Letting Go Of Brent And Other Christmas Miracles: Chapter 2

 

The middle of the night is both a wonderful time and a terrible one. To be left alone with your thoughts can be torture if you’re worried about the coming day, revisiting a mistake from the day before, or mentally asking yourself over and over if your address book is up to date for the coming gift buying season or if you’re going to send a gift to the wrong place again like you did last year.

A case of the “what ifs” at three a.m. has to be the worst.

Most of my what ifs have been centered around the man currently known as Brent in my story. At the moment I’m being kept company by the What if questions I’ve been asking myself basically forever. What if I had been prettier? Would I have been more attractive if I was smarter? Would it have helped if my smile was brighter? If I dressed better? What if my name was more feminine? Would he have liked me if I was a little more someone else and a little less … me?

The middle of the night can also bring clarity.

It’s this kind of clarity which reminds me that if the only way to get “Brent’s” interest is to be someone else he isn’t a man I want to be with. I want, need, and deserve someone who sees the woman I am at three in the morning and wants her in his life exactly as she is. I won’t stifle or silence or change myself to please anyone.

Not anymore.

There’s also clarity in knowing I love myself. I like myself too. Most of me anyway. I’m not happy with some of my choices in life. Not learning how to navigate big expenses with more confidence and less anxiety. Not being better at building friendships when you’re not one of the crowd like—at all. Not moving on from things that aren’t working for me.

One of my biggest regrets is spending way too many years chasing a star that I will never grow tall enough to reach.

It leaves me in an odd place, stuck between what I know about myself, what parts of myself I’m determined to hold on to, and what stays within my sight but lingers well out of reach.

I feel ready to let go of that last tiny lingering ‘what if.’  Unfortunately, I’m not quite sure how to stop looking up at the sky and hoping for a miracle.

It’s a really strange place or purgatory to be stuck in and I find myself wondering how much longer this final bit is going to last.

Marley

*Sort out how any of this can be put into Renee’s story when there’s coffee. I need to sleep. TTFN.

This morning I find myself at odds. My crush on Brent has been with me for so long. Has it become part of my identity?

Who am I if I’m not spending my time longing for Brent? Who do I hang my hopes on?

I read somewhere that a person should never hang their hopes on another, it’s unhealthy for them and unfair to the person they’re doing it to.

I look out the window and watch as an early morning rain falls. I can’t help wondering where hope comes from. Where do I find it? Does hope live in an accomplishment, a pursuit, a dream for the future? Does hope hide someplace within? Am I the only person who spends time wondering about this?

Enough. Back to the big question, once I release the remaining tendrils of my feelings for Brent in what direction do I turn? How can I be sure it’s a healthy one? How do I not make this mistake again? Are any of the decisions I've made in recent days good ones?

Lester sits in front of the window as he watches the birds sheltering in the trees. The cat senses I'm watching him and turns to look at me. He shifts a bit on the sill. I can tell he wants to come over for a cuddle. We both know the jump down is a bit much for him these days. I get up and cross the room lifting the cat into my arms. He reaches up and gently touches my face with his paw, a quiet thank you. Lester is an old man now. He was my grandmother’s cat. He’s been a member of the family so long we have no idea how old he is.

It's complicated but almost everyone I’m related to has only been in my life for brief periods here and there. Lester and my grandmother being the only constants. Lester being the much more companionable of the two.

I don’t recall what life was like before he arrived, I can’t imagine what it would be like without him.

“You’re welcome.” I say giving him his Good Morning pet. I set him down in his bed at the dining area end of the room for a nap. He circles a bit settling himself in and closes his eyes. Lester looks as tired this morning as my heart feels.

I return to my coffee and find myself looking forward to the dull slowness of a quieter day.

There are no big decisions to be made at this time.

No more letters to write to Brent.

Just a bit of laundry and dinner with friends.

Dinner with friends and a difficult conversation.

What if Brent shows up after all?

Dinner with friends doesn’t feel so easy any more.

My phone pings at me.

Today is the first day of a new chapter of your life. I made you a playlist to help you get through coming days. We all love you. You’ve got this.

Cassandra

I click on the YouTube link she sent to find : Cassandra’s Playlist For Inner Strength. A collection that is totally her. I click on “Girl On Fire” by Alicia Keys before taking a final sip of coffee and getting started with the day.

“I’ve got a new job.” I announce. The moment the words tumbled out of my mouth I regretted speaking them. The silence around the table at our group’s annual UnThanksgiving Dinner was stifling. Their faces said it all.

I can’t take a new job, I’m Renee. I’m still working at the same job I got right out of college.

I’ve had a plan for my life since my first day of high school and I've barely wavered, then it's only been in matters pertaining to Brent. This put me in a specific place among my college friends early on. As the one who doesn’t change.

I've just stumped my friends into complete silence.

Everyone except Cassandra.

“What is it you’ll be doing?” Cassandra asked.

“There was an opening for a curator at the art museum. Special collections.” I responded, no longer feeling like discussing the subject further.

“That sounds fun.” Cassandra said, continuing the conversation for everyone else at the table.

“The art museum here eliminated special collections, there was no money in the budget. They closed it what, three/four years ago?” Melanie asked.

“The job isn’t here. A private university in New England has a need for one. I’ve been wanting to do something different and always wanted to see the coast. I applied, we talked a couple of times, and I got the job.”

“What about everything here?” My friend Evelyn asked.

“I own my car.” I responded. “I spoke with a couple of realtors and it shouldn’t be too difficult to get something worked out with the house. The biggest challenge is going to be finding a place to live near the university that will accept Lester.” My eyes immediately peruse the room for him. I spotted the ebony colored short haired cat napping in his bed. He opened one eye at the sound of his name, when no one approached with food or a hand for him to bite the feline returned to his nap.

More silence.

“Is anyone going to congratulate her?” Cassandra asked. “Anyone other than me?”

“Of course. Congratulations.” Cassandra’s husband Andy said. “My sister-in-law grew up in New England. She might be able to give you some ideas. I’d just need to know which university the job is at.”

“Grenden.”

“I think she knows someone who went there. I’ll have her ask around.”

“Thank you.”

A small wave of congratulations could be heard coming from around the table.

“We’re sorry Renee.” Ted apologized. “Your announcement is bit of a shock. You never change things, for you to make such a big change … ”

 " ... no one saw it coming.” Evelyn said, finishing her husband’s sentence.

“Quite frankly I never thought you’d make a change that might take you away from Brent.” Melanie added, winking at me.

My eyes shot up at the sound of Brent’s name, a reflex reaction I have yet to break myself of. Several remarks came to mind, none of them felt useful or even necessary.

“Brent’s not here. He only pops by when he’s between projects.” Cassandra pointed out. “As far as I’m concerned it’s his loss, he should have spent more time with Renee when he had the chance.”

“It’s only a few hours away.” I add.

“A few hours on the road isn’t going to stop me and Andy from visiting.” Cassandra pointed out.

Melanie looked away as people took turns shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

Ted turned to Melanie and said, “Brent’s resourceful. He’ll find her when he wants to see her.”

“Is the “Thanksgiving Complaints, Mishaps, and the Things We’ll Never Be Able To Unsee” portion of the dinner over?” I ask hoping the subject will be changed.

No one responds.

“That leaves us with the best parts of the week and what’s on our Christmas Wish lists.” Andy announces, “Who’s ready for something other than pie?”

Letting Go Of Brent And Other Christmas Miracles: Chapter 1

To Whomsoever May Be Reading This,

Love is wonderful. Love makes everything that has been difficult in life worth the journey. It changes our gray toned black and white worlds into Technicolor. Birthday and Valentine’s days are no longer spent alone. There are anniversaries of weddings and first kisses and first dates. That first time we saw him or her across the room, the store, the stadium, or on the screen.

There are many kinds of love. The one I’m going to talk about is the unrequited one. The safest kind. It will never break your heart, as is impossible for unrequited love to do. You started this affair by choosing a person who is not going to ever love you back. You’ve already broken your own heart right out of the gate on the very first day. Unrequited love doesn’t need to do a thing.

Some of us choose to love someone who is already married, in a relationship, or otherwise engaged. Some of us go even bigger. We go for that added layer of security and focus our affections on a celebrity.

A celebrity.

Someone who lives far far away and has other celebrity type people to date and mate with. Someone who will never come into our lives on any level. A 100% guarantee never to contract an STD. Better than a condom every time.

It’s one of the longest and loneliest journeys I have ever been on. 

Hold on a sec. There’s more.

I’m not going to tell you that a celebrity crush is at the root of all my problems.

It isn’t.

It never was.

Sadly with unrequited love, what begins as an escape from the trials of his or her own world takes a person into an area of life that can be so much more challenging than any day to day problems.

As was in my case.

So here it goes. I spent anywhere from two-five years with an actual crush. Three of those five years were spent searching for ways to keep myself from having that crush, a journey that continued for another seven years. For the most part I feel okay. The giggly teenager batting her eyes behavior has been gone for a while now. As long as it's been, I’m still afraid to watch anything the “is never going to happen” object of my affection is in. I don’t watch him for long stretches of time. The latest span of not watching has lasted over six months.

It all comes down to me.

Me not trusting myself not to fall into that rabbit hole of adolescent giddiness all over again. All those weekends, holiday weekends and vacations of previous years; times spent making extra trips to my window looking at the smile I kept in a jar by the door, saving it for the moment we finally met, wondering if it would ever be used. I felt more and more like the Eleanor Rigby The Beatles sang about with each passing year. It was only a matter of time before I began to look like her.

Years have passed and these days I spend a lot of time keeping track of all the ways I’m doing better. Of all the improvements I’ve seen in my life, clearly proof I’ve moved on. But complete certainty still eludes me. Somehow there are still doubts. Lingering doubts. What if I’m wrong? Not wrong about him ever being a lover. That possibility never existed. What if he does know who I am? That I exist? What if he digs my work? (I’ve heard my films are very cutting edge.) What if he would like a coffee? What if a chat about books and movies would be fun? As difficult as it feels  to be sure of myself some days, there’s one thing I am sure of, I'm tired of living only in my dreams, of wasting my life waiting for something that's never going to come. I’m tired of feeling broken. 

Which leads me to this, because sadly, looking at the positives in my life just isn’t cutting it anymore. It’s time to be someone else (sorry Eleanor) and the only way to get to the someone else I want to become is to keep moving forward; through this crap.

The events of recent years can’t be easily summed up in the following paragraphs. Be warned what you're reading is just an introduction to a much longer and more convoluted story.

Names and details have been changed to protect well, everyone. I’ll change what the man looks like and where his specialty lies because I can’t afford a lawsuit. Lawsuits appear to be long and expensive. Not much fun at all.

The story itself is a mixed bag of journal entries and a fictionalization of what happened in my past. It’s my attempt to take a step back and see things from a more detached perspective.

Have I only ever done the wrong things? Was I right about anything? Will I ever know the truth? When the smoke has finally cleared and you have reached the end of this, you decide.

Yours truly,

Marley S.

P.S. Thanks for reading I could use another pair of eyes on this.

P.P.S. This story opens at the beginning of what may be the end because if we start at the actual beginning I may never get to the point.

*************************

They say a person has to go through long bouts of sadness to get to something better. Sometimes that something better you were hoping for never comes, you have to decide whether you’re going to keep hoping for some kind of miracle or if it’s time to let go of something that clearly was never meant to be. Fifteen years. Fifteen years has been plenty of time for fate, destiny, or whatever it is that handles these things to intervene.

“It’s also plenty of time for the jack ass to come forward.” Cassandra said as she walked past my chair.

I watch as she walks through the dining area and enters my kitchen. It’s my best friend’s favorite room. “I’m thinking. Do you mind?” I called after her.

“This is it, the last letter you’re writing. It’s been a year. Today is the last day.” She called back.

 

“My hand and I are fully aware of that fact thank you very much.”

Today is the last day. This is my last letter to you Brent. Letter #45. I’ve spent a year saying goodbye to you. Practicing over and over. Growing less and less thrown off by your presence, more and more comfortable with your absence. It’s true I haven’t been dating. Not because I’m faltering. Not because I’m having second thoughts. I decided several months ago that I want to have a few things sorted out before I start dating again. I have lots on my mind. Major changes are on the horizon. Difficult ones. I want to be fully present while navigating them. Not spending time focusing on things that are never going to happen. Not dreaming of a life that's impossible to have. Not wasting my time thinking of you.

A familiar hand wanders into my workspace and points to the words, “not wasting my time thinking of you.”

“Clear and decisive.” Cassandra says. “I like it.”

“Move the hand please or I’m biting it off.” I say turning to face her.

“You look like you mean it.” She said. “Good for you.”

I don’t respond because although I’m not feeling sad, scared, or even unsure I’m still a little cranky about it.

Cassandra studies my expression and body language. “You do mean it. I’ll just leave you with a little inspiring music before I get back to work on our celebratory lunch.” She pulls “Picture To Burn,” by Taylor Swift up on her phone and leaves it on the table next to my coffee cup before returning to the kitchen.

“Don’t forget to change for lunch after you’ve finished the letter.” She calls from the kitchen. “This is a celebration!”

I finish writing the letter before I get the chance to talk myself into backing down.

It’s time my head reminds me; my heart reluctantly follows its lead. Did you know that we are all of the ages we have ever been on any given day? As important as it is for me to see things as they really are the young woman I was, barely out of high school, the one who fell for you as you sauntered across the quad on that crisp autumn afternoon fifteen years ago is still here.

She’s with me every day. I hate looking in the mirror, seeing that girl with dark eyes, long unnaturally blonde hair, wearing a little too much make-up: a young woman with her heart full of hope, her face full of longing and telling her ‘no.’ I close my eyes and tell the girl I used to be that it’s time. I promise that some day when things are different I’ll let her remember the good times with love. Today I tell her it’s time to stop riding shotgun for a while, I want her to take a back seat and look out the window. To see the world outside Brentavision. I reassure her that what she sees will be amazing to both of us if she’ll just give it a chance. Tears well in those doe shaped eyes as her face falls, she does as I ask. The intro to “Teardrops On My Guitar” by Taylor Swift plays faintly in the background as she takes the seat behind mine. I look into her eyes from the rear view mirror. It’ll be okay Renee. I’ve got you sweetie. We’ve got this.

I’ll always be your friend Brent. But things have changed. As of today I am no longer one of your fangirls. Don’t call me. It will hurt younger me too much when I don’t answer.

Renee

Early the next morning as I lay in bed my thoughts keep straying to Brent and staying there for the first time in weeks. Probably because he was all Cassandra talked about during our celebration yesterday. She spent a lot of time offering advice on how to stay focused on my path to living a happier life. How to let go of my feelings for him, feelings that never have been returned and never will be. How to stay focused on building a life that I truly love. Cassandra really wants this for me. I want it too. But in these increasingly rare moments I’m not sure which one of us wants it more.

I close my eyes to meditate and hopefully wander into another hour or two of sleep, it is Sunday. What could be better on a Sunday than sleeping in, lingering over coffee and enjoying a nice brunch on the patio? Picturing eggs, bacon, pancakes, and fresh melon I attempt to drift into a relaxed state.

“I miss Brent.” Seventeen-year-old university Renee cries from the back seat of the car. 

 Instead of picturing a Brentless future I find myself riding in an imaginary car with some of the Renees I used to be.  

One of them is whining.

“You don’t.” A younger ten-year-old Renee says to the university student. “You miss the idea of him. The version in your mind full of romantic fairy tales. You’re not thinking of the real Brent.”

I look through the windshield at the sky. “I see a lot of gulls flying around.” I announce. “I wonder if we’re getting close to a beach.”

“The beach isn’t going to be any fun if I can’t picture Brent there with me,” comes from directly behind me.

“You’re never going to be with him. Get over it Dummy!”

I look in the rear view mirror. Ten-year-old Renee rolls her eyes as she shakes her head. “You need to let it go.”

“I’m trying.” The young woman says. “It’s really hard. I’ve wanted to be with him for so long.” She groans sniffling.

“You can’t always get what you want.” The younger Renee counters quoting The Rolling Stones.

I’d forgotten how much I used to quote song lyrics as a kid.

“I never got lots of stuff I wanted. Do you see me crying?” The older child continues.

“Candy?” Another voice asks.

I couldn’t see where the voice was coming from at first, taking a moment to look behind me I see a four-year-old Renee sitting between the two older girls.

“See? There are lots of times we don’t get what we want in life. I’ve seen Brent.” She announces.

Ten year old Renee catches me watching her. Meeting my eyes in the mirror she says, “We could probably do better. Lots better.”

 

The chorus from “Teardrops On My Guitar” by Taylor Swift pulls me out of the imaginary car with the younger Renees who dwell in the depths of my subconscious. It’s not a song I’ve listened to more than a couple of times but for whatever reason my brain decides the song is essential to my well being at two in the morning. Reaching for my phone, I pull up the song and listen. The lyrics accurately depict how seventeen year old me felt about Brent when he first appeared in my life.

Brent with his Ryan Goslings’ Ken doll blue-eyed blondness. He appeared to take everyone’s breath away, especially that first semester. My eyes wander to the far corner of my nightstand. I turn on the light and reach out for something hidden next to the bedroom wall. A picture of Brent and me at a twenty-first birthday cook out Cassandra and her parents threw for me. We were chatting, both holding an open beer. I was talking and he was laughing. It was one of the best days of my entire life. My time with Brent has always been an enigma of uncertainty, disappointment and loneliness sprinkled with odd moments when everything was beautiful. The afternoon we all spent in Cassandra’s parents back yard was one of those times. One corner of my mouth turns up in a grin as I wipe off a layer of dust. Setting it back on the nightstand I settle back into bed and look at it.

I look at Brent’s face. “You don’t love me.” I whisper. “You just don’t love me like I've loved you.” Reaching out, I pick up the frame, opening the nightstand's drawer I gently place it inside as Taylor Swift sings, “I’ll put his picture down and maybe get some sleep tonight.”

Turning out the light, I reach out for my cat Lester and scratch him under the chin until he purrs. “I’ll always have you Lester. You’ll always be my best guy.” The black cat blinks at me contentedly.

The two of us stay like that until sleep finally arrives.

Driving An Assassin -In-Training To Facepalm

 

“What can I do for you?” The scammer asks as the word CREATOR disappears from above his brow.

“You were talking to me,” one man says.

“What about my investment?” A woman asks.

“You said you wanted to get together, I'm available at seven. Want to meet at the steak house?”

 Several of the scammer’s admirers speak at once.

“One moment,” the scammer says. Turning away from Writer Lady, he returns to the group he had been speaking to.

“It is October 29th 2023 all of your car warranties are about to expire.” He announces. Turning to face the crowd to his left he says, “The current lottery jackpot is at 42 million dollars. You have thirty minutes left to buy a ticket before the next drawing. You can check your numbers here in an hour and sign up for a special app which predicts winning numbers. Have your credit cards ready.”

Writer Lady looks at Carp and makes a face.

Carp leans in and says, “Just talk to him, he’ll be even more killable on the page when you get to know him.”

“They won't really give him money will they Mom?” Dobby Cat asks.

Writer Lady looks back at the crowd. Several people are holding credit cards.

“The app does not go up for sale until after tonight’s drawing, you'll have to wait.” The scammer says walking among the crowd quietly collecting credit card numbers as he works the group.

“Unfortunately they are Kitty.” Writer Lady whispers, “Although I’m not sure they know about it.”

Dobby slips past Dick as he returns to his position in the center of the room. The ginger tabby pauses to lift the gadget the internet scammer had been holding moments before. Dobby flips a switch and Writer Lady watches the crowd of onlookers momentarily glow green as their funds are quietly returned to them by the cat.

Upon returning Dick gives his full attention to Writer Lady. “Where were we?” He asks. “Oh yes, The CREATOR had a question.”

Writer Lady looks at Carp.

“I told you,” the assassin-in-training says, “he's anxious to talk to you. Dick wants to be born just as badly as the rest of these characters.”

“It's true.” The internet scammer confesses, “the prospect of being born and existing in a story all my own...let's just say I've been waiting for my big break for a long time. I can do amazing things for you.”

“I'm sure.” Writer Lady says.

“I can be the character that gets the world's attention.” He says moving in more closely.

Writer Lady takes a step back as Carp places a hand on her shoulder. “What else can you do?” She asks. “Is this the part where you look into my eyes and ask me what it is I truly desire.”

There's no reaction from Dick's direction.

“If you'll just excuse us.” Carp says as he guides Writer Lady to a private spot. “What are you doing?”

“There's something off about him, I don't like it.”

“The man ain't right.” He agrees. “That's why he's the perfect candidate for the dead guy in a murder mystery.”

Writer Lady shakes her head, “There's something creepy about him, the way he lies and practically slithers around people...it's not normal.”

“Supporting the concept that he's a really bad guy, the reader will understand completely why he ends up dead.”

Writer Lady looks in Dick’s direction and turns back to Carp, “I find myself wondering whether it's the ethical thing to do, releasing a character like Dick into the wild.”

“He's not real.” Carp points out.

“I'm standing here. I'm talking to him.”

Carp shakes his head, “You are standing in a visualization within your mind observing your own thoughts, remember? It’s not real it's like a dream on steroids.”

“You're right.” She admits. “Thanks for the reminder. But, what if a character like Dick gives people who read the novel, ideas. I don't feel good about it.”

“Would you feel better releasing the psychopath?”

“No.”

A finger comes down and taps Carp on the shoulder, “Can we get back to my impending birth?” Dick asks.

The retired romance novelist turns to the internet scammer and says, “If you'll just give us a minute.”

Writer Lady and Carp find a table and chairs in a dark corner next to Holdings’ entrance, far away from Dick. “Let me try explaining this again.” Carp says, “You have the potential to create two different stories featuring two very different characters. Successful stories.”

Writer Lady looks at Dick the internet scammer standing in the center of the room surrounded by his admirers. Something moving in a dark corner on the opposite side of the room grabs her attention. Was her eye meeting one of Serial Killer's eyes or was light bouncing off his evil grin? “They're both such dark characters. The stories are going to be really dark.” Writer Lady counters. “Couldn't I do something different with them? Like what if, what if the internet scammer and the serial killer solve crimes together?”

“You did not just say that.” Carp comments. “First of all they’re criminals so it's been done.” Taking a moment he continues, “If I reach a little bit I can kind of see where Dick's particular skill set might prove useful in a criminal investigation but what about the serial killer? The reason a serial killer is a serial killer is they have a compulsion to kill. How are you going to write stories that keep the other one, how do I say this...satiated?”

“The ones that get away?" She asks. “He can kill those people.”

“It’s been done.”

Writer Lady continues talking, “A few creepy jokes, it could be a cult classic, you know a fun campy novel.”

Carp raises his hand to his brow and runs it down his face. “Did you not hear me? You have a chance to be successful.”

“Couldn't the pairing up be successful too?” Writer Lady asks.

Carp looks at her, trying very hard to be patient he says, “Either you want to be successful or you want to write campy criminals.” The assassin-in-training takes Writer Lady's face in his hands, looks into her eyes, and says, “You can have campy or you can be successful you can't have both. You need a break Sweetie and dark stories are what's selling right now. Do what you want but don't be sitting next to me crying in your cocoa this winter when your career is as frozen as the ground outside.”

Writer Lady thinks for a bit. She releases a sigh and calls to Dobby Cat.

“So what are we doing?” Carp asks.

“Going home.”

“You’ve made your decision?”

“I have.”

“What do I tell Dick?”

“Give him a thumb’s up.”

Carp smiles, “You're going to be so glad you listened to me,” he says.

Writer Lady and Carp rise from their seats, the party begins their trip out of Writer Lady’s internal world, back to their everyday one. Writer Lady says, “I've been thinking about adding a third character maybe a virtuous defense attorney who's too honest for his own good. Oh, I have a working title too: Stuck In The Middle With You.”

Carp looks at Writer Lady and mutters, “She shoots her career in the foot once again then wonders why she's bleeding out,” he shakes his head as they step out of the depths of her imagination and back into High Command.

The Darker Side Of Holding

 

Writer Lady peers back at the face belonging to the character who so desperately wants to be born. A dark and dangerous one. The man is of average height and slight build. He has the face of an amicable neighbor down the street. Writer Lady can see from his looks how he might attract his victims, mislead them into a false sense of security. She finds herself wondering how a thin man like him would overpower them.

“I'm a man,” he says reading her face. “Men naturally have more upper body strength than women. Especially women who are more interested in their looks than their health, you know the type. The women who don't exercise or hit the gym. The ones with the perfect hair and nails that are more interested in laying on the beach, showing off their bodies and chasing the latest trends while they gossip about people who actually do something meaningful with their time. That's where I started out,” he said. “They're my favorites.”

Her eyes grow wide as Writer Lady's voice catches in her throat.

“Bor-ing.” Carp’s voice sings next to Writer Lady's head.

 Turning she looks up at the assassin-in- training as he shakes his head. “Can you be any more unoriginal?” Carp leans in close and whispers into Writer Lady’s ear, “Don't mind him someone probably stole his Barbie® dolls one too many times when he was a child.”

The serial killer turns his gaze from Writer Lady to Carp.

“That took a while didn't it?” Carp asks, the assassin-in-training turns his attention back to Writer Lady, “Did you know that most writers have areas they excel in?”

Writer Lady waits for more information.

“Some pen flowing descriptions, some create amazing worlds, others have a knack for zippy dialogue, some devise mind blowing plots, and others create incredible characters. You have a knack for zippy dialogue and I thought that was your strong suit but I've been looking around this place and the rate at which you create characters...let’s just say Antarctica wouldn't be quite so desolate if you were in charge of building up the population.”

Writer Lady rolls her eyes.

“Seriously, I'm pretty sure there are characters here you don't even remember thinking of. You have to meet Dick he is the absolute worst. This guy has to be born if only so you can kill him off later.

“Violence isn't my thing.”

“Your mysteries are delicious. You might want to rethink your direction.”

Serial Killer moves from behind the chair, taking position next to Tapper he places both hands on the table between them and leans in, he looks into Writer Lady's eyes and says, “I love violence. I've killed many times.”

Writer Lady freezes not wanting to show him he is intimidating her.

“OMG.” Carp says. “You’re so scary.” The retired romance novelist rolls his eyes as he returns his gaze to Writer Lady. “Seriously Dick is way more interesting.”

Serial Killer grumbles.

“Dude all you do is creep around and kill people, that is so last century.”

Writer Lady puts a hand over her mouth to cover a smirk that has involuntarily appeared. She looks at Carp, “What is it Dick does what makes him so killable?”

“He's a cyber criminal.” Carp announces.

“That covers a lot of ground, could you be more specific?”

“He started out trolling, then moved on to cyber stalking, then a bit of light hacking now he's into fishing, catfishing, malware, occasional ransomware, celebrity impersonation...anything you can think of he's done it.”

“For how long?”

“Ages.”

“He would have lots of victims. All over the world.” Writer Lady says thinking out loud. “Revenge, professional jealousy, a simple need to stop him...there could be several motives for murder in Dick's case.”

“And an infinite number of suspects.” Carp bounces as he claps. “You've been looking for a new story this could be the one that gets you on the map.”

“I'll never be on the map the map keeps moving.” Writer Lady counters.

Carp makes a face, “It’s just an expression, there is no map, there never was one. Anyone who tells you they have a map is full of it. Remember we only fail when we stop trying.”

“What has her getting on a map got to do with our current situation?” Tapper asks.

Writer Lady looks at Tapper, “You're talking!”

“I am.”

Writer Lady wonders what inspired her to create Tapper’s smile. Wherever it came from, it was a good one.

Serial Killer picks up where Tapper leaves off. “My time has come. Call me forth now.”

Writer Lady's eyes grow wide as fear builds inside her. She doesn't know what to do.

“Mom?” Dobby Cat says.

Writer Lady turns her attention to the ginger tabby. “You are the writer.” He says. “No matter how scary he looks you're the boss.”

She nods not certain she completely believes it. Tapper reaches out and takes Writer Lady's hand, he looks in her eyes and nods. She faces Serial Killer. “Not only am I certain this is not your time to be born I am wondering whether you should continue to exist at all, if you don't mind this is a private conversation.”

Serial Killer gives her a look she suspects he reserves for his victims in their last moments before death, growls and walks away.

“That was good.” Tapper says.

“Great going Mom.” Dobby Cat says embracing her.

“Not bad” Carp comments.

Writer Lady smiles, she turns back to Tapper. “You have a voice now, are we good here?”

“I think we are.”

“Until we meet again.” she says.

That lovely smile returns to Tapper’s face, “I look forward to working with you.”

Writer Lady returns his smile. Tapper rises from his seat walking in a direction opposite to that of the Serial Killer.

“Finished?” Carp asks.

Writer Lady nods.

“Great I can finally introduce you to the scammer.” Placing a hand on Writer Lady’s arm he guides her to the center of the room. In it stands a pale young man with dingy and unkempt hair. His chin is so weak his face practically blends into his neck which disappears under the collar of his sweater. The man is surrounded by a group of people who he seems to be talking to simultaneously.

“Yes, I know it's so tough being alone.”

“Hey babe, you kinky?”

“Make a fortune the easy way through virtual currency.”

“Flip houses successfully with no money.”

“Hi I'm JK Rowling.”

“Hi I'm Channing Tatum.”

“I'm Keanu Reeves.”

“Hi you may know me as Prince Harry. Elon Musk and I would love to invite you to join a unique opportunity.”

“Save the children.”

“Save the children.”

“Save the children.”

Writer Lady whispers to Carp, “You've been talking to him?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“Say something to him and see what happens.”

Writer Lady taps the scammer on the shoulder, “Hello,” she says. He turns to face Writer Lady. The scammer’s pupils light up as he scans her face. The word CREATOR lights up on the scammer’s forehead momentarily then disappears. “Hello.” he says with a warmth she did not hear in his other conversations.

Finding The Character Who Taps (Stuck In Holding)

 

“I knew this was going to be a bad idea.” Writer Lady says, she mutters a profanity after tripping over something. “Why is it so dark?" she asks.

“Because.” Carp’s voice whispers, “Well that's not really much of an answer. I don't know. How many people's minds do you think I go mucking through?” the assassin-in- training asks.

“I don't want to know.” She responds.

“Only yours Sweetie. I only like to muck around in yours.”

Writer Lady stops walking. She looks in the general direction of Carp's voice. “I've always wondered why you want to be an assassin. I never felt like you showed any signs of being capable of killing others; the way you just said that was totally creepy.”

“Really?” Carp asks. “Thanks. I've been practicing.”

“Back to the original subject, why can't we see anything?” Writer Lady takes each step slowly, purposefully. “How am I doing this? I can't possibly be doing this.” She peers at the walls of the long dark corridor she's traveling down, trying to make out the characters growing along each side. “None of these characters have faces.”

“They won't. They haven't developed that far; unless there's something distinctive about a character's features there wouldn't be any at this stage.

“It's really creepy.” She responds. A hand touches her shoulder and she jumps.

“If you wait a minute you won't be in the dark,” Carp says.

Writer Lady waits. The first thing she sees is a bright circle of light some distance in front of her. Her eyes follow the stream of light closer…closer…closer. "The light reminds me of a flashlight, my flashlight, who's holding it?”

“Mom?”

Writer Lady looks down to find Dobby Cat standing in front of her holding the Big Red Flashlight. “How did you get in my head?”

“TP did something that allows Carp and me to hitch a ride inside one of your memories, you're always thinking of me so it wasn't that difficult.”

“It's good to see you kitty.”

“Thanks Mom, glad I could be here.”

The three continue down the corridor. Writer Lady peers at the odd bubbles as they walk past. There are many at first, bubbles densely covering the walls, the sea of bubbles grows more sparse as they continue walking. Writer Lady notices very few as they reach the end of the corridor. “Why are there so many bubbles at the front and so few at this end?” She asks.

“Think about how many new ideas you get that never become fully developed stories. It's the same with characters,” Carp says. “For every dozen characters only a handful make it to Holding.”

“What's Holding?” She asks.

“It's where the characters who have matured enough to detach from the corridor walls go to wait until they have a story.”

“What's it like?” Writer Lady asks, hoping her characters aren't locked in cells.

“See for yourself.” Carp says as he opens a door.

The group walks into what looks like a nightclub. There's no disco ball, thank goodness. The room is moderately lit with very dark corners. She notices what appears to be a bar at the far left of the room and sees a dance floor at the front and to the right. Colorful lights change to the beat of music that seems to be pumping through everything, including the floor.

Carp looks at her, "This will go faster if we split up. We're looking for a man holding a metal cup." The assassin-in-training/retired romance novelist looks around the room. He peruses Holding quickly then turns to Writer Lady, “There's one thing I haven't told you yet. This tapper may not have a mouth.”

“There's a man running around inside my head without a mouth?”

“It's possible so just don't freak out if you see someone without a mouth. If you see someone missing an ear, if you see someone who's not quite all the way dressed, if they're missing a shoe, these things happen, it's okay.”

Writer Lady sighs and nods.

“Dobby, you take the front and hit the dance floor. I’ll check the bar. Writer Lady you check in the darker areas. I think he'll probably be hiding from the rest of the crowd if he's missing a mouth.”

Writer Lady nods. She passes a dark corner as something moves past her legs. Stepping back, she shuffles into the corner she just walked by. As her breathing slows, she hears a conversation.

“The reason I haven't been finished...some writers don't want to face the characters they've created. So I'm a serial killer, yeah I kill people and I make a mess doing it. Big ones. But bodies are biodegradable and it's not like I pile everything in one place. A torso here, a pair of limbs over there. Did anyone ever stop to think that a random body part probably helps the other trash break down a little bit faster? I'm helping the environment. The people who die aren't exactly model citizens either. I'm really not such a bad guy. But can this woman see my value? No sirree. You're awfully quiet, what are you in for?”

Metal clangs in a quick series of taps.

‘Hold up a sec,” the serial killer says. “I see, you aren't fully developed. That stinks Buddy.”

 Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Can you write it down?” After a pause the serial killer says, “Not yet. Tough break man. Tell you what we'll do, when I get out I'll make sure one of the victims in my story looks just like her. That'll teach her to abandon her unborn. Got to go man, I've been trying to line up my victims ahead of time. There's a better chance of being born if there's more than one character to write about. Later.”

Writer Lady couldn't believe her luck at finding the tapper so quickly. Unsure how long to wait, she nearly waited too long. Hearing the sound of chair legs scraping against the floor she knew she had to make a move, any move. Writer Lady steps out in front of a tall stranger who feels oddly familiar. He doesn't look much like the Lord of the Manor of her gothic ghost romance. There is something in his demeanor. “Hello. I’m your creat…um…I’m your writer.”

Tap. Tap!

“Yes, I’m the one who left you up here without the ability to communicate. I get it. I'd be angry too. Let's sit down and sort this out together.”

The tapper makes a profane gesture with his hand and turns to walk away.

Writer Lady reaches out, her hand coming to rest on his arm.

The tapper turns and looks at her.

“Please?”

The pair return to the table in the corner and sit down.

“I need to give you the ability to communicate. I don't know how to control what I'm doing. This could take a moment. I'm going to call you Tapper for the time being. May I hold your hand?”

His face shows anger at first, slowly the man nods his head in agreement.

Writer Lady closes her eyes and pictures Tapper with a mouth, she pictures the mouth opening, his lips moving, his vocal cords making sounds. She hears a throat clearing across the table from her.

“Who do we have here? A familiar voice says. Writer Lady opens her eyes and sees the man with the serial killer's voice peering at her from behind Tapper’s left shoulder.