Page 10 of The Writer

The conversation was a complete disaster. The officer I spoke to was in his mid-forties, heavy bags under his eyes, a five o’clock shadow covering his cheeks and jaw. First, he suggested the black hearts were a figment of my imagination, said seeing the same image a dozen times over several years wasn’t that significant. Then, he tried suggesting it was retaliation from an old boyfriend, someone I might have wronged.

When I pushed back, explained that these were targeted messages that were bordering on threats, he explained there was nothing he could do.

“If you find out who is sending these hearts, give me a name,” he says. “Without that, we can’t help.”

Since then, a new sense of hopelessness has set in. These black hearts are consistent, but the pauses in between are long enough that it’s impossible to prove who’s behind them. The messages will keep coming, and there is nothing I can do to stop them.

I push away the memory of that conversation as I arrive home, exiting my just-heated car to return to the frigid night air. I rush to the front door and thunder up the stairs, relieved that the temperature inside the apartment is warm and inviting. On the fridge is a note from Crystal.

Gone out for drinks. I’ll try not to wake you.

She kissed the card before she left, leaving the imprint of fuchsia lips that looked almost like their own dark heart. My body shudders.

As I change out of my clothes, my mind refuses to settle, replaying conversations I’ve had with different people about the hearts. The officer that brushed off the idea. I even tried telling my ex-boyfriend Jasper once, but he was skeptical. When I tried to mention them to my mother, she claimed I was the one at fault, said my stubborn head and pesky emotions were getting in the way of logic. By the time I crawl into bed, my heart is pounding in my chest, trying to release the frustration I’ve held inside for so long. No one believes me, and, sometimes, it makes me question how much I should trust myself.

Soon, other memories return to the forefront of my mind. Everything that happened before the black hearts started appearing in my life. Doesn’t everything eventually come back to that same season of regret and despair? My body is exhausted from work, but sleep is no longer an option, my mind a live wire of memories and thoughts and tension.

Propped up against the pillows in my bed, I pull out my computer, and begin to write.

The Mistakeby Becca Walsh

Layla no longer cared about the nightlife. She didn’t care that her favorite song was playing, or that the bartender had just announced BOGO shots before last call. She didn’t care about her friends, who were busy tearing up the dance floor, or that she had an exam scheduled for the next morning.

All Layla cared about was him.

Dark-haired and light-eyed, he hovered over her, his stance protective and inviting all at once. They’d spent half the night together, talking about life and laughing at the foolish antics of those around them. Somehow, the two of them were no longer like the hammered people huddled about; their interactions were elevated to a different level, confirmed by the warm feeling she felt in her chest whenever he smiled.

A fight broke out beside them. Two drunk men arguing about the most ridiculous of things. A pint glass was thrown, droplets of beer splashing across Layla’s cheek.

“Are you okay?” His voice was all concern and caring. A napkin appeared in his hand, like magic, ready to wipe up the mess.

“Fine,” she said. Nothing, not even spilt beer and broken glass, could dampen this fluttering sensation inside her, the one that had first developed when she started talking to him.

“Maybe it’s time we get out of here,” he said. His arms slipped over her shoulders like a jacket, protective and warm.

She practically floated as they left the bar, feeling as though she’d been saved from the dangerous and mediocre, and was headed in the direction of new possibilities. With him.

They continued walking, the winter air nipping at their cheeks. Still, there was that warmth. Layla could feel it spreading through her body, canceling out the harsh cold. And every time she dared to look up, to peer closer into his eyes, that warmth inside burned stronger, mighty enough to take advantage of her senses.

Layla was a cautious girl. A safe girl. She’d never met a stranger in a bar, never allowed herself such dalliances. It was her friends that took risks; she was the one to take care of them. Now responsible, capable Layla was living life for what felt like the first time, and she finally understood the rush of emotions that accompanied being in the present.

Everything around her was clear and in focus. The night. The feelings. Him.

She didn’t pay much attention as they ventured further away from downtown, strolled toward the backside of campus. She was lost in the moment, in conversation, in thought. By the time Layla realized that it was only the two of them, nearing the end of a smooth paved road, which was soon overtaken by weeds and earth, her mind was elsewhere. The lampposts gone, there was only a sliver of moonlight falling down on them, and she thought of how romantic it would be if he kissed her now, in this precise moment.

He reached for her, his hands finding her pale, thin neck. Layla moved closer to him, leaning into his touch. It took several more seconds for her to realize he wasn’t moving. That his grip was growing stronger, those long, perfect fingers tightening around her throat.

A flurry of thoughts went through her mind then.

This is a mistake. What is he doing? Why isn’t he stopping? This must be a joke.

Why isn’t he laughing? He’s smiling. Now crying. Did I do something wrong?

Will anyone know where I am? Is this really happening? His eyes are darker now.

Did anyone follow us?

What will my mother think if she never sees me again?

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