispered, "Is he dead?"

"Thanks to the respirator, he is still breathing," the doctor said. "His heart is pumping blood. But there is zero brain activity."

"What happened?" Sydney asked in a strangled voice.

"I'm told that he was on the beach," Carsdayle said. "Building sand castles with a couple of the neighborhood kids. He simply collapsed." The doctor sat down beside Sydney and placed a consoling hand on the psychiatrist's shoulder. "We knew that the end could come very quickly. Better for it to happen this way rather than drag out painfully over time."

Folding her arms over her chest defensively, Parker shoved aside her shock and dismay. "But that is the problem doctor," she snarled. "We didn't know anything."

The doctor glanced from one to the other in surprise. Shaking his head sadly Carsdayle said, "He didn't tell you."

"No," Parker said. "We haven't heard from him in nearly four months. I didn't even know he was in Delaware, let alone living less than twenty minutes from my own house." How could this stranger understand how amazing it was to find Jarod here in Blue Cove?

"Dr. Carsdayle," Sydney asked slowly. "Please, tell us about Jarod's condition."

"I've been treating Jarod for about six weeks," the doctor began. "He'd been to half a dozen specialists in the months before he came here. All gave him the same diagnosis. A massive inoperable tumor had developed deep within the temporal and occipital lobes of his brain. The growth was the size of a golf ball before it was discovered." The doctor sighed and ran one hand across his bald head.

"By the time Jarod came to me," Carsdayle continued. "He knew that his days were numbered. His condition deteriorated rapidly. All I could do was try to make him as comfortable as possible."

Parker swallowed. "Was he in pain?" She asked.

"Sometimes," the doctor admitted. "As the tumor damaged more and more of the surrounding brain tissue, there were frequent migraines. On occasion, he saw bright flashing lights even though he'd lost all vision in his left eye. He suffered from sudden attacks of sharp pain in his temples."

"What can we do now, Doctor?" Sydney asked quietly.

"I'm sorry," Carsdayle said. "When Jarod told me that his personal affairs were all in order, I assumed that he had discussed final arrangements with you."

"Why us?" Parker cried.

Carsdayle shrugged. "Jarod listed you both as next of kin when he filled out his paperwork. There's nothing we can do for him. But if you would sign the organ donation forms, Jarod could still save some other lives."

"May we see him?" Sydney asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Carsdayle stood. "Of course. It will take two or three hours to wrap up our tests and determine the recipients."

"So you'll keep him alive only that much longer," Parker hissed.

"I know it sounds gruesome, Miss Parker," the doctor said. "But it will make all the difference for those lucky enough to receive these organs."

Sydney sighed tearfully. "Jarod would want it this way, Miss Parker," he said.

"I know," she admitted.

The doctor left and the pretty blonde girl returned to lead them to the intensive care section. Jarod lay alone in a room, still and unmoving in the hospital bed. Computer screens blipped and beeped around the room as another machine regularly forced air into Jarod's motionless form.

Aside from the plastic tubing protruding from his cotton wrapped throat, Jarod looked perfectly normal. His bare chest, taped with cardiac monitors, was as broad and muscular as always. His skin had a healthy bronze tone to it as though he'd spent the last few weeks at the beach. Dark circles under his eyes were the only visible sign that he was unwell.

"It looks like he's just sleeping," Sydney whispered as they stood at his bedside.

Parker brushed her fingertips across Jarod's cheek, enthralled by the thick darkness of his eyelashes. She shook her head sadly. "He isn't there anymore," she whispered. "His presence is gone."

Sydney took one of Jarod's limp hands in his own and held it tightly. "The world has diminished in losing him," he said softly.

Parker swallowed. Standing opposite Sydney on the other side of the bed she whispered, "What do I do now, Pez-head?"

They stood that way in silence for a long time. The only sound was the rhythmic hiss of the respirator and the staccato beeps of the monitors.

A nurse came in and checked the incision in Jarod's neck. Casting the two visitors a knowing look of condolence she said softly, "There are some personal effects that just came up from the emergency room. Things he had with him when he collapsed." She paused then added, "I could bring them to you."

Parker nodded. "Thank you."

A few minutes later, a large plastic bag taped shut at the top sat on the bed at Jarod's feet. Sydney and Miss Parker stared at it from their respective positions at Jarod's sides. After a long thoughtful moment, Parker abruptly grabbed the bag and tore it open.

The first items out of the bag were a tee shirt and a pair of shorts. These were followed by deck shoes and a brightly colored beach towel. The last item to emerge was a denim pouch, roughly the size of a small attaché case. The pouch had a thick shoulder strap for easy transport and an overlapping flap to protect its contents.

With a knowing glance across the bed at Sydney, Parker took the pouch by the end and dumped everything out. A jumbled assortment of Jarod paraphernalia scattered across the bed. Prescription bottles mixed in amongst a handful of Pez dispensers, two packages of Twinkies and a money clip wadded with cash. There were three laminated cards: a driver's license in the name of Jarod Russell, a medical card defining Jarod's current medications and a small plastic coated picture of Jarod's mother. There were several writing utensils, both pencils and pens, as well as a handful of loose change.

Resting gracefully at the bottom of the rubble, glaring brightly against the white sheets, was a thick red notebook.

With a steady hand that showed no sign of the trembling she felt inside, Miss Parker retrieved the notebook. For a moment, she turned it over in her hands, savoring the feel of it and caressing the smooth cover.

"That will be the last one he ever leaves for us," Sydney gasped woefully.

Parker glanced at her old friend. Sydney's cheeks were wet with tears as he mourned his beloved protégé. Parker felt his pain. It sliced through her own soul with a white-hot intensity that she hardly believed possible. Yet her outward appearance was as stony and calm as always.

Opening the tightly packed notebook, Parker flipped rapidly through the numerous pages. There were no newspaper clippings, only page after page of handwritten text. The handwriting, firm and strong on most of the pages, was sometimes little more than shaky scrawls. A small number of the sheets contained detailed sketches in pencil. The last two dozen or more sheets were blank.

Parker quickly closed the book and held it out to Sydney. "You should probably read it first, Syd."

The psychiatrist flinched away as though she had offered him a live snake. "I can't," Sydney whispered. "You read it. Read it aloud to me now, while some part of him is still here with us."

"Are you sure, Sydney?" Parker asked skeptically. "There may be things in here meant only for you."

"He may have left it for you to find, Parker," Sydney countered. "Read it. Quickly. We haven't much time left."

Nodding grimly, Parker took a deep breath, turned back the cover, and began reading the last of Jarod's red notebooks.

Disclaimer: See part 1

07/26/03

-

The Last Notebook Part 2

Notebook Part 1

By Phenyx
I was right. The doctor confirmed my suspicions.

He showed me all the test results. The tumor is bigger than a golf ball and located in the worst possible spot. With the symptoms I'm currently having and their increasing severity, the doctor estimates that I have four to six months before I go terminal.

Personally, I think I've got three months at the outside.

It's strange, knowing that my time left on this earth is finite and distinctly measurable. My thoughts keep racing, trying to figure some way out of this predicament. Maybe the tests are wrong. Maybe the doctor was mistaken. I could be wrong. Please oh please, just this one time I need to be wrong. I'll see another doctor, get a second opinion.

I'm in denial. I know that. But I'm not one to give in easily. If I were, Parker would have caught me ages ago. I'll fight this as long as I can. I will not go gently into that dark night.

Maybe the tests were wrong.

Christ, I'm thinking in circles. I can't stop. The dismay, hope and desperation chase each other through my brain like a dog chases its tail. I'm hoping that keeping this journal will help me sort through this. I need to stay focused or I may simply drive myself crazy.

Of course, if I were insane, my last days would be spent totally ignorant of my impending demise. There's an idea.

The irony of the situation is that my mind has always been my special gift. Now it is killing me. The exquisite paradox of it all seems so fitting. Perhaps this is my penance at last. The part of me that was responsible for taking so many innocent lives in the past will now be responsible for taking my own.

--

I can't sleep. It seems like such a waste of precious time. I'm in Chicago. Tomorrow I will run the gamut of tests again. A platoon of doctors and interns will poke and prod at me until my arms resemble some odd pincushion of flesh. They are all sadists.

What can one do in the middle of the night? I'm sitting at a platform, watching the L-train roar by at regular intervals. Every once in a while someone gets off at this stop. They are strange bedraggled people who live their lives on a different schedule from the rest of the world. They are the graveyard shift workers who lead an existence in the dark by choice.

What am I doing? Writing down whatever comes to mind, vomiting my thoughts onto the page like some angst-ridden college student in a creative writing class.

This is pitiful. There's a tavern on the corner. I should go down and see if I can find someone to keep me company tonight. You can always find lonely people in the bars late on weeknights. Perhaps I'll join them.

--

Damn them all. Two different doctors gave me the same diagnosis today. One of them even suggested that I put my affairs in order. I told him to go to hell.

There's a hospital in Cleveland with a topnotch neurological staff. I've booked a flight for this evening. With a little luck I can get in to see one of the doctors in a day or two. Money opens those doors for me quite readily. Centre reserves are providing the cash I need. If Raines doesn't like it he can kiss my ass.

--

Cleveland sucks.

It's raining and dreary. Everything has that heavy, dirty-wet smell to it. I'm sitting in a bus station waiting for a Greyhound to take me away from here. I don't even know what destination they have stamped on my ticket. I'm just getting on the next bus and riding it until they kick me off.

I don't care where I wind up, as long as it is not here. I'm tired and irritable. Half a dozen Twinkies later and I'm still angry.

Having people tell me I'm doomed makes me cranky I guess.

--

I'm dying.

Now I've said it out loud as well as written it down. I'm dying.

The bus arrived in Kansas City this afternoon. I had fallen asleep and was awakened by the bus driver at the end of the line. But upon waking, I was blinded by a quick succession of excruciatingly bright lights. They flashed painfully across my vision like intense strobe lights. It took a moment before I realized that I was the only one who could see them.

I managed to stumble off the bus and into the station. I could barely walk but I made it to the restroom where I promptly locked myself in a stall and threw up. I don't know how long I sat there on the cold tile retching but eventually the flashes began to subside. The lights are gone now. But I can still see spots when I close my eyes and there is a sharp pain shooting through my head.

It was a graphic demonstration of the seriousness of my condition.

I found a small park and bought something to eat. It is a glorious day. The sun is shining and there isn't a cloud in the sky. I have a desperate need to find an ice cream vendor.

What am I going to do? My time is so limited. How will I spend my last few weeks?

Is it enough time to find my family? Do I still want to?

No. I think not. That would be too cruel to them. I can't meet them again only to have them mourn me a month later. They have suffered enough on my account. I won't bring them more pain. Let them continue to hope, to trust that we'll find each other someday.

So that still leaves the question, what do I do now?

The throbbing in my head makes it hard to think. I'll find a motel and crash for a while. I'll have a new perspective after a little rest.

--

God, what a nightmare! I'm still trembling.

It's late, just before three AM. I'm sitting in the dark and I'm scared shitless.

I dreamt that I was all alone in a cemetery and the dead crawled out of their graves to drag me into hell with them. The vision was gruesome in its detail. I even recognized some of the faces, victims of my simulations. Parker's father was there.

I find my hand hovering over the phone. I want to call her so badly. The need is a physical ache in my gut. But I know that I won't do it. The sound of her voice would send me into a fit of emotional despair. She'd growl insults at me and I would beg her come for me. I'd give anything thing right now to feel her touch, to know that I am not alone.

But I cannot let her know. I can't risk being caught now. The thought that my final days would be spent in The Centre makes me shudder. I can't die in that place. If I did, my soul would surely haunt those terrifying halls for all eternity. Hell would seem like a vacation resort by comparison.

No one should ever have to die alone. I'm not really afraid of dying. I have faced death many times in my life.

Dying alone terrifies me. I can imagine it only too well. My body would lie unclaimed in the morgue for an undetermined amount of time. With a little luck I could wind up on some medical student's dissection table. My final resting place would be an unmarked grave.

No one would ever know that I was gone.

No one would remember that I had been here.

They were right. It is time to put my affairs in order, time to think about these things. I want to be cremated. It's safer that way, less risk that Raines will have his way with my remains. I want a tombstone to mark my passing. I want there to be proof that I was here.

Jarod lived. Jarod died. In between he made a difference. I have to believe that. I need to believe it. I will.

The Last Notebook

Notebook Part 2

By Phenyx
-

I'm in a morbid mood.

I couldn't get back to sleep so I just grabbed my things and started walking. I walked through the darkened city until I found a good place to watch the sunrise. There will be so few sunrises.

Once daylight had come, I continued wandering aimlessly. I had no goal in mind. I just strolled down the sidewalks and watched the people go by.

They are such idiots.

I saw a woman burst into tears when some poor fellow in a hard hat bumped into her. He spilled coffee across her blouse and ruined the fabric. The silly nit was absolutely distraught. The man was kind enough, very apologetic. But she screamed at him like a banshee. She probably ruined his day. Idiots.

What would I give to have such normal, inconsequential problems in my life? I would gladly wear scalding hot coffee everyday of my life, if in return I could buy myself a little more time.

Just before noon, I came across a funeral procession. A long line of cars, headlights aglow, inched slowly down the road I was trying to cross. Little purple flags marked "Funeral" were hooked to each vehicle. Why do they do that? Are they hoping observers will say a small prayer? Show some sign of respect? Or are they a sign to remind the survivors how lucky they are?

I don't know why I did it, but I followed the solemn parade all the way to the cemetery.

I watched the memorial service and listened to a dozen people tell us all how much Mark will be missed. I have no clue who this Mark character was but he sure had a lot of friends. There was a pretty brunette woman standing at the graveside bawling her eyes out. She had no wedding ring so I'm guessing that she was a girlfriend.

I've decided that I hate Mark.

It isn't fair that so many people have come to pay their respects to him. There are dozens of people here. Grown men have tears in their eyes. I envy him.

I will have no one to mourn me. Except Sydney perhaps. If I can find some way to notify him, Sydney will stand by my grave.

But then again, if Sydney comes, so will Raines. That ghoul won't let them bury me. He'll have me preserved, save my pieces and parts for his cloning project. Sydney won't be able to stop him.

Parker could stop Raines if she wanted to. It has always been in her power to do so. She just doesn't see that. I wonder if she would care enough to bother.

The service has ended. Small knots of people stand about, consoling each other. The weeping woman has been led away to a limousine parked nearby. I'm beginning to get strange looks. They are wondering about this stranger as I sit on a stone bench writing thoughtfully in my little book.

I shouldn't stay much longer.

--

Someone please help me.

It is nearly ten thirty. I'm sitting in a coffee shop somewhere along Main Street. I'm sweating and still shaking. My heart is pounding in my chest. My handwriting is barely legible. I think the waitress is afraid of me. They are few other customers this late at night. If I were her I'd be concerned too.

It seemed so innocuous at the time. Stroll through the cemetery and read a few epitaphs. Maybe decide what I want mine to say. I had decided that I don't want fresh flowers at my grave. They wilt. A handful of days later they droop abandoned and limp over the freshly turned soil. They seem forlorn, accentuating the fact that the world has gone on. It won't stop when I'm gone.

I noticed how many trees there are in most cemeteries. Many people want to be placed beneath some aged old oak. I lay in the grass and looked up at the green blanket of leaves above me. They blocked out the sky. I didn't like that. I love the crystalline blue expanse too much.

I fell asleep in the graveyard. Why would I have done something so stupid?

When I woke, it was dark. The silence around me was deafening. The shadowy tombs were terrifying. It was as though they beckoned to me. Silent yet ominous blackness seemed to crowd me so oppressively that I could barely breath. The ground beneath my feet as I stood felt soft and pliant, eager to take me in its embrace. I've never been so frightened of the dark as I was in those moments.

I ran. I ran until my lungs ached and my legs began to wobble beneath me. As if I could outrun fate, I pushed myself as far and as fast as I could. Running is what I do best after all.

It isn't fair.

Damn it, IT JUST ISNT FAIR!

Haven't I paid enough? Haven't I sacrificed enough of my life to sorrow? Fate hates me. If there is a God, I must have truly pissed him off in some prior lifetime.

It isn't fair.

I heard once that only the good die young. Lyle will probably live to be a hundred. I suppose there is a bright side to this, a silver lining so to speak. He won't catch me. In falling prey to the clutches of death, I will deprive Lyle of his prize. How furious will he be when he learns that I have eluded him for all eternity?

The thought almost makes me smile.

I need to make some decisions. This aimlessness brings me only depression and despair. I am wallowing in self pity and fear. I need to find focus. I can't continue to wander. My condition prevents it. The blinding migraine I had on the bus warns me that I can no longer drive. I could endanger others if I should have another attack while behind the wheel of a car.

I don't want to stay here, but I must choose someplace soon. I think I'll head to the airport and decide where to spend the rest of my life when I buy my ticket.

This journal was a good idea. The writing is soothing and helps to calm my nerves. It helps.

--

I've decided.

It's funny really. The final ironic twist of my life but it seems so obvious to me now. It was the cab driver who helped me to choose.

His name was Chuck and he was enjoyably talkative during the forty-five minute drive to the airport. It was after midnight by the time he picked me up outside the café and I was the first fare he'd had in over an hour. He chatted me up really well, working hard for his tip.

He asked me where I was from. I answered him automatically, without thought, the same as I have to others I have met during my travels.

Delaware.

I'm from Delaware. Regardless of where I was born or the circumstances of my life that took me to that rocky coast, deep down inside I am from Delaware. I have horrifying memories of my childhood there. But some of my remembrances are so very sweet. A certain kiss comes immediately to my mind.

Aside from a few happenstances of the past couple of years, every truthfully happy moment in my life has occurred in Delaware. Those are moments in my life that I hold precious. There are people there who are dear to me.

Chuck dropped me off at the terminal and I obliged him with a hefty tip. The next flight to Dover isn't for several hours. It will be the red eye flight with layovers in Chicago and Boston.

After buying my ticket, I have settled in to wait. To pass the time, I used my laptop to scout out locations. I need a safe place to stay. I quickly found a beachfront condo for rent. As though destiny meant for me to find this place, the house had only gone on the market this afternoon. Sydney lives less that thirty minutes away, close enough for me to pop by in a taxi if I so choose. Parker's is even closer.

The proximity to The Centre won't bother me. I seriously doubt they'll find me in my quaint little beach side community. I'll hide right under their noses. And if, at the end, I find myself unable to do this alone, Sydney won't have far to come when I call.

There is a huge weight lifted from my shoulders. I know where I'm going. I know what I'll do when I get there. I have a plan, focus for the time I have left. It's time to wrap up loose ends and put my affairs in order as they say.

It's time to go home.

Disclaimer: See part 1

07/26/03

-

The Last Notebook

Notebook Part 3

By Phenyx
-

Life is good.

I didn't write in my journal at all yesterday. I was too busy.

My flight landed at the airport and I spent the better part of the morning trying to locate the real estate agent about the condo. I managed to get an appointment to see the place and by mid-afternoon, we were haggling over the price.

I couldn't have cared less really, but I went along with the game for appearances sake. By evening, the keys were mine. I promptly caught a cab into town and did some shopping. I needed linens and towels and such. I stocked the refrigerator really well.

It made for a full day. But I paid for it dearly during the night. I had another of those horrible headaches. This time, the flashing lights were colored, as though they came from the top of an emergency vehicle. A high pitched sound whined in my ears like a siren to make the police car image even more complete.

It hurt more than anything I've ever experienced before in my life - and that says quite a bit. I know a great deal about pain. There was nothing I could do but curl up in a ball and wait it out.

Today I am going to take it easy.

I have a deck chair propped on my section of the beach. From here, I watched the sun rise up out of the ocean. Absolutely magnificent. Golden sparkles skittered across the cresting waves for as far as the eye could see. Pink, mauve and orange light shifted across the sky in a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors.

The plan is to sit here until the stars come out tonight. Tomorrow I'll find a doctor and get something for the headaches. But for today I will just sit here and watch the world go by. I have my journal and a cooler full of icy, imported dark beer. The boy next door, a fourteen year old visiting his father for the summer, has agreed to go to the boardwalk for me and bring back whatever tasty treats strike his fancy. I gave him fifty dollars to buy us food and promised him another fifty for himself if I approve of his selections.

The sand feels nice and warm as I bury my toes. The beer is good, nice and cold. There are children playing in the surf and two pretty college-aged girls in delightful swim suits have strolled passed more than once. I noticed them. They noticed me. We all admired the view.

Yes. Life is good.

If the kid brings back cotton candy, it'll be like heaven.

--

Things I'll miss:

Sunshine, The smell of rain, Pez, The sound of thunder just before a storm, The laughter of children, Ice cream, Chocolate sprinkles, Garlic bread, Kisses, Music, Piloting airplanes, Hot showers, Twinkies, Cartoons, Books, Late night phone calls, Dr Pepper, Her voice, Warm towels fresh from the dryer, Cold pizza, Buttered popcorn, Watermelon, Sydney, Stars, Crickets, Flirting, Christmas, Red-hot chili, Fast cars, Perfume, Friends, Hiking, Motorcycles, Sex, The ocean, Swimming, Games, Drawing, Laughing, Fruitcake, Insta-cheese, Fresh apples, Warm bread, Snow, Marshmallows, Fireworks, Parades, Art galleries, Toy stores, My family.

--

It is beginning to get dark. The stars will come out soon. Cody, my new errand boy, has been called home to supper. The college girls, Mandy and Karen, have gone to change for a party. The four of us spent the day swimming and sun bathing, eating and drinking. The girls are on summer break. In the fall they'll go back to New York to start their senior year of college. They invited me to join them at the party but I declined.

I suppose that I could have had one of them stay the night if I had wanted. Hell, if I'd tried I might have been able to convince them both. But to be honest, sex with a stranger just isn't on my agenda of things to do before I die. - Been there, done that.

Thinking about it now, I guess I've never had sex with someone who wasn't a stranger. None of the women I've been with ever really knew who I was. Nia was the only lover I ever told about The Centre. But we were only together for a few days. Can two people really know each other in so short a time?

I don't think so.

There is only one woman who ever really knew me. Sex with her would probably be a lot like riding the bulls in a rodeo - dangerous and life threatening but one hell of a rush. I wonder what she would say if I told her that I have dreamed about her. She's is a beautiful woman after all, with great legs. Of course, hot dreams of her always turn into nightmares. Smooth flesh and cold steel intermingle, the aroma of her perfume entwines with the tangy stench of blood.

Now there's a bit of Freudian dream imagery that will send Sydney into fits of psychiatric rapture. When he reads this he'll highlight the entire paragraph and analyze every aspect for at least a month.

I'm assuming that he will read these entries one day.

I haven't decided what to do about my Centre associates yet.

I could cook up a few scenarios, leave a clue here or there, make them think I'm in various places around the country. It wouldn't be difficult. A credit card and a few emails set on delayed send would be all I need. Once I've left this world, my grave is less likely to be ransacked if no one at The Centre knows about it.

I need to give it some more thought.

It's getting very dark now. The colorful arcade lights of the boardwalk glow from the pier. A full moon has risen, giving me barely enough light to see the page. But I don't want to run the risk of straining my eyes too much. I wouldn't want to trigger another episode.

It's time to call it a night. A hot shower to wash off the salt and sand, followed by a pint of maple fudge ice cream is just what the doctor ordered.

Disclaimer: See part 1

07/26/03

-

The Last Notebook

By Phenyx
-

I don't like this medication. It makes me feel woozy and slow. Everything seems to move in slow motion and sounds have a muffled quality to them like I'm hearing through cotton earmuffs. This prescription is supposed to be taken twice a day, once in the morning and once at night. But I don't think I'll take anymore during the day unless I really have to. The headaches only come at night anyway.

I don't want to sleep my days away. There are so few of them left.

Dr. Carsdayle seems competent enough. As we discussed the course of treatment we would follow, he readily accepted my wishes. The quality of the rest of my life has far more importance to me than the quantity. I won't let them lock me in a sterile room, tied to a bunch of medical equipment just to buy myself a few extra weeks of painful misery. There's nothing left to do but make me as comfortable as possible as Carsdayle put it.

After the doctor's office, I found a lawyer. Rosemary Olham turned out to be a dowdy, harsh woman with a face like a hawk. She is a stern older woman who made the law her career in a time when the profession was reserved for men. She does have a kind heart. I presented her with a list of instructions to follow upon my death and paid her a handsome retainer. She will see to all the final arrangements. I won't wind up as some John Doe, lost and forgotten in the morgue.

I've hired a housekeeper. Bonnie is the same woman who works for Cody's father. She'll come three times a week and straighten up. She'll do the laundry, wash the dishes and vacuum a bit, things I just don't want to waste time on. I'll pay her cash each day so she makes a little extra that she won't need to claim with Uncle Sam.

Having the cleaning lady swing by here every few days serves a second purpose as well. If I die in my sleep or collapse in the livingroom, she'll find me within two or three days. It won't be the weeks old smell of decay that brings the police to find my rancid corpse.

These are practical concerns. Logical thoughts that help me make decisions which had seemed so insurmountable a week ago.

My fears seem smaller during the day, easier to shrug off. It is only at night that the end looms over me with suffocating clarity. Perhaps, taking the drugs in the evening will help. The fuzziness of my thoughts and impressions will dull the sharp edge of tension and help me sleep.

Sleeping is difficult. Last night I lay awake for hours, debating whether to call her or not. I haven't spoken to any of them in months. I wonder if she has noticed. Perhaps her inner sense has registered that something is wrong. Maybe she's worried about me.

I doubt it.

Maybe, I'll call now.

Of course she isn't home. At this time of day she is still at work. But I called just the same. I listened to her voice on the answering machine and then hung up after the beep. I didn't know what to say.

I desperately want to tell her. Tell her that I won't be bothering her for much longer. Where I am going she cannot follow. The chase is almost over.

But what should I do if she starts to cry? Nothing can rip into my soul the way her quiet tears can. She thinks that I don't know. She believes that I can't tell because the phone line prevents my seeing her. But I can hear it in her voice. The despair and hopelessness crosses the miles between us so very easily.

I hate the thought that I could be responsible for her tears.

What if she starts to cry? Or far worse yet, what if she doesn't?

With my death, she will be free. The Centre will no longer have its hold over her life. She can walk away. She'll be better off. Why would she weep over her own liberation? She'll probably buy a bottle of champagne and celebrate.

She is more like the person she pretends to be than I want to admit. There is a reason she has survived at The Centre for so long. She has built a career at The Centre, and her rise through the ranks has not been based solely upon her name. She can hold her own against the worst of them.

What does that say about me? I'm a forty-two year old man who spends his time purposely trying to invoke bad memories. Urging her well buried vulnerabilities to the surface in order to catch the faintest glimpse of the little girl she once was. I adored her when we were children. Her mere presence was like sunshine to me. I never really got over her.

I like to think that she has some tender feelings for me. Buried memories of childhood, friends who comforted each other through lonely times. But I suppose I only imagine most of it.

Then again, she hasn't killed me yet. If anyone could have gotten close enough to do so, it would have been her. But there are things she will not do. There are lines she will not cross. After all these years in that place, she still has a conscience. She can still care. I admire her greatly for that. It is this tenacity of spirit, her compassion, which is her greatest strength. This will be the weapon that ultimately defeats her brother. Lyle cannot begin to understand her.

Which brings me back to the original question, would she cry? Is this annoying pest of a lab rat worthy of a few precious tears?

I don't want to make her cry, but it will break my heart if she doesn't.

I won't call. I can't. I'm too much of a coward. I don't want to know how she will react.

I will allow myself to believe that she will mourn. If I pretend hard enough, maybe I can convince myself it's true.

Disclaimer: See part 1

07/26/03

-

The Last Notebook


By Phenyx
-

I walked down to the boardwalk today. Spent the day wandering through the tourist shops and buying greasy, salty food from a variety of vendors. Greedy seagulls flocked overhead, hoping to get some discarded scrap of junk food. I obliged them more than once.

Thoughts of Parker haunted me. Everything reminded me of her.

I found a little antique shop full of odds and ends. Wouldn't you know, they had a funny little collection of rabbits. Ceramic rabbits, pewter and cast iron rabbits. There was a little planter and a set of salt and pepper shakers shaped like the little critters. A couple of them were really cute, some were garish, and there was a lovely broach with the bunny peeking out between two rose petals.

I bought every rabbit I could find.

As I headed back to the condo, I passed a gaming booth and found one more. The stand was one of those carnival games where you need to toss the ring over a bottle to win the prize. One of the prizes was a powder blue stuffed bunny like you find all over the place at Easter. It's very plush and soft. Its glass eyes are painted a warm and twinkling gray.

I set out to win it. I should have simply handed the guy at the stand a fifty and bought it outright but winning it seemed so important at the time. I spent just as much in the effort. During the process, I discovered that I can't see out of my left eye. I'm not sure how long my vision has been impaired and it scared me a bit.

But I had no time to dwell on it. I had to concentrate on my task.

I year ago I could have won with the first toss of a ring. But now, my hand to eye coordination is gone. I should have realized. I've been dropping things lately. Even my handwriting has started to change.

So it took nearly an hour and more attempts than I am willing to admit, but I finally won the plush toy.

I brought my booty back to the beach house and sorted them, wrapped them and packed them each in boxes. I'm going to give her the prize rabbit first. I'll leave it on her doorstep tonight. The others I will take to the lawyer and arrange for annual deliveries on her birthday. I'll be dead for fifteen years before she gets her last present from me.

Each box contains a little card. At first, I thought of writing nonsense clues on each card. She will expect something like that. But I decided against it. I considered snippets of poetry, but that seemed too out of character. She would get suspicious. Finally, I settled for a simple Happy Birthday.

I signed each note with "Love, Jarod." That will really piss her off, but I just couldn't resist.

--

I fell asleep after wrapping all the boxes. As a result, I didn't head for Parker's until very early this morning. The cabbie looked at me funny when I asked him to drop me off on a dark corner at the end of her street. But he didn't say anything about me or the strange bit of fluff I carried.

It was still dark when I crept up to her house and propped the stuffed bunny in a sitting position on her front step. I hid in the bushes at the end of her yard to watch her find it.

Dawn was just creeping over the horizon when her front door opened. She must have been looking for the newspaper. Her hair, still tangled from sleep, was a soft mop around her face. She wore a green silk bathrobe with some kind of design across the lapel. I could see bare leg all the way up her thigh as she bent over to retrieve my offering.

I had left no note this time, but I think she knew that it was from me. Who else knows about her soft spot for bunnies?

She was wary at first. Frowning at the silly little object as she turned it over in her hands. She brushed the soft fabric across her cheek and I saw her eyes flutter closed for a moment. Then the most incredible thing happened. She smiled.

Her face broke out in the most innocent, delighted grin I've ever seen.

I won't go back. I won't see her again.

I want my last image of her to be the one I saw this morning. Standing on her front porch, with the rising sunlight glimmering in her hair, her smile transformed her into a creature of such wonder and beauty that I felt my heart stop. I know now why fate has always been so cruel to her. The angels envy her magnificence and they punish her out of pettiness and spite.

The devil may take me and force me to toil in the deepest flames of Hell for all eternity, but he can never take the miracle of that smile away from me.

It is mine.

--

I'm on the beach again. I've spent the afternoon swimming, sun bathing and walking along the surf.

In my mind's eye I can still see her on her porch. I close my eyes and bring up that mental picture and I am just as enthralled as I was the first time. She'd been gone for hours, driven off to work I assume, before I found the will to move from my hiding spot.

I've thought of little else all day.

One thing troubles me though. I can't help but wonder, how long will she continue looking for me? Will she go on searching? Her only clues to follow will be the annual gift-wrapped boxes containing the rabbit knickknacks. How long will she go on before she gives up? Will she ever give in?

Something tells me that she won't.

She is a stubborn woman. She would never submit. Especially if she thought that by doing so, I would somehow gain the upper hand.

How long will she continue searching, not realizing that she chases only my ghost? How many phone calls will she answer, thinking that the silence on the other end is me?

It gives me chills, just thinking about it. I can easily imagine her wasting her life pursuing nonexistent leads, chasing a specter around the globe.

I can't do that to her. She must know. I can't just disappear, never to return. I refuse to be another unanswered question in her life. Lord knows she already has enough of those.

I need to put closure on this aspect of her existence. I can't leave her in the dark about what has happened to me.

Perhaps that is what this notebook is ultimately all about. These notes are my way of learning to let go. I am coming to terms with the fact that my life is ending. There are others. Parker is not the only one I need to release.

I need to say goodbye.

Disclaimer: See part 1

07/26/03

-

The Last Notebook

By Phenyx
-

Dear Mom and Dad,

I wish so much of our lives had been different. But wishing and wanting just isn't enough to change the reality of what we had.

I am so glad for the time you and I did spend together, Dad. Brief as it was. You cannot understand how important it was to me, to learn my name, to know my birthday. They will be little more than numbers and letters carved into my tombstone, but without them, I am no one. I was nothing before I found you and learned that simple truth.

For a long time as a child, I wondered if I had been abandoned. I had been told that my parents left me at The Centre in order to train my gifts. Learning that I had been stolen from you was a frightening discovery. But it helped, knowing that I had not been discarded, forgotten or sold. I didn't belong to The Centre. They did not own me.

Knowing that I had been taken, and that my parents still searched for me, made a huge difference in my outlook on life. I was not one of the forgotten lonely masses. I was loved. There were people who cared about me because of who I was, not what I could do for them. My self-worth improved more than you can know.

To love and be loved is a gift many people never receive, and far too many others take for granted. I am so grateful that you have allowed me to learn just how wonderful that gift really is.

I sometimes try to imagine what our lives would have been like if we had never been separated. To be honest I have nothing on which to base these musings except for tales in the books I've read and old shows I've seen on television. As a result the picture that comes to mind is some oddball combination of Happy Days and Oliver Twist.

It sounds strange, I admit, but I can be a pretty strange character sometimes. Just ask Miss Parker, she'll be glad to expound on that fact. I've always had a weird sense of humor. I've often wondered if that was something I inherited from one of you. I hope so.

I want you to know that my faith in you has kept me sane through many a difficult time. Even when I thought you both dead, I tried to keep your memory close to my heart. When I could no longer remember who you were or what you looked like, I made things up. I would think up scenarios that would explain your long absence. I pretended you were secret agents, deep undercover in Asia. I made believe you were scientists researching the deepest crevasses of the ocean.

I came up with some wild stuff. That is what I do best.

But regardless of what you were doing or how I imagined you to look, you were there. In my heart, in my mind, I always carried you with me.

Believe me when I tell you now that there is nothing either of you could have done to prevent what happened. I know that if it had been at all possible, you would have come for me. You protected me as best you could.

Most of all, I want to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I was the cause of so much pain in our lives. I'm sorry that Kyle and Emily both suffered because of me. I wish I could make it up to all of you somehow.

Please don't give up. Find each other. Now that I am gone, The Centre won't pursue you so intently. Perhaps you will be safer. Being together and staying that way can be a real possibility.

I will leave this journal with someone I trust, along with instructions to give it to Ethan when the chance arises. I want him to share these ramblings of mine with you. Give you some insight into the man I have become.

I hope it is someone you can be proud of.

As a final favor to me, I ask that you take Ethan into our family in my stead. He is a part of us, even though he is part of the Parkers as well. He wasn't as lucky as I am. He never understood what it felt like to be loved. I believe he can learn from you.

I was told once that Ethan would one day find you for me. I hope it is true. I hope these pages find their way to you one day.

Know that I loved you. I thought of you every day of my life.

My love goes with you. And love never really dies.

-

Your son, Jarod.

Disclaimer: See part 1

07/26/03

-

The Last Notebook


By Phenyx
-

Dear Sydney,

Where do I start? I could fill all these pages and never say everything that must be said between us.

I hate you, Sydney. I hate what you let them do to me.

I love you, Sydney. Unconditionally.

I met a young man once. He was angry and hurt. He told me that he hated his father. I am sure that part of him did. I know that another part of him loved his father very much. If there had been no love between them, his father's attempt at suicide would not have wounded the boy so much. I understood the inner conflict that young man felt. I understood only too well.

You, Sydney, are my maker, my patron, my teacher and my protector. I would have done anything for you. The physical pain inflicted upon me over the years was meaningless when compared to your displeasure. Hours with Lyle's jumper cables were far easier for me to endure than even one disapproving frown from you.

I tried so hard, worked so diligently for your approval. My reward was a small pat on the shoulder.

"Well done, Jarod." - I lived to hear those words from you. I thrived off them.

When I was a boy, I thought you had all the answers. You were my conscience, my ego and my id. Imagine my shock and confusion when I first realized that you were fallible. Sydney makes mistakes. To err is human. And even you are human, Sydney.

I always trusted you. I always will. Even when you were tying me down to my bed at night, with the leather restraints biting into my flesh, I trusted you. I knew you would never really hurt me. Pain is such a fleeting thing. None of the physical marks you left were permanent.

I was lucky to have you. I know that. You kept the Mr. Parkers and the Mr. Raines of the world as far away from me as you possibly could.

Who would I have become if Raines had been my teacher? If a whim of fate had cast its draw in the other direction, I could have easily spent my life mired in the agony of madness. Lyle's insanity and sociopathic tendencies could have been my own. You kept me from that. The world is a safer place because of it.

You taught me to survive with my sanity intact. Not an easy feat in the midst of the lunatic asylum.

All those years of isolation and I had only you, Sydney. The smallest encouragement from you was a boon to my existence. I knew how important your work was to you. I was honored to be a part of something you held dear. Your research was important work. I was the research. In my young mind that made me important.

It wasn't until I grew older that I began to recognize the similarities between myself and the animals in the labs. I was an experiment. I learned to accept that fact because I was your experiment. And I always believed you to be a great researcher. I still do. Even if your subject matter is highly unethical.

Looking back on it now, I must have realized how dangerous some of the simulations could be. I had to have known how easily my plans could have been altered to do harm. I think perhaps we both knew, but chose instead to fool ourselves into believing otherwise.

It was easier to wear those blinders than to admit to the atrocities we had been committing together.

I wonder how much longer we would have gone on that way. If Damon hadn't so cruelly demonstrated the horrors that surrounded me, would I have allowed myself to be swayed into compliance for a few more months? A few more years?

I can't blame you for what happened to me. You were not the one who stole me from my home. If you had not been there to take care of me, they would have found someone else.

You did the best you could. You did what you had to in order to survive. You did your job well.

Because of you, I have learned the difference between right and wrong, good and evil. I learned to value the lives of others, to help those who cannot help themselves. You taught me to be kind to the less fortunate, to see past surface infirmities. You taught me to move beyond hate.

You taught me so many things, Sydney. And for those things I will always be thankful to you. I am a better man as a result.

I only wish that we could have been friends. How I would have loved to talk to you about so many things! The books I've read and people I've met, the heartaches and the joy I have encountered in these last few years have been astounding. I wish I could have discussed those moments with you.

I wish I could have made you proud of me. I think perhaps you have been in the past, but circumstances prevented you from telling me so. I fervently hope so.

I wish we could have gone fishing.

In closing, Sydney, I want you to have the DSA's. I will leave them in the beach house. I won't hide them from you. After all, they are recordings of your life nearly as much as they are of mine. I hope they will help you with your research.

. Yours always, Jarod

Disclaimer: See part 1

07/26/03

-

The Last Notebook

By Phenyx
-

Parker,

You are my scarecrow. As Dorothy said in the Wizard of Oz, "You dear Scarecrow, I will miss the most of all."

You are rolling your eyes now, or scoffing, or perhaps laughing derisively. But it is true. I swear it.

I've always known that you and I shared a bond of more than just I run and you chase. Even though the relationship is one sided for the most part.

You have no concept of what you have meant to me over the years, how you altered my life. If I had never met you, Parker, I would still be sitting in a cinderblock room at The Centre. It would never have occurred to me to leave.

I was shocked and pleasantly confused the first time you snuck in to see me. I was astounded that you had the ability to break the rules, to go against their wishes. You defied them just by being in the room with me. You took incalculable risks simply because it pleased you to do so.

And you got away with it.

That is what truly blew my mind at first. You could do things that Sydney and the cameras did not see. It was wondrous to me. You were amazing. The force of your will, the strength of your character was an awesome thing.

I never realized that rules were made to be broken until you came along and showed me.

To you it seemed like such a simple thing, sneaking into the lower levels to spend an hour with the lab-rats, sharing your candy and treats with them. But Parker, to me, a few bites of caramel covered popcorn were an indulgence of sinful disobedience.

Your visits were one of the first secrets I kept from Sydney. The fact that we could have those secrets, that Sydney wouldn't know, was equally surprising. I had thought that those who watched me were omnipotent, ever- present.

You taught me otherwise.

There were things they did not know. They could be fooled.

You led the way as we crawled through vents and tiptoed down dark corridors. In doing so, I learned to explore, to push against the boundaries that had been placed on me. You taught me that fear was something to be conquered, not accepted.

You taught me that anything was possible, if I wanted it badly enough.

Can you possibly understand what that knowledge has done for me? That small seed of defiance, that smattering of rebellion was transmitted from you to me with a forbidden kiss a long time ago. As the years passed, that seed began to grow.

Harmless childhood secrets made way for rebellious thoughts. Those thoughts manifested themselves as petty insubordinations, passive resistance and boyish pranks. As I grew, so did that wisp of disobedience you had planted. Until one day, the derision and contempt I felt for my captors finally overcame my fear of the unknown. I committed the ultimate in insolence.

I ran away.

It is ironic that you were the one assigned to pursue me and bring me back. It was you who taught me to want more than I had. It was you who first showed me how to elude them, to hide when the guards were coming. Now it is you that I must elude.

I hate that. I can't help but remember the camaraderie we shared as children. I miss it more than I can express.

You were the first person who ever needed me on an emotional level. When Faith died, we huddled in a dark corner together and you cried on my shoulder. I put my arms around you and held you while you wept. You depended on me to be there for you, to help support you through a difficult time.

I had absolutely no clue what you expected of me. I had never been permitted to display such emotion. My only exposure to another's grief had been through pictures. I did not know what I was supposed to do. I understood only that I could not be afraid. I had to be competent and strong. You were relying on me. As terrifying as that concept was at the time, it gave me a great sense of pride that you had such confidence in me.

I did what I could. I know it wasn't enough.

You seemed so sad so much of the time. I would have done anything, given anything, to take that pain away from you.

Do you remember the day you taught me knock-knock jokes? I didn't understand the play on words at first. The concept eluded me. You laughed at the joke then you laughed at me for being so clueless. The more confused I became, the harder you laughed. You laughed until tears ran down your face and you doubled over.

I thought you were in pain. But my concern only made matters worse. Once I finally comprehended that you were in no danger, I began to see the humor in the situation. In the end, we were both giggling like mad idiots.

That was the first time in my life that I laughed until my stomach hurt. What an incredible feeling! And bringing a smile to your face was always a great personal achievement for me.

You are so beautiful when you smile, Parker. You should try to do it more often.

One of the greatest regrets of my life, second only to not finding my family, has been that you and I could not remain friends. But then again, if we are not friends, how do we define the relationship we share? No one in the world knows me as well as you do. I believe I know you better than any other.

I trust you. For the most part, I believe you trust me as much as you to trust anyone in your life. That isn't saying much, but it is notable seeing as we are supposed to be enemies.

One last time, I am going to place my trust in you, Parker. You have a good and honorable soul. I know I can rely on your compassion to do a few last favors for me.

Hold on to this notebook. Feel free to let Sydney read it, but keep it in your care. I want you to give it to Ethan the next time you see him. Be careful, Parker. Our little brother has only you to protect him now. I know that you won't let anything happen to him. You are a force to be reckoned with. Ethan will be safe with you watching over him.

Help Ethan to find Major Charles. Ethan is his son. The Major will welcome him into the family and give him the emotional security that The Centre stole from him. If Ethan can find his way back to the family we have lost, perhaps some part of me will have found its way home as well.

Take care of yourself, Parker. Watch your back. Never stop questioning them.

When the phone rings late at night, think of me.

-

Affectionately yours,

Jarod.

Disclaimer: See part 1

07/26/03

-

The Last Notebook


By Phenyx
-

I have lost two days.

When I went to bed Monday night, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. The last pages of this journal had been difficult to write, but not traumatic or emotionally stressful in any way. As a matter of fact, I remember feeling a bit pleased with myself at the accomplishment. I had said my goodbyes to those most important to me. I experienced a sense of closure with those relationships.

I woke at dusk on Wednesday, strapped to a hospital bed in the neurology ward. Evidently I've been spouting wiggy for the past couple of days, as Argyle would say. Dr. Carsdayle tells me that Bonnie came to the beach house as usual to clean on Tuesday morning. She found me sitting on the kitchen counter talking gibberish. I seemed responsive when someone spoke, but the language I was using was incomprehensible by anyone around me.

Bonnie is aware that I am ill. She called Carsdayle when she found his phone number posted on the refrigerator door. Her actions saved me a trip to the psych ward for sure. When the paramedics arrived, I was babbling away and bumping into walls. Carsdayle says that the words I was using sounded like some strange cross between Italian and Dutch. He doubts that it was any real language. But then, he is not aware of the number of languages available to me in my fluent repertoire.

It is frightening. I have absolutely no recollection of anything for the past thirty-seven hours.

It could easily have been the end of me. If the synapses of my brain had fired a fraction of a millisecond faster, it could have stopped more than just my sense of consciousness. My heart could have ceased to beat or my lungs failed to take in air. My life could have ended and I would not even have realized it.

I could die at any moment, without warning. That thought scares the hell out of me.

Of course, the alternative is to feel it coming. The head-splitting pounding pain shooting through my temples, the blinding strobe-like flashes, could signal the final shutdown of my mind. If so, I will spend the last minutes of my life curled in a ball, weeping in agony.

I can't decide which possibility frightens me more.

Pain has been such an integral aspect of my life, that the idea of pain doesn't really bother me. So I suppose I could deal with that. Then again, simply slipping away sounds kind of nice, peaceful almost. Of course, I don't really have a choice in the matter so this type of speculation is really a colossal waste of time.

There is an old man in the bed next to me. He is in the final stages of Alzheimer's disease. His days are as numbered as mine. According to the nurses who stop in to check our vitals every fifteen minutes, the poor guy has had no visitors at all in the two months he has been here. Apparently, he has a son and a daughter, both of whom were present on the day he was admitted. But neither has so much as called to check on the guy since. The nurses tell me that the old man was once an affluent and successful businessman on Wall Street. Now, he is a shriveled, pitifully confused shadow of a man. He is short tempered and nasty to the nurses who care for him. As a result, they ignore him, tuning out his comments and irrational demands. They treat him like another piece of medical equipment.

If that is how a successful life ends, I'm glad I never achieved affluence.

I made an attempt to talk with him, at least learn his name. My overture was tossed back at me with a cruel snarl. He is bitter and obnoxious. Too stubborn to feel sorry for himself, his constant derision is getting on my nerves. He reminds me of Mr. Raines, and that spurs my desire to leave this place.

Yet he is so very alone and isolated. I can't help but feel pity for the man. No one should have to die alone.

I felt almost guilty when Bonnie and Cory showed up this morning to check in on me. My dear housekeeper brought my journal and some magazines. Cory brought some flowers, though I think he probably picked them from our neighbor's garden. The boy will be leaving in a few days, heading home to New Hampshire to be with his mother. He wanted to postpone his departure because of my health, sweet kid. But I told him that a son should never, ever neglect his duty to his mother. She misses him. It is time for him to go home.

Besides, I won't be here much longer. Dr Carsdayle will be by within the hour. If he doesn't agree to release me, I'm going to leave A.M.A. There is no reason to waste my time sitting in the hospital when I could be doing the same thing on the beach.

-

Yes, this is definitely much better.

I'm back on the beach with my deck chair propped in the sand. In deference to the medication I am on, I can't have any beer. But a carton of fudge ripple ice cream is equally intoxicating. The tide is rolling in and the waves are just beginning to tickle at my toes.

I am surprised at how easily I have adapted to my beach bum lifestyle. I had thought I would be bored. But there are just too many things to enjoy here, so many sensations. I am savoring every one of them.

Seagulls soar lazily above. Occasionally one of them finds the courage to come closer to inspect my goodies. The sun is hidden by dark clouds this afternoon. A storm is threatening. The smell of rain hangs heavily in the air. But I don't mind. When the drops start to fall, I need only to tuck away my journal. Nothing else will be harmed by a little water.

I find myself urging the clouds to burst. I want to feel the warm water falling on my upturned face. I want to remind myself of that first rainstorm after I escaped. The awe and wonder of that moment was so precious to me. It was almost magical. Not quite as miraculous as my first snowfall, but still incredible.

I wish I had someone to share these thoughts with. I have a deep need to talk to another person. Writing down these musings helps, but it just isn't the same.

Here comes the rain. I must put away my pen for now.

--

It is a new day. The rain has gone, leaving behind only a few clouds. As a result, the sunrise is magnificent.

As I watch the colors morph across the sky, I find myself thinking of my unfortunate roommate at the hospital. Regardless of the money he may have accumulated over the years, I think his life was a pitiful failure. The more I think of him the more I realize what a gift my own life has been.

I am a lucky man, luckier than some. Luckier than Kyle or Angelo or even Parker and Lyle. I am free. They are not and never really were. I wish I could have found some way to make her see the prison she is in. Escape is as real as she wants it to be.

I have loved and been loved. Of this, I have no doubt. My heart has been touched by caring and beautiful souls. I know that I have touched the hearts of others as well. No man could ever ask for more than that.

There is so little time. No time for miniscule regrets. Today will be a good day. There is no headache. There are no flashing lights this morning. The sunrise seems to have been painted across the heavens just for me to enjoy. I'll head to the beach now to walk along the surf before the dunes get too hot. I'll find little starfish stranded by the tide and help them back into the sea.

Perhaps I'll build a sand castle.

--

Disclaimer: See part 1

07/26/03

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The Last Notebook


By Phenyx
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Miss Parker stepped slowly out of her car. With a reluctant sigh, she made her way through the dark maze of headstones toward a new grave at the top of a gentle rise. A week had passed since she had last been to this place. It had been seven days since Jarod's small funeral service was held here.

Parker was casually dressed. Dark denim and a simple hooded sweatshirt served her best for this exercise. Her white canvas shoes dampened quickly with dew from the grass. It was not yet daylight. The stars were only just beginning to fade, the sky barely losing its blackness.

This wasn't the Centre's cemetery. It was a very elite memorial park situated at the top of a jagged and rocky bluff that overlooked the ocean. There were no trees here, only a broad expanse of sky visible overhead. The pale purple blanket stretched all the way to the horizon where it touched the dark waves in the distance.

Parker reached her destination and knelt beside a brand new stone. She had paid a small fortune to have the pink granite carved so quickly. It was a simple marker with only three lines engraved on its face. The first line was a full name, his real name. Second were two dates, a date of birth and a date of death. Lastly was a simple epitaph, one he had chosen himself, though he hadn't realized it at the time.

"Jarod lived. Jarod died. Between he did make a difference."

Parker sighed again, brushing imaginary dust from the stone before her. She closed her swollen eyes and tried not to give in to the heaviness in her chest. She had never dreamed that anything could be so hard.

In the days since she had been called to Blue Cove Memorial hospital, Parker had managed to stay busy enough to avoid her grief. But she was running out of duties to perform. At first, there had been the dilemma regarding Jarod's organ donation.

Parker was forced to be very specific about what could be harvested. She had let the doctors take the kidneys, but not the liver. She had permitted the heart and lungs, but not the stomach. His eyes would continue to see for another, but his skin would not be used in a burn unit.

There had been a very specific methodology to her decisions. The organs left to others were not made of tissue that replicated well. Parker feared the possibility of The Centre uncovering the identities of the organ recipients. Raines would not hesitate to murder a transplant patient just to gain possession of viable pretender DNA.

Then, there had been the rush to deal with Jarod's remains. The arrangements had been carried out with lightning speed and sharp efficiency. By the time Raines and Lyle had learned of Jarod's death, the body had been safely cremated. All that had been left was to organize a service and order the tombstone.

The funeral had been quietly somber. Lyle and Raines had been in attendance, a fact which had caused the bile to rise in Parker's throat. As a result, the ceremony had been rushed and empty of true feeling. No one had wanted to express their true thoughts with the evil audience that had been present. No one had truly been given the chance to say goodbye.

That was why Parker was here now. Alone, with no one to look over her or disapprove of her actions, Miss Parker had come to say goodbye.

As light began to filter from the east, Parker could see a small number of items placed at the foot of the granite stone. Others had been here before her. She found a box of Cracker Jacks and a Pez dispenser, a handmade fishing lure and a snow globe with a tiny Empire State building inside.

From the deep pockets of her jacket, Parker pulled her meager offering. The copper colored paperweight had kept vigil on her own desk since her father had died and she'd taken it from his office. Jarod alone could have understood the significance of the small figure. He would have appreciated the preciousness of this gift.

After positioning the rabbit securely beside the fishing lure, Parker sat cross-legged in the grass, leaning nonchalantly against the side of the stone.

Turning toward the ocean, Parker watched in silence as the sun rose from the waves in a breathtaking display. She nodded in satisfaction, knowing that Jarod would have approved of this place.

Turning toward the grave Parker caressed the script etched in the surface with her fingertips.

"You were always there for me, Jarod," she whispered. "At the lowest points in my life, like magic, you would appear. I am so glad that I could be there for you just this once. You didn't die alone." Her voice trembled as she spoke. "I wish you would have told me, shared those last days with me. Let me ease your fears."

"I know now, I would have cried."

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The End