Page 16 of The Writer

Talk about life imitating art.

My body stills, something on the ground demanding my attention. It’s a piece of paper, near translucent and tearing thanks to the water puddled by the curb. I lift it, trying not to cause further damage, and stare.

It’s a black heart, the colors running, the image crying.

I look over my shoulder, distracted pedestrians paying me no attention, let alone the damp litter in my hands.

My hand clumps into a fist, crinkling the shrinking paper until it’s no larger than a nickel in my palm. I toss the wad onto the curb, leaving it where I found it, beside my slashed tires.

NINE

By the time I reach my apartment, my fingers are stiff. If I’d known I’d be stuck walking to and from work for the foreseeable future, I would have worn my winter coat. As soon as I get inside, I rush to the heating unit and turn it on full blast; I can deal with the hefty gas bill later.

Crystal is here. I can tell because the kitchen is a mess. Usually, the first thing she does when she gets home is pour a glass of wine and get ready for whatever social outing she has planned for the evening. I can trace her presence in the apartment like a hunter tracking a wild animal. Corkscrew on the counter. Coat thrown on the couch. A tube of lipstick on the bathroom sink.

The door to the spare bedroom swings open, and Crystal walks into the living room. She’s wearing a short sweater dress and black over-the-knee boots. Her hair is pulled back with a trendy claw clip, and her eyes are heavily shadowed.

“What’s on the agenda tonight?” I ask, suddenly aware of my frumpy jacket, warm but unfashionable.

“A work thing,” she says, like she’s spitting out a last-minute addition to a grocery list. She pulls a trench coat off the rack and shrugs it on. “We’re celebrating our sales from this pastquarter. Going to some new restaurant that opened downtown. Rockefellers. Have you heard of it?”

I shake my head, sitting on the sofa and pulling a blanket further up my legs to better conceal myself.

“You should come!” She says this like it’s the most brilliant idea in the world. “I can’t remember the last time we went out together.”

I can, and I have to clear my throat to keep the memory from returning. “I’m working on?—”

“Writing. Yeah, yeah,” she cuts me off. “You’re starting to remind me of Jack Nicholson inThe Shining. All work and no play. It would do you some good to go out, see how the rest of the world spends a Friday night.”

“Maybe next weekend,” I say, knowing it won’t happen.

Crystal knows, too. She huffs as she slings her purse around her shoulder. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s been fun living here, and I’m appreciative of your generosity, but I want to spend time with you outside these four walls. Just like the old days.”

“The old days weren’t always as much fun as you make them out to be,” I say, regretting the quip immediately. It was too forward, too accusatory. I try to lighten the mood with my next comment. “Believe it or not, this is what I did every weekend before you moved in.”

“That’s not hard to believe at all.” She wanders over, planting a kiss on top of my head, but there’s a stiffness to her movements. My comment wounded her. “The world isn’t as scary as you make it out to be. I wish you’d let me show you.”

Her words echo in my head long after she leaves, creating resentment. Crystal hasn’t had the black hearts following her for a decade, ruining her attempts to rebuild. My healing comes in the form of my characters, my writing.The Mistakehas pulled me out of my writing slump, but I’d rather find a different story idea, one that isn’t quite so haunting.

Before I begin, I scroll through my email. There’s another standard rejection letter forNight Beat. I pull out the notebook with my handwritten log of my ongoing submissions, stabbing a long and deep line through the agent’s name. An optimist would say rejection only opens the possibility for a new submission, but all I can see is failure flashing before my eyes, an intoxicatingly annoying neon sign.

I slam the notebook shut and pull open my Word document, wishing I could somehow channel the upsets from today into a dreary and dark story. Crummy work shift. Vandalized car. Another rejection letter. Inside, I have all the makings for a dark and twisted narrative, but I can’t find a way to pull those emotions together, to turn them into something worth reading.

Before I know it, I’ve pulled up my latest manuscript,The Mistake. I’d promised myself I’d leave this story alone, that it was only a reaction to my night terror, but it’s like this story has a life source of its own and its desire to be told outweighs my efforts to keep it hidden. As I read, the words tug on my heart and soul, bringing me back to the dark streets and the beautiful young woman left discarded in a ditch.

The Mistakeby Becca Walsh

Had he planned to do what he did? That’s a hard question to answer. On the surface, no. He’d let himself get carried away. His anger reacted before his logic, and now the girl was dead.

He rushed away from the scene, not even bothering to cover up the girl in the drainage ditch. She’d be found eventually, even if he did try to hide her body, an act that would only risk more of his DNA being left at the scene. No, it was better to run away, put as much time as possible between his escape and when the girl was found.

Back to the earlier question, had he planned to do this?

If he were being honest with himself, there had always been a part of him that wondered what it would feel like. He’d certainly worked his way up to this point, without ever fully committing the act.

The first girl he’d attacked in the forgotten room of some fraternity party. She was so inebriated, she only realized what was happening once he was nearly finished, and she was too weak to fight back. He’d been able to slip out of the house unnoticed and wasn’t sure the girl even came forward about what he did.

With the second girl, there was more planning. He scoped her out at a club, carefully made his way over to her to strike up a conversation. It had been easy for him to slip something into her drink and offer her a ride home. By the time they reached his apartment, she was nearing unconsciousness; he wondered if she even remembered what took place after that.

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