Dear Reader,

I wish I could tell you that you're going to survive this, but, that would just be polite, kind even, and though I am frequently polite, I am rarely kind. Would I have lured you to my lovely lair, enticing you with words you longed to hear, caressing your fragile ego, filling your already cluttered mind with vague promises you construed as you wished to believe what you would, just to set you free willy nilly? Decidedly not, dear Reader. Look around. Would I have led you oh so gracefully to this widowless room, locking the door gently behind you (Did you drop the letter to check the door, or let it dangle, forgotten, from your hand, numb with shock or, shall I say it?, fear?) Would I have left you here awaiting what fate has in store, to dwell upon what must to you be my loathsome decor, of blood spattered walls and floor, if you had even an infinitesimal hope of seeing the dawn?

Did you drop the letter to run screaming to the door, banging your fists till they bled? Or did you simply sink to the floor a huddled heap, to weep?

However you react, know that I am licking my lips in acute anticipation. I am the spider, you are the fly.

Tonight, you die.

Listen closely, dear Reader, in the stillness of the night. As the shadows draw closer, press in, the game will begin when on an impossible wind near your ear, you'll hear my voice as I whisper your name.

Till soon...

They called her Vivian, when they called her anything at all. She would seldom give out her name when she sat in at bars, content to sit and respond to calls of "Hey, Lady," with a middle finger or a sardonic smile. Maybe both.

She'd sit on a stool as close to the middle as she could get, and wait, eyes raking the crowd like she was looking for someone that didn't seem to exist. She'd stay for about an hour and then leave, driving all night to some other town and sitting in some other bar.

She was tired. She'd worked her entire adult life, garnering more and more attention until she finally gave up, weighed down by stacks and stacks of dollar bills that just kept getting heavier, even now that she wasn't working. Some asshole told her to invest and like a fool, she did, and her money was still growing day by day, a large, smoldering parasite that was putting a hunch in her back and blisters on the soles of her feet.

She could afford anything. Could buy herself a house on some exotic beachfront, buy herself a model for a husband, could probably buy two-point-five kids. She could buy herself a perfect lawn and trees and flowers, buy herself the finest meals this world has ever seen.

Instead, she went to bars, paying for gas as needed along the way, and sat with her hand over the top of her single drink and watched the crowd grow and ebb around her.

The only significant purchase she'd ever made was plastic surgery, her face now unrecognizable from the one that used to be plastered on the cover of magazines with headlines like "The Woman Who Beat Elon Musk: Five Tips She Has for Young Woman" (an article in a magazine that she'd never actually granted an interview to yet one that sold nearly a billion copies worldwide).

The bar she sat in now was particularly run down, the owners a tired couple with divorce lawyers bookmarked in their contacts and tenants that resembled fat city rats more than they resembled people. These places were Vivian's favorite, the scent of cheap booze and despair hanging over her like a blanket. They were nostalgic, almost; reminders of the nights that her father actually remembered to come home and would read, in his slurred yet kind voice, bedtime stories. Stories of dragons and scientists and inventors, big girl stories that little Vivian never quite understood but enjoyed anyway.

She let her eyes travel, blank and listless, over the crowd, still searching for someone that she was beginning to think she'd never find. A face the same age as her own, just beginning to show the telltale decay of age.

A face that represented her biggest regret, and a face who's absence represented her biggest fear.

Her hour was up, and she uncovered the top of her drink, leaving it to sit and wait, full, until someone cleaned it away.

She showed no reaction as some guy behind her asked if it hurt when she fell from heaven. Her face a wall. Behind it, all her fear and regret were boiling, invisible to everyone except her.

Her regret had a name. Bianca. Short, a little overweight but not unhealthy, only a single pimple to mar her pallid face. Beautiful in her normalcy. She was average.

Vivian realized, years too late, that every cruel word she'd said was out of jealousy. Bianca had the luxury of being normal, of not worrying about what others thought until Vivian forced her to worry. A luxury that Vivian did not have. Every grade was bullied to perfection, every feature was crushed down until it became something resembling beautiful, her mother living vicariously through every good-looking boy she brought home and threatening to disown her on the one genuine occasion that she brought home someone she loved on the basis of his appearance. He "wasn't pretty enough" to get her anywhere.

Maybe that was why Vivian had remained single. More than anything else, it was her mother's voice, telling her she needed to find a real man if she wanted to get anywhere in life.

Bianca had been hospitalized in her freshman year of high school and never returned, and on the night of Vivian's graduation she almost refused to walk the stage as the realization of what she'd done hit her like a truck. She didn't deserve to graduate. She'd nearly killed someone.

But in the end, her mother won, and she walked. Graduated salutatorian, an honor that disgraced her mother for years.

She was leaving a large tip as the door swung open. Not Bianca, this was a balding man with an indecipherable sports jersey.

She sighed at her own naivete and left, door slamming behind her. Retreated to her car, which, like her, was beginning to show its years. She didn't have the heart to replace it, even after she'd racked up nearly a hundred thousand miles. She intended to drive it until it broke down or until she finished her redemption mission, whichever came first.

She'd spent years wondering how much money she'd have to give. A million per every year of life? A billion?

At some point she realized that money was worthless. You could not reimburse an intrusive thought, could not bribe it into submission when you were the one who planted it there.

Even so, she kept searching, hoping to find a successful and happy woman rather than a headstone. She still hadn't found either one, and she'd googled Bianca's name at least two dozen times a month.

She'd scripted out her conversation. No flowery begging for apologies. Merely a statement, that she knew what she'd done and regretted it, that she hoped she'd found a way to move past it, or at least a way to cope.

No expectation for forgiveness, but a hope.

Vivian's next stop was in Cincinnati. They had some nicer bars, ones that glistened in the night, false veneers of happiness covering up a cesspool of tragedy that hung heavy inside them.

The saddest people tended to drink at the nicest bars with smiles on their faces.

It was nearing six in the morning, the threshold between night and day, between the early birds and the night owls, both suffering from the same affliction manifested in different ways.

She'd been to three bars tonight, unable to sleep, driven by some manic obsession.

This would be her fourth.

The bartender was a smiling blonde woman with short curly hair, heavy black eyeliner, and a wedding ring around a chain on her neck. She greeted Vivian with enthusiasm and Vivian decided that she liked her. That kind of radiance at six in the morning was rare to find. Either she was content and confident or she was on heavy drugs. Normally Vivian would lean to the latter, but with this particular individual, she was inclined to believe the former.

She actually took a sip of the drink before she covered it with her hand, motivated by some alien compulsion.

"How're you tonight, Hon," asked the bartender, her voice so soothing it was almost familiar.

Vivian just smiled and shrugged.

"Been a rough night?"

"I suppose. I'm looking for someone."

"Ah, ain't we all, girl."

Vivian allowed herself to laugh a little.

"I'm looking for someone I hurt. A girl I knew once."

"We've all hurt someone, Hon."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Here's the thing. Whoever it was you hurt, she's probably moved on. Grown up, cried about it, and then moved on. Maybe she realized that you suffered just like her, in your own way. Maybe she taught herself to laugh at your insecurities, to pity the person you were. She doesn't need you to find her. Maybe she even found herself because of you."

Vivian looked up, startled by the poignancy of this stranger's words.

"I guess you have a point."

"I've seen all kinds of people here, Hon. Abusers, abused. And I'm telling you, a lotta times the abusers suffer for it even more than the abused do. Not always. There's always sickos, always exceptions. But more than once I've had a guy come in here three steps away from suicide because he hit his girlfriend once in high school. Everyone's got their issues. Their trauma. Tricky part is learning from it, excising your evil. Cause we all got evil, Hon."

Vivian's hour was up but she lingered for a moment more before getting up and smiling at the bartender.

"Thank you," she said.

"Anytime, Hon."

As Vivian left, her hand on the door, she took one look back. the bartender had moved on to the next person, smiling at some new stranger, putting them at ease with the sheer force of her kindness.

The name tag pinned neatly to her shirt read Bianca.

she pushed it away, but couldn't help the relief that settled in. she was rich.

she put an offer in on a house. this was her first port of call.

"ma, you don't need to rent anymore."

sobbing from the other end of the line. a lifetime of unresolved prayers and hopes without expectation falling through the speaker.

"thank you! thank you!"

next, she put in her resignation.

she never needed to work again.

she bought a blue cadillac 1970 and drove down the coast. she visited everyone she never could before and checked into hotels every night.

"you're beautiful," she got told often by men through clouds of smoke. she'd started smoking treasurers and earned the compliments by a little bit of restoration. it started with that crook in her nose and all of a sudden she was a double d.

she giggled and blew clouds in their faces. they would buy her expensive things and give her contacts in exchange for her niceties. nothing she couldn't afford, but she liked feeling wanted.

"come on, what's the worst that could happen?"

he'd given her the number of a dealer after that night.

she developed a taste for coke and enjoyed tipping extra.

"why haven't you been answering my calls?"

she couldn't remember how she'd ended up in the gutter, but there she was.

"been busy," she mumbled.

"really? too fucking busy to text me once? i'm your best friend, if you can't talk to me who can you?"

she muttered a half-hearted apology and hung up before she could say anything else.

on the curb. she didn't know where the curb was, but she was sitting on it.

her head was starting to clear in the weak light of a rising sun. something had been settling in her the past few months. something terrible.

and on the side of the road it started clawing it's way up and she itched for something to hold it down. there wasn't anything left in her bag. she threw it on the road and screamed, short and strangled.

she found herself in a service station buying a pack of camels. she took a deep pull on one outside and remembered why she used to buy them.

she pushed it away, but couldn't help the guilt that settled in. she was lost.

Tell me it’s okay. Tell me I’m going to wake up tomorrow and the sun will shine through the shutter blinds like it always used to, making patterns on the floorboards and turning the dust in the air into little golden specks, and that while my eyes are still half closed I’ll smell the fragrance of coffee and something frying in the kitchen. Tell me that tonight I’ll hold my baby in my arms, feel her soft little body against mine, her fingers running gently through my hair as she drifts off to sleep, safe and warm. Tell me that when I lie in bed, in that comfortable state between consciousness and dreams, I will hear only your soft breathing, the creak of the bed as you turn, the gentle sighs of sleep. Tell me that when I walk out the door I will see a beautiful world, a world that isn’t crushed and broken; that I will feel whole and my heart will pulse with hope and I’ll know that I’m living and not simply surviving painfully with each new day. Tell me that I can still cry with joy as well as sorrow. I’ll believe you, for just a moment. While you hold me and I bury my face on your shoulder, I’ll believe that nothing ever changed and we still have a family, a home, a life. I can’t tell it to myself anymore. I need to feel it in the squeeze of your hand on my arm and know it from the reassurance in your soft voice. I need to hear it from your lips.

Please ... just tell me it’s okay.

(In case you didn’t read the first comment I posted, this is just a fictional piece I wrote for fun. I imagine it to be something like the prologue to a dystopian novel. It doesn’t reflect my own thoughts, but the thoughts of a character whose life has been crushed. Perhaps her husband has died and she’s trying to tell herself he’s not gone. That’s my opinion, anyway :)

"Man a cold shower feels great after a long day of work." I say to myself, feeling the cold water run over my tired eyes. "Radio, play my shower playlist."

"Now playing shower playlist." The radio replies, a deep electronic beat emanating from the speakers.

"That's something I haven't heard in a long time." I say, feeling the nostalgic rhythm. "I guess in the shower no one can hear you sing, so I might as well." The beat takes over me as I sing along to the beautiful melody and an unfamiliar harmony. " Whoever they got to sing harmony in this version sure has a good voice." I think to myself. "But why would they release a new version of this song of all things? Maybe it had a resurgence recently."

The melody begins to recede and the harmony only becomes more prominent.

"Radio, what was the release date of this song?"

"January 27, 2004." The radio replies, barely audible over the growing harmony.

"Radio, turn down volume." I say, the sound piercing my ears, harmony still growing louder and closer. A chill flows down my spine and I grab the shampoo bottle, throwing open the curtain. The harmony dissipates as quickly as it appeared. "I really need to lay off the caffeine." I say to myself, closing the curtain. The harmony returns, bringing with it a shadow. I yank back open the curtain and throw the bottle at the shadow, shattering the mirror. A broken reflection is all that stares back at me, nothing more.

I put on my towel and slowly open the bathroom door. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

A cold breath on my ear, "Not in the land of the living."

Instinct takes over me and I run for my front door as fast as my still wet feet will carry me. The knob rattles and the door shakes at my frantic attempt at escape but won't budge. "Oh come on, just open!" I yell at the door.

"I must say you have a very nice voice." The cold breath says with a hand on my shoulder.

"Of course I'm going to be killed by a ghost." I think to myself, the terror overwhelming me.

I open my eyes to a dark bedroom, "It was just a dream." I think to myself, whipping the cold sweat from my brow. "I knew ghosts weren't real, like there is a land of the dead."

A cold breath on my ear, "Who said you're in the land of the living?"

These mornings I have to myself are the best! I don't have to go to work, don't have to babysit for my brother, I can just piddle around the house. The first thing I usually do on mornings like this is turn up the music and clean. I put on whatever I feel in the mood for and just sing my heart out to it. This morning I'm deep cleaning the fridge. It's not the most pleasant of Saturday chores but the music is a distraction enough that I don't really mind. I'm scrubbing away at a sticky spot on the lowest shelf and belting it out to my favorite country song when I hear something... an echo? Maybe. It stopped right after I paused my singing in surprise. I continue scrubbing and get back in to the music, resuming the song. There it is again! It's singing with me? I stop working and stand up slowly, a bit freaked out. After all, I live alone in my own house. I can't afford much of one on my zookeeper salary but it's not haunted that I know of. What's going on? I start to sing agai, waiting for the sounds this time. As I hear the other voice, I continue singing, a bit softly, and start to silently stalk around my little dwelling to see if I can figure out where this is coming from. It must have a source. Maybe my nephews walkie-talkie is on and he's pranking with me? I search around but can't seem to pinpoint it. Every room I go to, it seems the voice moves. What is going on? I'm starting to get rather anxious, as this mystery voice is worrying me. I stop singing to catch my voice which hasnsuddenly begun breaking. "Oh no, my meds!" I think. I just had my meds changed, and I can't tell you how many meds have hallucinations as a side effect. "But am I really going crazy? Am I just hearing things?" It seemed to make a lot of sense... the voice parroting me and moving as I was without being in the house. This is very bad, I need to call my doc and at least leave a message. I turn the music down and sit at the kitchen table, not caring that the fridge door is still open. I try to steady my nerves and shaking hands as I start to dial my doctors office weekend number. I try to explain my symptoms to the answering machine as quickly as I can, knowing it will cut off after mere seconds, and it does. I'm halfway through a thought when I hear the beep to signal my time is up and the call is terminated. It feels somewhat like my lifeline has been cut. I start to tear, panicked and half convinced I'm crazy. I look up in a bit of a daze, see a bird at the open window across from me and go back to my self doubt. What!? The reality of what I saw just sunk in... the mynah bird I work with the most at the zoo is in my window! I stand up slowly so as not to spook her, and move to another room. I start to sing and I hear her flutter to the ground beneath the window in this room. She starts to sing with me and I laugh. "You crazy girl, you scared me!" I remarked gently to her as I made my way outside to collect the runaway. I don't know how she found my house, or how she got out to start with, but at least I dont feel like I'm hallucinating anymore. "Oh crap!" I hurried back inside with the talented bird and re-dialed my doctor's number, leaving a very calm and apologetic message in attempts to negate the rediculous one from minutes before. I grab my work bag and badge, and cat carrier for the escape artist. Closing my fridge door on the way out, I chuckle a bit as I head back to work, knowing I'm going to have quite the story to tell my boss... and probably my doctor!