Read Online This Book Does Not Exist by Mike Schneider - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mike Schneider
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myself. As the motorcade rolls forward in slow motion, my angle on it modifies until I end up with the clearest vantage point yet.
One second I’m certain the woman in the car is Naomi. The next second her neck tilts, and I’m dissuaded. Seeing her up close is the only way I’ll know for sure. But Geppetto said the instant I leave this room the world will return to normal speed, and I will lose her.
Do I trust him?
I don’t think it matters.
I can’t shoot the woman. I never could. Forgetting Naomi would be tragic. She means too much to me.
I cannot give up until I find her.
This is the most sobering realization I’ve had yet.
I drop the rifle.
THE CHASE
The rifle ricochets off the windowsill and flips over the edge outside. I don’t wait to see where it lands because the motorcade has abruptly revved back up to regular speed.
I dash out of the room and down the stairwell and I’m in the lobby now and there is no one here to stop me from getting outside.
I race after the President’s car – which is farther away from the book depository than I anticipated – wanting nothing more than to confirm the woman inside really is Naomi, when a gunshot comes from the grassy knoll and Kennedy’s skull bursts apart.
The Secret Service swarms the car. Once the people along the parade route comprehend what has occurred, they attempt to scatter – but the size of the crowd is so large that men and women and children converge and within seconds the scene becomes a riot. Bodies bang into me. I dig in, hold my ground, press to get a glimpse of the woman in the car. A gap in the crowd opens. I see her struggling to cradle Kennedy’s body in her arms. It’s all happening like what I remember from the Zapruder film and then the chaos plugs the gap and I lose sight of her.
I push through the mosh pit, seeking another clearing. Everyone around me flails and screams. My anger spikes. I knock someone down. I get an opening. I see the face of the woman in the car for half a second before she’s gone again, and the only images I can balance against what I was able to see are from my memory of the found footage in JFK .
They match.
I believe the woman is Jackie Onassis.
Someone strikes me.
I drop underneath the stampede. I cover my head as a boot shoves my face into the concrete. People kick me as they run. Shoes stomp on my spine. A body collapses on top of me. I am pummeled, battered endlessly. It gets so loud I can no longer distinguish one noise from another. Four walls of sound close in on me like an audio trash compactor. Pain travels to every part of my being and it hits my sternum as my heart tries to tear its way out of my chest, and I wait to learn what it feels like to be beaten to a pulp.
THE BRUISES FROM THE BEATING
That moment never arrives.
The colossal enclosure of noise evaporates, and an unnatural sense of calm envelops my surroundings .
I feel nothing beyond the bruises from the beating.
So scarred am I that it is all but impossible for me to lift my hands off my head and open my eyes and look up to see what the world has become. It’s not that I am physically incapable – it’s that I don’t want to know what comes next.
I hear feet tapping on the pavement.
What I think is a hand rests on my shoulder. Out of blind hope or delusion I wonder if it might be Naomi, but the fingertips are too coarse. They likely belong to a man, not a woman.
When I finally open my eyes I see Geppetto.
Everyone else is gone. The parade route is clear. Geppetto and I are the only inhabitants left in Dallas, which has become a picturesque ghost town.
He takes his keys out of his pocket, picks one and inserts it into the invisible lock in the invisible door in the middle of thin air and opens the Door . He lifts me to my feet and directs me to the exit. As I wrap my arms around my chest, hopelessly wanting to shroud myself from every unseen threat, Geppetto says, “That was Naomi after all.
One second I’m certain the woman in the car is Naomi. The next second her neck tilts, and I’m dissuaded. Seeing her up close is the only way I’ll know for sure. But Geppetto said the instant I leave this room the world will return to normal speed, and I will lose her.
Do I trust him?
I don’t think it matters.
I can’t shoot the woman. I never could. Forgetting Naomi would be tragic. She means too much to me.
I cannot give up until I find her.
This is the most sobering realization I’ve had yet.
I drop the rifle.
THE CHASE
The rifle ricochets off the windowsill and flips over the edge outside. I don’t wait to see where it lands because the motorcade has abruptly revved back up to regular speed.
I dash out of the room and down the stairwell and I’m in the lobby now and there is no one here to stop me from getting outside.
I race after the President’s car – which is farther away from the book depository than I anticipated – wanting nothing more than to confirm the woman inside really is Naomi, when a gunshot comes from the grassy knoll and Kennedy’s skull bursts apart.
The Secret Service swarms the car. Once the people along the parade route comprehend what has occurred, they attempt to scatter – but the size of the crowd is so large that men and women and children converge and within seconds the scene becomes a riot. Bodies bang into me. I dig in, hold my ground, press to get a glimpse of the woman in the car. A gap in the crowd opens. I see her struggling to cradle Kennedy’s body in her arms. It’s all happening like what I remember from the Zapruder film and then the chaos plugs the gap and I lose sight of her.
I push through the mosh pit, seeking another clearing. Everyone around me flails and screams. My anger spikes. I knock someone down. I get an opening. I see the face of the woman in the car for half a second before she’s gone again, and the only images I can balance against what I was able to see are from my memory of the found footage in JFK .
They match.
I believe the woman is Jackie Onassis.
Someone strikes me.
I drop underneath the stampede. I cover my head as a boot shoves my face into the concrete. People kick me as they run. Shoes stomp on my spine. A body collapses on top of me. I am pummeled, battered endlessly. It gets so loud I can no longer distinguish one noise from another. Four walls of sound close in on me like an audio trash compactor. Pain travels to every part of my being and it hits my sternum as my heart tries to tear its way out of my chest, and I wait to learn what it feels like to be beaten to a pulp.
THE BRUISES FROM THE BEATING
That moment never arrives.
The colossal enclosure of noise evaporates, and an unnatural sense of calm envelops my surroundings .
I feel nothing beyond the bruises from the beating.
So scarred am I that it is all but impossible for me to lift my hands off my head and open my eyes and look up to see what the world has become. It’s not that I am physically incapable – it’s that I don’t want to know what comes next.
I hear feet tapping on the pavement.
What I think is a hand rests on my shoulder. Out of blind hope or delusion I wonder if it might be Naomi, but the fingertips are too coarse. They likely belong to a man, not a woman.
When I finally open my eyes I see Geppetto.
Everyone else is gone. The parade route is clear. Geppetto and I are the only inhabitants left in Dallas, which has become a picturesque ghost town.
He takes his keys out of his pocket, picks one and inserts it into the invisible lock in the invisible door in the middle of thin air and opens the Door . He lifts me to my feet and directs me to the exit. As I wrap my arms around my chest, hopelessly wanting to shroud myself from every unseen threat, Geppetto says, “That was Naomi after all.
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