ALL THINGS SERVE THE BEAM
I’ve found it. It was right where it should have been too, just a little more than halfway down the steps that led to the pantry of Al’s Diner. In the book it’s a type of doorway used to try and stop Oswald from taking out JFK.
This will not be the case with me.
There are two reasons for this. One is that things are different than how the Author explained: no set time limit which might reset when any given character attempts to change the past. The walls are thin here, yes, but it’s not time travel we’re talking about. Not in the least.
The second thing is this: there are other worlds than these.
For truth, I think I have found the gateway to stories; to where each of them originate. It is the story, not he who tells it. Pretty sure I’ve heard him say this many times throughout the years. I never believed it though, not fully. Not until now. How could I not? I mean, I have met the girl now, the first one I ever heard told to plug it up. I was an extra, sure, there in the background amongst the crowd at the prom. Fortunate for me I made it out before the pig’s blood fell and the doors began to shut. It was tougher than I imagined too, and heartbreaking, and only because I now stood within what once I only read.
I hope I am making myself clear. The world I believe depends upon it.
Discovering all this caused certain scenarios to enter my mind, numero uno being this: could I now affect things? Bold, I know, but the situation itself beyond anything I ever thought possible. I think the Author knew this too, or knows, and might have been subconsciously leaving breadcrumbs for someone like me to find. He needs help is what I think this means. All told, I’d set my watch and warrant on it.
Me saying things like that, this is what has gotten me through. I’m talking all of it too, every story. Not just the thing behind the clown or what Ben Mears found in the ‘Lot. It comes to what things always come to: the Tower. From one book to the next it seems to be in there or just around, glowing like a buried stone. Excavated or not, it sings like Susannah and forces me to aim with my heart and not with my hand.
Do you see how I have not forgotten the face of my father?
I had to investigate though, and I had to be sure. Onwards I went, from world to world. From dog to dome to plague; all of it like some mutated Deja vu which tugged at my core. It means Mordred is in fact a-hungry and Harold Lauder will always jump. I meet Paul Sheldon, Dinky Earnshaw, and poor Nick Andros before he figures things out. They speak to me. Spoke to me. But none of them for long. A line or two here, a description of who I think is me there. It’s as this occurs that I realize the magnitude of what I’m to do.
And that Mother Abigail would be proud.
I had to test it though, had to be sure. At first it didn’t work, not all the times I travelled and tried to save Gage from that semi. The last time however, the last time something new transpired as I attempted to prove what I believe is possible. The Author brought the child back. He did so from the grave, yes, but my mother always said a victory was a victory no matter its size. It also meant I was ready; that I had come into my own.
But I would not go in as Patrick Danville, not as a device placed books before an ending had yet come. No, I would be new. I would be fresh. Becoming everything he required to find his way home.
The man in black would flee across the desert, and horn or no horn, I and the gunslinger would follow.