from my storybook Paradox of Fiction
Ouch… another pile of crap – she thought. Who wrote this again? She flipped to the back of the black-and-white cover. There was even a picture. Some scruffy-looking guy. Married. One wife. Yeah, sure, I totally believe that. Why do they all take their photos in kitchens? Trying to say they can cook? The name didn’t ring any bells. Oh, great, a debut. Thank God he didn’t write a cookbook.
She got up from the table and headed to the kitchen. A scoop of coffee into her favorite mug. The kettle boiled almost instantly. Of course, not enough for a full cup. She topped it up from the tap and turned it back on. How did he describe it again? Arabic coffee needs to be brought to a boil several times. Well, this is going to be pseudo-Arabic coffee. No, I’d actually have to cook it in the water for that. Still, at least I remembered something from your so-called “story,” dear artist. One sugar cube. No, let’s go with two. I’ll sweeten my life before diving into this review.
The table was scattered with cigarettes, gifts from an anonymous admirer who occasionally left them in her mailbox. Honestly, I’d rather write a review about the admirer. Right, where to start without offending anyone in the first sentence? How many times did I have to stop reading this? After every paragraph? No, it just discouraged me from going on. It was like reading about myself. Every sentence was so predictable. Just phrased differently… but I’d definitely say it better. More concisely.
Like that part where he described waiting. She began flipping through the book again. Damn it, where was that? Here… “in a time when expectations for the future oscillated between a red and blue world, where everything moved closer and farther away without effect, and I waited and waited for anything to happen…” Seriously, man, you could’ve just written: “I waited for nothing.” Fewer words, same meaning. As it is, you practically need a physics degree to decode this.
She chuckled to herself. I could definitely write a book too. If I only had the time. Where do they even find so much time to write their fantasies? Do they just sit at their desks undisturbed, typing away? Probably undisturbed by reality, I guess. That’s why the end product turns out the way it does. Though, to be fair, it wasn’t entirely unrealistic. Just mundane, everyday things described through the eyes of both an observer and a participant. Like he was constantly monitoring himself. Every word, every move, every expression. Nothing without scrutiny. As if he was always waiting to be judged. Some sort of complex, clearly.
She returned to the table, book in hand, and stared at the author’s photo again. He didn’t look like someone with a complex. Never mind. This review will be wrapped up quickly unless I let myself get drawn into sarcastically critiquing it in his own style. She realized she wanted to judge him. Like he was baiting her to.
Anyway, back to it… She hadn’t finished the book because she wanted to review it. And while it wasn’t always pleasant to read, it never bored her. Plus, her agency had paid her a decent sum for the review. It’s not like I’m writing a book about the book—just my opinion on it.
A car honked outside her window. Through the curtains, she couldn’t see anything. Nothing was parked there. She went back to her desk. The coffee was just the right temperature. Tasted fine too. Why change what works? Why bother making Arabic coffee? Screw the coffee. She grabbed her mug and dumped it into the sink.
If I’m going to write about this, I might as well start with his so-called favorite coffee. Actually, the book never mentioned it was his favorite. Just that he liked to make it for her while she watched him from bed in the mornings. Fine, I’ll admit it—when I read that, I wanted to try that coffee too. But I’m not buying a cezve for this. She pulled an old enamel cup from her cupboard. Never cooked anything in this, she thought. Maybe a boiled egg for Easter, once. Ages ago. Maybe never.
She tried to find the page in the book again. It was somewhere at the beginning. She quickly skimmed through the text. I didn’t imagine it—he made her coffee. EXCity… no, earlier. Not the hotel either… he wouldn’t have made her coffee there. She remembered the drive after dinner. Damn it, I’m looking for coffee. Here it is—first sentence of the first story. She scanned the passage again: about how the smell of caramel woke her up in the morning… Oh, right. No recipe here. Just descriptions of smells and flavors—disappointing. I could’ve sworn there was an actual recipe.
Okay, it’s going to be without cardamom. Don’t have any, she snapped at the book. Sitting down with her phone, she searched for “Arabic coffee with cardamom.” The internet was full of coffee recipes, but none mentioned caramel. Fine, I’ll make it my way. Or how I think he made it.
She melted a spoonful of sugar in the pot. Smells nice… must be lovely to wake up, not to noise, but to an aroma. Water, cheap coffee… cardamom can wait for another time. How many times should it boil? The book just said he returned it to the flame several times. The internet says three to five. Four, then. The water started bubbling.
Another honk outside. She pushed the curtain aside to get a better view. Behind her, the coffee boiled over with a loud hiss. Damn it. Nobody outside, and all that’s left in the pot is a mess. Screw your Arabic coffee. She turned off the stove and dumped the pot into the sink. Lit a cigarette. Another honk.
And then it hit her. Yesterday, she’d changed her phone’s ringtone. Just a few text messages. She started to envy the woman in the book, who only had to wake up to get her coffee. Smoothie will have to do.
She pulled the keyboard closer and, like Tim’s Emily, played the first notes on it. The melody of words gradually gained intensity. The words came on their own. She reread the first paragraph. She wasn’t sure it said what she wanted it to say. No, no. Again. And again. Thank goodness we don’t write with pens anymore. It would have been all crossed out, corrected, messy, with piles of crumpled pages slowly filling the trash can. This way, you just highlight, delete, and start over.
All while the car horn kept blaring outside. She had muted her phone, so now the only interruptions were the occasional vibrations from her smartwatch, signaling someone’s desire for her attention. Impossible to work like this. Someone always wanted something, fracturing her ability to focus. I guess this won’t be as quick as I initially thought.
She could have written that she finished the book and set it aside, never to return to it. That would’ve been a lie. It hadn’t even been an hour since she’d finished it, and she’d already flipped through it twice more. It’s a mess… maybe like dreams. A little bit of everything. And hints of far too much specificity. Yeah. It really felt more like dreams than a clearly structured plot. And as pleasant or unpleasant as dreams may be, you’d still want to watch each one again, like a movie.
She stopped writing and picked up the book again. On the cover was the face of a young beauty. A drawing or a photo? Hard to tell. Was he writing about her? Writing about dreams he’d had of her? Or stories he’d lived with her? If it’s pure fiction, then you’ve got her under your skin, dear author. If it’s real, then you’ve probably gone mad.
She flipped back to the author’s information. There was a birthdate, but no second date followed. So, he’s probably still alive. It struck her that she’d automatically placed the story in the present day. But what if it happened in another decade? Are there any clues? At one point, he talks to a phone. Not someone on the phone… so it can’t be that old. Almost contemporary.
Maybe I’ve just misunderstood the story, like when written sentences lose their meaning without the right intonation. But how am I supposed to read it? As a dream? Or as a letter? Oh, what if it’s a letter? No way… letters aren’t written like this. A letter would be much shorter. Letters are all “Hi, how are you? Yesterday we went here and there, say hi to so-and-so…” Purely practical information. Or maybe an opera libretto?
I’m overthinking this. It’s just someone spilling their guts to a random confidante. Who knows how many confidantes will pick through this like I am.
Alright, once more. From the first page. Not to read it this time. To take part in it. I won’t read it like a task. I’ll read it as if I were the recipient, the confidante, the listener. As if he wrote it just for me. Only me.
Her mind recreated the smell of caramel, coffee, and something else. The warmth of a blanket, the satisfying give of a well-used pillow. The quiet and the music. God, not a single tear is shed on these pages, and yet my eyes are suddenly full of them.
I swear I know exactly how long his fingers would stride across my forearm. I’d kill for that.
She had to stop reading for a moment. I can’t read this looking like this. Yeah, I’ve read your bit about how you want to see me unmade-up and disheveled, but… Nope. Shower first. Fix myself up. This decadence just won’t do. It calls for style. And the elegance with which you write about me.
In the bathroom, she studied the woman in the mirror. This? This is what he wants? Girl, you’re losing it. Just like he must have when he wrote this. Will every confidante who reads it go just as crazy? Probably not. No one’s going to judge them for their verdict.
She sat in the tub and turned on the shower. Cold. Hot. There, just right. The pleasant drumming of droplets on her body. The soothing rhythm of her heartbeat. She watered herself like a plant in the rain. Through blurred vision, she inspected the connection between the faucet and the new shower hose. No leaks. Nicely done. She remembered using pliers yesterday, scraping up the nut during the replacement. “Marriage material,” she thought. She could almost hear him, even over the sound of the water, like he was in the next room.
Maybe I should hit myself with cold water. Make it less pleasant on purpose. Just to take the edge off. Cold is cold, and pleasant things… well, sometimes they hurt.
“Could you hand me a towel?” she tried, imagining how it would sound if someone were there to hand her one. And just as quickly, she heard her response when he’d give her a towel instead of a bath sheet. Probably on purpose, just to hear her explain the difference.
She ran her hand over her body to remove the water droplets. Purely practical. It’ll keep the towel from getting so wet. In the mirror, the same woman stared back. Ready for a date. With a book.
Brush hair. Apply makeup. Perfume. She knew how to play the power game. Not five-on-four or even five-on-three. All on one. Let’s see what you’ve got. You’re all so controllable when you want to be.
Luxurious white lingerie. Luxury costs extra. Over it, just a T-shirt. With lace, of course.
The third coffee was perfect. A pre-made mix from a packet, just add hot water. Smelled good. Tasted good. A mix engineered for addiction.
She moved to the living room couch. Everything she might need within arm’s reach, so she wouldn’t have to get up. A collection of cushions and a red plush blanket. Nothing was missing for perfect comfort. Remote control, phone, chocolate, cookies… just reach out.
“Hi,” she said to the book. “I’m here. Where will you take me? Actually, don’t answer that. I want answers without questions.”
She sipped the coffee she had prepared for herself.
She finished the first story. No. It’s not a letter. Not a confession.
God… it’s prophecy.
Just like back then, when one of her admirers bombarded her with similar nonsense. It would’ve been a completely crazy story, if it had stayed on a phone screen. Passionate, fragrant, and thrilling.
It was absolute nonsense, but it was enticing to read. It made you curious. It made you want. Just like her hand resting on the plush butterfly of her panties. So close to something.
Shared moments on a piano. Sex. Uncomfortable, yet deeply satisfying connection. Her hand released the butterfly and reached for a piece of chocolate.
Sex described without a single word about the act itself. Her mind, filled with mere suggestions, once again conjured an image, this time of passion.
What a shame she’d deleted that story back then. At his request.
He couldn’t possibly have known it would come true. Could he really direct someone so cold-bloodedly into a space where he wanted them to be? He couldn’t have known it would lead to baring teeth.
It’s strange. In just a few sentences, he described exactly what would happen. Both would bare their teeth, proving their ability to bite. A duel between two alphas.
She slipped the small, sweet piece of chocolate into her mouth. Though she wanted to bite into it right away, she resisted, letting it slowly melt on her tongue.
Yes, it would have been just a fantastical story if it hadn’t ended up happening.
The cursed Joker.
She glanced again at the author’s photo.
No, it couldn’t be him. The name might be a pen name.
Michael Adams.
For a moment, the name Michael made her pause.
But no, this was a completely different man. Or maybe the exact same kind of madman. Which is entirely possible.
If it’s a prophecy, girl, then you’re headed for either hell or heaven. Or maybe both. Hell and heaven. Where hell might be an unbearable heaven.
Like playing a piano with a bare backside.
A notification snapped her out of her thoughts. A text message.
She stretched uncomfortably to reach her phone, only to find there was no new message. Oh, right. She’d muted her phone earlier.
She was certain.
She placed the phone back on the blanket and listened for the sound of a car passing by outside her window.
Nothing. Silence. Louder than usual.
She didn’t want to keep reading the book anymore.
She envied the woman the book foretold of and pitied her at the same time.
The feeling of helplessness.
No review, no critique could change anything now.
She picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts, searching.
If only she could remember the name she had him saved under.
There. That’s his nickname.
She pressed the green call button.
It rang, so the number still existed.
Would it still belong to him?
“Hello…” His voice greeted her.
“Mr. Adams?” She tried to mask her identity.
“You know exactly who you’re calling, and you know that I know who’s calling me,” he said, amused.
For a brief moment, she pondered how to respond. She hadn’t expected him to still have her number saved.
“You still have me saved in your phone?” she asked, her curiosity revealing a feminine vulnerability.
“Not in my phone… I just remember your number,” he replied.
“You’ve remembered my number all these years?”
As always, she asked questions, and as always, he answered them. Immediately, without hesitation, as if he were incapable of lying. Unless, of course, he had prepared answers to every possible question. That would be just like him.
“I don’t remember anything. My brain just reacts the way it’s been trained. The way the sun means warmth and yellow, grass means green and dew… this number simply means you,” he said. Convoluted. With extra details no one had asked for. That was what made him so boring.
“I found out you finished your book,” she said, letting him know she’d come across it. “…and I’m afraid you’ll want me to fulfill my promise.”
“Isn’t it expired by now?” he countered, grounding her with a question, as if he didn’t care about the promise she’d made.
“Of course, it’s expired… I didn’t expect it to take you fifteen years to finish it,” she snapped, hearing his laughter on the other end of the line.
“It really didn’t. The book was written in about a hundred days. I just wanted to make sure you’d read it at the same age I was when I wrote it. Maybe so you’d understand what I was saying.”
“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” Another question.
“Ignorance makes people foolish, and only foolish acts make them stupid. So no, I don’t think you’re stupid. I never did. Did you think I did?”
“I didn’t care back then what anyone thought of me… with one exception. That exception was you. It drove me crazy to think you might believe that.”
“And yet, you loved driving me crazy with it,” he laughed.
“I see you’re enjoying this,” she shot back with her usual combative tone.
“Not at all. I’m just happy to hear your voice. You have no idea how much.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re alive. Unless, of course, I’m dreaming this conversation.” His deliberate response was meant to make her question her own sense of reality.
“I wouldn’t recognize you from the photo,” she deflected.
“That’s not my photo. I have no interest in attention or fame.”
“You think you could finally become famous?” she laughed, this time. “It’s unreadable…”
Of course, the photo couldn’t be him. He must be over sixty now.
“And yet you finished it. I’m almost certain of that.”
“Yes… because I had to. It’s my job, darling. And it pays well,” she boasted.
“That’s great news. Do you get a lot of jobs like that?”
“Of course,” she lied, suddenly realizing who had likely funded this review assignment.
“Why do you ask? Do you need something criticized or exalted? What are you even doing now?”
“I’m still writing. Always writing.”
“Another victim?”
“At my age? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Yeah, time’s flown by. Too fast.”
“Maybe it can be slowed down… somehow…” he started again.
“I don’t need it… I don’t want it…” she interrupted him.
“Really?”
“There’s no reason,” she replied, knowing he wouldn’t believe her. No one would.
It made her uncomfortable to be maneuvered into this feeling of being so transparent.
“Anyway, I have to go. I’ve got something to do…” – Damn it, that’s not what I wanted to say. Now he knows I’m working on a review. He knows it’s the assignment he funded.
“It was nice hearing from you. I’ll let you know when it’s done. Bye…” she ended abruptly.
For a moment, she stared blankly at the red blanket. Slowly, she replayed their conversation in her mind.
She couldn’t quite recall what they’d actually talked about. Everything mixed together—the memories, the book, the conversation.
Her phone’s call log offered the hard data. Call duration: 1 minute, 35 seconds.
Really, only that long? It felt like they’d talked for half an hour.
Is this what he meant? Is this how time slows down?
She dialed his number again.
The long ringing filled the silence. If he doesn’t pick up soon, I’ll never call again, she told herself, trying to suppress the feeling that he might not care.
“Hi… sorry, I was refueling. Did something happen?”
“No, I just… I got the courage to meet.”
“Courage? Were you actually afraid of something? I thought it was just part of the game… like virtual reality.”
“Yeah, but sometimes the game pulls you in… I don’t know how to explain it. But yeah, I was scared, but not anymore… now you’re just old.”
“I was already old back then.”
“Where do you live?”
“The same place as before… I’m essentially a conservative guy. I never wanted to admit that moving there was a mistake.”
“I live somewhere else… I’ve moved,” she tried to lie.
“Really?”
“No. I still live in eX.”
“You know I know that…”
“Yeah, I forgot… Mr. Know-It-All.”
“How about we grab coffee? In Bee Town?”
“No way. Definitely not there.”
“Okay, I’ll bring some in a thermos, and we can drink it in the car.”
“I wouldn’t get into your car.”
“I’ll come over. I’ll take the keys out of the ignition and hand them to you through a slightly open window. You can sit in the back. I’ll pour us coffee, and we can explain a lot of things to each other. When you’re ready to leave, you hand me the keys back, and I’ll drive off. Probably a bad idea, right?” he laughed.
“I’ll make the coffee for the thermos… you might try to drug me.”
“Of course… with boredom,” he kept joking.
“Better safe than sorry. When will you have time… or, better yet, what are you doing tonight?”
“Hold on, let me check my calendar… let’s see. Hmm, that’s not going to work,” he said, feigning disappointment.
“Already have plans, huh?” she replied, matching his tone.
“Yeah, I’ve got a coffee date planned in a thermos in eX, in the car.”
“Idiot.”
“What time should I come by?”
“Never. But be on time…”
She didn’t wait to see if he’d comment further. She hung up.
The game was still on.
In hindsight, she realized it didn’t matter what role someone played in the game. The only thing that mattered was being in it.
There was still plenty of time until Never. Enough time for a short nap, with a bit of drooling on the pillow.
She slid her phone under it and pulled the blanket up to her nose.
The shower can wake you up or tire you out. This one left her pleasantly tired.
She didn’t feel as old as the women fifteen years younger than her. Not even close.
I look just like the photo above my bed. I’m still the same as back then.
Now I know it.
Will the meeting go the way he described?
Another prophecy?
Bullshit. Just a plan. A proposal.
And again, disgustingly polite. The negative of an indecent proposal.
So, that pile of nonsense isn’t a prophecy—it’s more of a “what if.”
Nothing. Now sleep.
“…I can’t feel my toes…
I can’t feel my feet… I can’t feel my ankles…”
No. Hell no. Forget about the toes, the feet, the ankles.
She put on her headphones and turned on some music. Music always worked to put her to sleep.
You’ll never make me stay… So take your weight off of me… I know your every move…
Just turn it down a bit. Somehow, it’ll be fine.
She closed her eyes. Opened them again.
Wait, is it already evening?
I swear I just closed them.
Damn it. I won’t have time to get ready. I’ll be unprepared. Unkempt.
There’s no way I’ll be ready.
Who knows when “Never” is. Coffee will have to do.
In a thermos, it’ll stay hot forever.
All I have is that thermos mug from Ewing.
She threw on a tracksuit. Looks good on me, she decided.
Perfume will have to be enough.
Two scoops of instant coffee and hot water.
She looked out the window.
There was a car parked outside that she didn’t recognize.
He’s already here?
He’s punctual.
Through the glass, she couldn’t see who was inside, but the driver’s side window was half-open.
She hesitated. This is just a game, right?
From the top drawer, she pulled out her Cerakote pink pistol.
Small enough to fit in the pocket of her tracksuit jacket, but still heavy enough to pull it down.
It wouldn’t be visible, though.
I won’t go down while it’s still light out, she thought.
And after all, I decide when “Never” is.
The coffee in her mug stayed at the same temperature.
Is it dark enough now?
Or is it already dark?
She headed downstairs.
With every step, her courage waned.
By the time she reached the entrance, she was nearly convinced the whole plan was a terrible idea.
There wasn’t a single good reason to meet.
But there’s always a reason for self-defense, isn’t there?
She opened the front door.
The car engine was running.
She froze.
The engine stopped, and a hand appeared through the driver’s side window.
God, why is he wearing those black gloves?
She still couldn’t make out who the driver was.
The streetlight’s reflection on the car windows obscured everything.
Slowly and deliberately, she approached the car.
Only the vein in her neck, pulsing under her skin, betrayed her tension.
Now. Now. Now. Now.
Okay.
He was alone in the car.
There wouldn’t be an abduction.
Although… you can never trust the devil—or him, for that matter.
She had an idea.
It almost made her laugh.
When she took the keys from the black-gloved hand, she was completely calm.
I’ll sit directly behind him, she thought.
We’ll only see each other through the rearview mirror.
She opened the back door.
On the seat was nothing but a basket holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
Unless they were plastic.
“Hi. It’s warm in here,” she said.
“Hi. Well, I figured the engine would be off for a while, and the nights are cold. So I let the heater run for a bit.”
“Always practical, no matter what.”
“No… but I’ve been sitting here for a while, and when you’re bored, you think about these things,” he replied, starting to turn around.
“Don’t turn around, please… do it for me,” she asked.
She noticed that the rearview mirror was adjusted so they couldn’t see each other.
“Why not? Do you think I’ll see a different woman than back then?”
“No. I’d just see a different man… or maybe not… just let me think it’s still back then.”
“What movie is that from?”
“None… it’s from your book.”
“Really? Did I write that? I wrote it, but I haven’t read it… strange, huh?”
“For you? Not at all. But what’s really strange is…”
The sound of the car’s central locking interrupted her.
The light on the door blinked: Lock.
“What was that? Why did you lock it? Unlock it!”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“Sometimes it locks automatically, or maybe you pressed the button on the key,” he replied.
“I didn’t press any button!”
Panicked, she felt for the grip of the Glock in her pocket.
“Relax. You can always open the car from the inside. I’d have to press the child lock button on my door for you not to.” He gestured to the handle on his side.
“Don’t you dare touch it! I want to see your hands,” she demanded.
At the same time, she racked the slide of the Glock to chamber a round.
“Should I raise them? Or put them on my head? Maybe I shouldn’t have come… You’re having a day, huh?”
“Put them on the steering wheel.”
“Alright, fine. I’m a little too old for this, though,” he said, placing his hands slowly on the wheel.
“You’ve always been like a remote control, and I never understood why. And I have so many whys for you.”
“Do you have questions? Ask them. If I recall correctly, I never had a problem answering.”
“Oh, really? Then try to remember… like why you disappeared. Why you wanted to disappear… That was the one question you refused to answer.”
“It was something that didn’t directly involve you. It never had to bother you. But I understand why you’d feel the need to point a gun at an old man… from behind.”
“Your disappearance didn’t really bother me that much, but the fact that people close to me started disappearing right after you did? That did.”
“So you think it was my fault…”
“I don’t think—I know.”
“As far as I remember, they were suicides or accidents.”
“To me, they were murders.”
“I never touched any of them. If I recall correctly… there was no evidence of foul play. De jure, I’m guilty of disappearing?”
“I want to know exactly what you were doing every single day when those things happened. And I don’t doubt your memory. Hand over your phone!”
“Why?”
Without argument, he pulled the phone from the holder and, without turning around, handed it back to her over his shoulder.
She snatched it from his hand.
“It’s locked. The PIN!”
“You know it… there’s nothing important on there.”
“I just need to check something.” She entered the code and opened his contacts.
He hadn’t lied; her number wasn’t saved.
“If you’ve remembered my number all these years, surely you can recall what you were doing back then.”
“Well, if you can handle the truth…”
“Try me. I’d love to hear it.”
“A week before I disappeared, I had a visitor late at night. And I wasn’t in great shape back then; I’d already been dealing with some kidney issues. I wasn’t exactly at my peak. Still, I had to handle it. No one ever came to visit me just for the pleasure of seeing me.”
“That’s a long-winded way to start…”
“Do you want to hear it or not?”
“Go on.”
“People only came to me for one reason: to make sure they’d never have to see me again. So this guy, young, cocky, all talk on the phone, thought he’d flex on me in person. He didn’t realize that even in my condition, I wasn’t one to mess with.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Are you crazy? What would I get out of that? No, I just let him suffocate on his own ego. Cold as ice.”
“And he just… let you? Didn’t fight back?”
“No. The thing about young people is their imagination. A pair of black gloves, the visible grip of a revolver, the scent of gasoline… all it took to crush his ego and those puffed-up shoulders. He thought I’d actually use it.”
“That’s still not a reason for you to disappear…”
“I’d never been cruel before, but that night… I was.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing much… I just took his phone—a fancy, overpriced Apple—and snapped it in half. Then I made him eat the screen. It crunched as he bled from that arrogant mouth of his. From that moment on, I started to despise every one of those cocky little boys. Not because they were arrogant, but because they were cowards. They couldn’t stand up to someone older and weaker. Worthless, spineless cowards. They knew nothing of honor. They weren’t alphas; they weren’t even on the Greek alphabet. While my family slept upstairs, I made him eat his pride downstairs. When he left, I woke my wife and told her the police might come for me that night. I told her not to worry—they’d make some noise, but they’d leave with me. She just stroked my hand and went back to sleep. But no one came. And then I collapsed. My kidneys. I pissed into the River Styx and swam back to this side. For a while, I texted you from the hospital, and then I signed myself out. I wasn’t doing well. I started to hate the young, and they hated me.
I couldn’t let you show up with one of them. You’d never be able to respect him again, never see him as your protector. And I would’ve broken him—crushed him. So I disappeared. For you. So I wouldn’t hurt you. That’s the whole story. The rest? I know nothing. Just what I read in the papers. Sometimes people just don’t survive their own youth. They couldn’t handle it.”
“You’re lying… that didn’t happen.”
“God… I lied to you once. I told you I was somewhere I wasn’t, and ever since, you’ve called me a liar.”
She pressed the Glock to his head.
“You’re still lying…”
“Do you even know how convenient the truth is?”
“What do you know about truth…? The only truth you care about now is that if I pull this trigger, there’ll be one less bastard in the world.”
“Have you ever shot anyone before? I don’t think so. I’d bet you’ve never even used that Glock at the range. You just needed to own it to feel safe. Am I right? I’m almost sure it’s as pristine as when I gave it to you. Polished, cared for… but untouched. Isn’t it?”
“Well, now it’s at your head… now I won’t miss…”
“You know what? Go ahead. Pull it. Don’t be afraid. If I’m not scared, neither should you be.”
“Put your hands back on the wheel,” she demanded, the Glock steady in her hand. Memories of months spent hating him, wanting him to never exist, shot through her mind like bullets.
“Come on, burn every bridge,” he goaded her.
She shut her eyes, clenched her teeth.
“I’d gladly do time for you,” she said, pulling the trigger.
A click. The sound was quieter than she expected, and the kickback was nonexistent. No shattered windshield, no blood painting the glass. Slowly, she opened her eyes.
He was still sitting there, unscathed. The glass in front of him remained untouched.
She squeezed the trigger again, this time with her eyes wide open. Nothing. No sound but the ringing in her ears.
“Don’t bother pressing it again,” he said calmly. “A blank cartridge won’t cycle the action. But if I’d known you’d actually find the courage to use it, I would’ve left you a live round.”
She swung the Glock, aiming to strike him in the head with the butt of the gun. But he turned his head just in time, and her hand struck the seat’s headrest instead, sending the pistol flying from her grip.
The car’s interior lights still displayed the locked door indicator. She scrambled for the keys in her pocket, frantically pressing the button. Nothing happened. Still locked.
“Different keys,” he said, holding up a separate set from the center console. He started the car, adjusting the rearview mirror so he could see her.
How had she not noticed the keys before? They’d been in plain sight the entire time. Her stomach churned. The adrenaline had drained her completely. She coughed, choking as nausea overtook her. She gagged and threw up the coffee she’d drunk earlier. Pride and anger had left her.
“You see?” he said, glancing at her in the mirror. “You do it all to yourselves. Without me lifting a finger. Your generation never cared about what you did to others—only yourselves. Proud, frightened, and puking. There’s a napkin in the basket. Clean yourself up. It’s disgusting.”
She considered smashing the bottle of champagne over his head. It was in her right hand, and she tightened her grip around the neck of the bottle. She pretended to search the basket for a napkin, her fingers gripping the bottle tighter. But when? When should she act?
The car hit a freshly milled stretch of road. The tires thudded against uneven asphalt, and a raised manhole cover sent the car jolting. She bit her lip, tasting blood as it swelled instantly. She dropped the bottle and pressed the napkin to her mouth.
“Sorry about that,” he said, catching her wounded expression in the mirror. “Didn’t mean for that to happen. Should I stop?”
Stopping would mean more danger, she thought.
“Don’t stop. I have no idea where you’re taking me. I’m scared.”
“Of what? Me?” He chuckled bitterly.
“Of you. This whole time.”
“And yet, here we are. Isn’t fear a strange thing?”
“Where are you taking me? I’m scared of you,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Shouldn’t I be the one scared? Shouldn’t I admit how much fear is inside me? Fear men like me aren’t allowed to show…”
“Take me home. Please,” she begged.
“I’m taking you home… to our home. Or have you forgotten?”
“There was never an ‘our.’ Stop it. You’re insane. Do you hear me? Insane!”
“Lil… wake up. I don’t know what else to say to you…”
“Take me home. Now!”
The car turned off the main road.
“I don’t want to be here. I want to be safe, at home. Alone.”
“Do you really not remember? There are photos in the basket. Try to remember. Please.”
Why was he pleading?
Hesitantly, she reached into the basket and pulled out a stack of photos.
The first photo was of her.
“Where did you get this?”
“Get? They’re from our album… Lil, you really need to wake up.”
The second photo showed her with someone.
No… this never happened. Feverishly, she flipped through more pictures. She recognized one. This one was from Palermo.
“Where did you get these?” she asked again, her voice shaky. Without waiting for a reply, she went through more photos, faster now. One picture showed her on a wedding day. She froze.
She stared at the photo, unable to speak.
“Still nothing? Lil…?” he asked, his voice softer now.
“How did you do this? These aren’t photos. They’re fake. That’s not you beside me!”
God, this photo has everyone… and here… I’m nursing a baby? Her head swam.
I have… I have a child. Oh God, it’s beautiful. No, this can’t be real. This never happened. I don’t have a child… I was never married.
She gripped the photo of the baby, unable to tear her eyes away. A birthday cake. Candles. The images narrowed her vision to a pinprick. A schoolbag. Darkness.
Cold, damp air brought her back. Endless torment. She was staring at a headstone. She recognized it immediately, without hesitation. Even the inscription—she had chosen it herself. Wake up…
“Wake up,” a voice said from behind her. She flinched, startled. She was back in her room, tucked under her red blanket, pulled up to her nose.
It was just a dream. A nightmare.
A car honked outside her window.
Keys rattled in the door.
“Mama… I’m home…”
All photographs and texts are my own and are protected by copyright law. Their use is permitted only with my written consent. MIC
