Twenty-five pages between myself and the conclusion of the book. I've raced through the climax, rising and falling with the intended emotions. The antagonist still lives, but I am confident his fate is settled.
All that remains is the explanation. It is the point of no return in a book. It is the downward slope from here to the end that will only accelerate, gaining momentum until the final word.
This is the revealing in which the characters fianlly learn the why and how, the moment that finally uncovers the story behind the story that has kept the reader intrigued since about page 50.
Twenty-five pages remain, and I am already two minutes late for work. I cannot justify taking a moment more. I am condemned to a few hours of agony.
Many years back, I picked up a book that facinated me. It was a mystery, some sort of library reject I had picked up for a quarter. I came to the end only to discover the last chapter and a half had been torn from the spine. I was cut off mid sentense, left in a dreadful suspence that was never satisfied. Title and author have been lost to time, but I cannot forget the settled unknowing.
Kind of an odd time in life. Feels like I'm suspended in that point twenty-five pages from the end. I've passed through all the elements of a story, seen the conflict, the rise of the climax, observed the character changes. I've stood face to face with the enemy. He still lives, but his demise is decided. I've endured the sacrifices, but can safely assume the outcome.
All that remains is the revealing. All I need to know now is the why--why the events transpired as they did, how good is to be rewarded, how evil will be destroyed.
And what if God decides never to tell? What if like a that childhood memory, I never know the final chapter? Perhaps through indefinite agony, all that remains is to trust God's sovereignty.