The life of Stephen Pottersworth
started in as ordinary a way in which one's life could begin. There
was no great hoopla in the streets. No visitation of celestial
beings. His birth was not so easy as to incite comment and yet not
too difficult as to begin his story. In fact no one would begin the
story of Stephen Potterworth with his birth except for a feature of
it which no one at the time took notice and no one in the future
would remember. In the corner of the room there was a small pad of
paper. On the topmost leaf of paper was a dot, a red dot.
The story of Stephen Pottersworth
continued in much a similar vein as it began. He made friends, some
were closer than others. He was not often lonely nor did he often
need to escape from their presence. His grades were adequate, yet
unremarkable as were his talents. His heart was broken yet not
shattered and through his adolescence he excelled at little but
failed at less. No one thought to investigate whether he had been
born under an auspicious star as his life was ordinary in every way.
All of that began to change on his 18th
birthday. Stephen Pottersworth finished in the 51st
percentile of a class of average size, in a town much like most the
others. He had exactly the same combination of fear and excitement
as did the rest of his peers on attending a solid state school far
enough from his home as to not receive inconveniently frequent family
visits but close enough where the homesick could return to the
familiar hearth.
As young Stephen Pottersworth was
preparing to go to his stereotypical place of college employ he saw
upon his desk a pad of paper. On the topmost leaf of paper was a
dot, a red dot. Stephen Potterworth had no memory of drawing such a
dot upon the piece of paper and no one had been in the room, to his
knowledge, since he had last used the selfsame tablet. The effect of
this dot on the mind of the remarkably stable and unremarkable
Stephen Pottersworth was noteworthy, if only for the fact that it was
in no way ordinary. As Stephen Pottersworth looked closer at the
vermilion illustration he saw the pattern of lines that he knew would
be there. This was no simple dot on closer inspection but was, in
fact, a complex series of lines so intricate and delicate in nature
that it would be easy to assume, with the flash curiosity of the age,
that this was ONLY a dot. The mark was made with a brilliant shade
of red very similar to the stamps seen on Chinese artwork but with
such remarkable detail that Stephen Pottersworth could not imagine a
woodcut or rubber stamp being able to produce such an image. What
had such a powerful effect on Stephen Pottersworth completely
ordinary mind was not the intricacy of the symbol in any aesthetic
sense. What struck Stephen Pottersworth was that the intricacy of
the symbol was completely memorized in his mind's eye. The pattern
was woven on his very unremarkable soul. The explanation for this
burning of his psyche was a completely commonplace one. The reason
was that he had seen this dot everyday of his life and that, Stephen
Pottersworth realized on his 18th birthday, was not
ordinary in the least.
The light in the 2nd
bathroom flickered on in absolute unity with the doorbell that rang
at this exact moment and awoke Stephen Pottersworth from his flash of
almost hysterical realization. He wandered to the door as someone in
shell shock. Not of the pop-psych understanding of the term but in
the Verdun battlefield veteran variety, with staggering steps and
incoherent utterances. Stephen Pottersworth was for once truly and
completely shaken. Stephen Pottersworth felt the growing feeling of
singularity, rising and burning like the bile which was generously
lavishing the inside of his throat.
Outside the All Hallows Eve of '98
Stephen Pottersworth has never had occasion to not answer the door.
In fact Stephen Pottersworth usually approaches the rung door with a
very normal speed and with a similar level of vigilance. The fact
that this ring had been able to rise the sweat from his palms and the
hairs on his neck was something altogether particular. Stephen
Pottersworth had been exposed to a smattering of the horror genera
through his life, and this felt similar, if not exactly the same, as
the moments of highest suspense in said articles of entertainment.
Each pulse of his average sized ventricle seemed to create a drumbeat
of most unusual proportions in his perfectly normal shaped eardrum.
Every breath was more labored than the last and every step of the
foot more wooden his partner afore him. What could cause such
abnormality? Such singular emotion and passion in our erstwhile
unshakable hero? A dot and a realization concerning the
aforementioned dot. There is nothing more startling to the human
condition than discovering something ordinary. Nothing turns that
startle to a scare faster than realizing that this ordinary thing,
once discovered is seen to be in no way ordinary or even passing
strange. Stephen Potterworth's discovery of the red dot, his
realization of its filial relationship with the daily existence of
his life; this was unheard of. Stephen Pottersworth had literally
never heard of anyone discovering a symbol, archaic or otherwise,
which littered their day to day affairs. To have such a spot in ones
life quickly created a McBethian abhorrence towards the thing and it
was this feeling of detestation that drove Mr. Pottersworth away from
the dot and towards the horrible door.
With steadfast determination, which
goes much beyond the expectation of such a man in such a case,
Stephen Pottersworth plodded in inkblot fashion towards the vestibule
at the fore of his abode. To confront, come what may, the fate of
his immortal soul.
