Clive Barker - Mister B. Gone

I'm not —

I'm —

not —

DEMONATION!

Enough! Enough! There's no use telling any more lies, trying to convince you of what things I want to half-believe myself, all in a pitiful attempt to get you to burn the book, when you knew (you did, didn't you? I can see by the look on your face) that I was lying to you all along.

I'm not behind you with a knife, coming to cut you. I never was, never could be. I'm here and only here. In the words.

That part wasn't a lie. The pages are protean. I was able to rearrange the words on the pages you had yet to read. They are my only substance now. And through them, I can speak with you, as I am speaking now.

All I ever wanted you to do was burn the book. Was that such a big thing to ask? I know, before you say it, I know: I was my own worst enemy, telling you stories. I should have scattered the words in all directions so that not a sentence, except for my plea to Burn the Book, would have made sense. Then you might have done it.

But it had been so long since I'd had eyes looking down at me, ready to be told a story. And I had such a story to tell: this life I'd lived. And had no one else to tell it to but you. And the more I told, the more I wanted to go on telling and the more I wanted to go on telling, the more I wanted to tell.

I was divided against myself: the part that wanted to tell my life and the part that wanted to be free.

Oh yes, free.

That's what I would have won myself if I'd played a better game, and persuaded you to set fire to these volatile pages, and they would have gone up in smoke.

And in that smoke, I would have risen up, liberated from the words where I'd been imprisoned. I had no illusions that I would have a body of flesh and bones awaiting me. They were gone forever. But I told myself I could have made sense of life. Anybody was preferable to the prison of pages.

But no. You never fell for any of my tricks. I used every deceit and subterfuge in the book, so to speak. Every stratagem I knew.

You want to know how evil works? Just run off a list of the ways I attempted to get you to burn the book. The Seductions (the house and its ancient tree); the Threats (my closing in on you with every page you turned); the Appeals to your compassion, your tender-heartedness, your empathy. They were all lost causes, of course. If any of them had worked, we wouldn't be here now.

Instead I'm here where you found me, with nothing to live for but the possibility that one day somebody else will pick this book up, and open it to read. Only maybe I will have conceived of a better trap by then. Something foolproof. Something that guarantees my escape.

Maybe you could help me, just a little? I've entertained you, haven't I? So do me this little kindness. Don't abandon me on a shelf somewhere, gathering dust, knowing I'm still inside, locked away in the darkness.

Pass me on, please. It's not much to ask. Give me to somebody you hate, somebody you'd be happy to hear had been cut to pieces the way a page is read. Backwards and forwards.

Until then, may I offer a word of advice? What I've told you here concerning the Conspiracy between those above and those below you should perhaps keep to yourself. Their agents are everywhere, and I'm sure their means of tracking down the heretical and the impious is more powerful than ever. It's wisest to keep what you know to yourself. Trust me in this. Or if you don't trust me, then trust your instinct. Walk with care in dark places, and do not put your faith in anyone who promises you the forgiveness of the Lord or a certain place in Paradise.

I don't suppose that advice isn't worth enough to earn me a burnt book, is it?

No, I thought not.

Go on then. Close the prison door and go about your life. My day will come. Paper burns easily.

And words know how to wait.

For Emilian David Armstrong

With my love and thanks to Pamela Robinson