After weeks of no contact with the outside world, Patrick was struck by a sudden, desperate need for human connection. He took a deep breath and Googled himself, hoping for some indication that he existed. He typed in his full name: "Patrick Phils." What he saw next shocked him. There on the screen was a Wikipedia page with his name on it. It contained details of his life, a brief biography of sorts. The page was light on substance, but it was enough to fill him with a newfound sense of purpose. He was somebody, after all.
He had once had big dreams, but life had gotten in the way. He had wanted to be a writer, a bestselling author even. But, as the years went by, the dream had become nothing more than a distant memory. And now here he was, having Googled himself in the library computer lab, only to find that someone else with his name had actually gone on to do what he had always wanted to do. It was like a cruel joke, or a cosmic coincidence that he couldn't bear to face. But he couldn't look away either. He kept reading the Wikipedia page.
He decided to visit the library and check the book out.The weight of the realization hit Alfred like a truck, knocking the breath out of him. He had to sit down in the nearest chair. He was lightheaded, and his stomach felt like it had turned inside out. He took deep breaths to try to regain control of his mind and body. He looked at the book in his hand. Maybe it was fake. But it looked real. Had he written it, forgotten it, and then somehow gotten it published? Had it been a very elaborate and extended dream, now materialized in this book in his hand?
He would have to read it to find out.
Patrick sat down, clutching the book and dived into the story.
It started with a gripping scene: Collins received a phone call, a tearful voice informing him that his parents had been killed in a car crash. At three in the morning, he knocked on his girlfriend's door, needing to share his grief. But she was too overwhelmed to handle his grief and told him, "real men don't cry." Exhausted, heartbroken, and abandoned, he wandered into the night, his thoughts becoming increasingly hopeless.
He finally came upon a particularly large detailed map, and he was lost in his gaze that he didn't see the shopkeeper.
“Let me tell you a secret,” the shopkeeper said. “There's a magic in maps.”
Collins looked at him doubtfully.
“I'm serious,” the shopkeeper insisted. “Maps can help you find your way. Not just in a literal sense, but in a figurative sense, too. They can give you a sense of where you are and where you're going. They can show you where you want to go. If you don't know what to do now, maybe you can figure out what to do by finding a place you want to go, and then figuring out how to get there.
“Take the dart,” the shopkeeper said, “and let it guide you to the next chapter of your life.”
With that, he closed his eyes and tossed the dart. When he opened them again, the shopkeeper's eyes widened in wonder. “That's a sign!” he said. “This is where you're meant to go.”
Collins blinked and followed the shopkeeper's gaze to where the dart had landed. It had landed in the middle of Paris. Paris? Really? He'd never been to France, much less to the city of lights.
Patrick was at a loss. He was at a loss of what had just happened, and he was at a loss as to how to proceed. On the one hand, it had all felt so real. He could recall the shopkeeper's smell, his voice, his eyes, everything. On the other hand, the shopkeeper had disappeared, and the story he'd heard had left him unsettled. Not just because it was a painful memory, but because it was too close to the truth. It was almost as if someone had been there, watching, and had written the chapter around him. But that was impossible. Wasn't...it? Could he be losing his grip on reality? Had it all been a hallucination?
He read the words again and again. Patrick took a deep breath and closed the book. He considered calling his sister, but there was no sister, not anymore. He could try emailing his old writing teacher, but that man was long dead. No, he was the only one who could understand what was happening. He opened the book again and browsed back to the beginning, his own beginning. Chapter one was still there, as was his own name, Phils typed with an unfamiliar font. And the ending was still different. But the rest…
He started reading.
The book was his life.
