My name is Anna. I have long grown tired of this house on the upper end of the East Village in the great New York City. I am a bestselling romance novelist, however, I am sad to tell you that I’ve never felt true love in my life: I’ve only ever been with pessimists, liars, cheaters, and even stealers, but what can I say?

I love to write and at least I adore the characters contained within these pages I labour away at day by day: Currently, I am working on a book titled, “Harry and Sally’s One-Night Stand.” It’s about two individuals who have a one-night stand and fall in love immediately as a result: fiction at its finest, but, like I said, it pays the rent and it is far better than the multitude of jobs one could have in New York City.

Sometimes, it’s an ailment for my heartbreak, yet, other times, it seems to make it worse. I have a torrid love affair with romance writing: a passion that has turned into a profession. A possession of sorts, really. Perhaps I see men as knights in shining armour when I walk down the bustling streets of the city. Afterall, I suppose someone has to.

Here I am, alone, in my apartment, writing my romance novel. This is the story of my life. My agent calls and I dial his number: Andy McNober is his name. He’s quite a little fox, he is.

“Hello, Miss Annette Baker?”

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to change the first three chapters of the novel about the princess in England. It just doesn’t fit with the rest of the story. The heroine’s fit about not wanting to be with a certain man makes her far too unlikeable, and I think more readers would buy it if we cut that out.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you!”

I say, forcing a professional tone over the phone while I’m reeling on the inside.

I cannot believe this! Honestly! The nerve. The absolute nerve of this man. That was the whole point of the story. Isabella did not want to marry Henry, that’s why she liked Joseph, but whatever...I’ll change it.

I sigh, acknowledging that this is my lot in life since I’ve chosen to be a writer: I can only hope, one day, that I won’t have to edit large chunks of my story out of my work in order to change it. That is torment at its finest, I tell you: torment at its finest!

I sip on some lavender tea to relieve my feelings of complete and utter frustration and then I decide I will go shopping.

Retail therapy has always done the trick, and I have more than enough money to buy as many clothes in the world as I could ever want, so why not? Why can’t I do that? There’s nothing wrong with treating myself.

I head over to the mall and I park as far away as I can: I sit enough as it is and I like to fit in as much exercise as possible when I’m out on the town: after all, I don’t know what will happen next in New York City; it’s quite hectic here and I ought to be prepared for the worst.

I strut inside. I’ve worn my stiletto heels, my lipstick, and my best dress in case I run into any fans. A young kid runs up to me and says, “Hey! Annette! I love your work! I just finished your story about the woman who falls in love with a chef in Paris! It’s amazing! I want to go to France now! My parents aren’t too thrilled about it, but I’ll take them into it!”

She grins and I can’t help but smile.

I have to admit that this is one of the few perks of the job these days.

I continue walking and I see a man who is following me. At least, he seems to be. He’s quite handsome, and looks like he’s Spanish, or maybe Italian. I can’t seem to tell which is absolutely shameful.

I continue walking, picking up my pace. He nonchalantly stops, as if he’s noticed that I have picked up on what he’s doing, and then walks into….Victoria’s Secret….the nerve.

I suppose he has a wife back home….or maybe it’s for his mistress?

I begin formulating a scandalous narrative in my mind.

I continue walking and he catches up to me once more. I see him from a quick backwards glance but I pretend not to notice.

I continued walking and eventually I headed to my car. He kept following me and said I was beautiful. I told him thank you, and said I had a lot of work to do so I had to head home.

“It’s alright,” he answered, “I just wanted to let you know you look absolutely gorgeous in that dress!”

I blushed.

“Thank you!” I answered.

I drove him, unable to get the man out of my head, but I wasn’t sure if this was good or bad.

Who does that? The nerve.

I went about my life and everything was fine. I kept writing, going out to eat by myself, and, sometimes, with my girlfriends.

It was midnight. I could tell by looking at the clock and I could not sleep. That man the other day was so incredibly handsome, so put-together, and I thought he had a bit of an accent. He was definitely Italian. I wondered what his story was and jotted down some notes about him.

I flicked on the television and I saw that there was a man in handcuffs. He looked a lot like the man in the mall, but he had a piercing and I knew the other guy didn’t. I furrowed my eyebrows, wondering if I was simply profiling him racially (which I hated about myself) or if the two were actually related somehow. I couldn’t actually tell.

I kept staring at the screen and, the closer up it got, the more I realized it was him: the guy I had seen the other day, and he had been convicted of murder. I turned off the TV, went to the kitchen, and poured myself some tea, trying desperately to forget about the incident, but I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened: my curious mind wouldn’t leave me alone, so I turned the television back on and I saw the man actually being dragged behind bars now, groaning as he was.

What struck me was that, as I learned more, I found out this man had committed a sin and pleaded guilty, years after the incident itself. He was moaning and groaning, but he had slipped under the radar for months and months, no one being smarter for it. I sighed, wondering what exactly this man was doing to himself, sending him to prison. I thought that he had probably been haunted for his wrongdoing for a very long time, but I wasn’t certain. I was not sure of anything anymore. I sat down and tried to conjure up a romantic hero because I couldn’t find one in real life: I’d rather make love to an imaginary companion in my mind. There weren’t any good men left in the world, if I was being honest with myself: That’s why I liked escaping into the pages of romance novels, allowing myself to be swept off my feet for a short time, even if it was only my mind. It’s all that I could stand.

I couldn’t get the murderer off of my mind that day, no matter how hard I tried. I went to the mall and then to the grocery store. I even made a visit to the porn store, which usually did it, but not anymore. I shouldn’t write such things: They’ll be in the paper next morning and the last shred of dignity I have left will be taken from me—my privacy—still though, I must confess that it jogs the memory whenever I’m about to write rather naughty scenes or desperately needed to distract myself from these major losses, surprises, shocks, and injustices that take place in the world each and every day. I would rather see events and people, especially men, through rose-colored glasses. It’s much easier that way: Less real. Less painful, and far less brutal.

I am not sure what to think or what to say or what to write but I will just keep going I suppose. I’ll write what I want, pretending men are better than they are because the bottom line is that they are flawed humans and idealizing them does nothing but make that worse both for me and for other women, although, I suppose, love stories at least help us pretend to be sane, happy, and in love, while simultaneously driving many among us insane and driving even others to seek out dysfunctional relationships and have premature sex, but I do know that I am making a lot of money and I can’t really stop now. There are no other skills I have and nothing I really like doing.

There’s a knock on the door. I open it and I see that it is a man dressed like a clown. I furrow my brows, wondering why on earth this man would show up at my doorstep.

Did he escape from a mental hospital?

I think, then chide myself for being so judgemental, realizing it’s Halloween. Halloween is a strange day this year, because a virus has wreaked havoc on all of humanity. There is no one out and about, and most people aren’t wearing costumes, but some stoic New Yorkers still cling to the past and celebrate with masks, certain that they must celebrate this holiday even if it means risking their lives in the process, so I suppose this man is one of those few people, one of the strange weirdos in this place who clings to the past and forgets about the future, the present and everything in between to make this a better world.

“Do I know you?”

“No, but you must be careful.”

“Careful of who?”

He nods solemnly.

“Precisely. You must be careful of the man who speaks five languages. He will use one against you.”

“Which one?”

“Russian. Study Russian. If you hear a man speaking it, stay away.”

He looks around to make sure that no one watches, then whispers in my ear, “He is charming, handsome, and womanizing. You must stay away, my darling, if you don’t want to succumb to his charms. You must stay away forever, otherwise you will deeply regret it. You will never see the light of day and you will be locked inside of his room, wondering how to escape, learning every day that he hates you, disrespects you, and uses you day after day.”

“How do you know this?” I ask.

I pause, “And how exactly am I supposed to trust a man I don’t know?”

He nods and holds out his hands. Inside is my grandmother’s locket. She always wore it and it had been lost long ago, when they were escaping from Afghanistan and moving to the United States, bombs exploding and guns going off every day and night.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, astounded.

“From the man who speaks five languages. He’s stalking your family. He wants to find you, fuck you, use you, and steal your money.”

“How do you know this?”

He sighs.

“I know this because he killed my grandmother. I’ve seen how cruel he can be, using his charms and good looks to murder, lie, cheat, and steal.”

He looks down at the ground.

“He’ll never let it rest.”

He shakes his head.

“He’ll never let you rest. Stay away, no matter what he tells you. He’ll say literally anything to get inside your brain and turn its levers against you, causing you to trust no one including yourself, hurting you. That’s what he did to my daughter. She’s in a mental hospital now. She’s never leaving, and it’s all because of him. Because of the manipulation. She can’t trust a soul after what he did to her.”

A shiver runs down my spine.

“Okay.”

I answer.

He gives me the locket.

“Take this!”

“Thank you for bringing it back to me.”

“Of course, my darling, of course.”

“My darling?”

I am surprised that he would feel so comfortable using this phrase on the first night we met.

“I don’t think we’re on those terms.”

“My apologies. Stay safe, ma’am.”

“You too, sir.”

“Have a good night.”

“You too.”

He stares at me a little longer and chills run down my spine. I look down at the locket and I notice that there’s something funny about the picture: there is...a lens there.

That man isn’t safe. He’s spying on me. He knows where I live...The man who speaks five languages...Doesn’t everybody these days? Well, almost anyway.

I smash the locket on the floor and crush the camera. Then I lock the door.

Someone knows something and they are after me. I have something that they want and they will do anything to get it: Lie, kill, fuck, cheat. Literally anything.

As I was sipping my tea that evening, I realized that it wasn’t the man who spoke five languages I needed to be concerned about: It was the clown. The clown had convinced me that I should trust him, or was it the man too? I wasn’t sure, but I decided to lock my doors just in case, before plugging away at the romance novel I am working on. There is another knock and I open the door. It’s a man with dark brown hair and a beautiful, magnificent beard.

“Hello,”

“Hi. Do I know you?”

“I’m your long-lost cousin. My name is Jabari.”

“Jabari?”

“Yes.”

“Do you...by any chance, speak five languages?”

“Yes. I do. I speak French, Italian, Finnish, and Portuguese.”

“Why Finnish?”

“Curiosity.”

He pauses.

“May I come in?”

My voice catches in my throat and I reply, “No. Not right now I’m afraid! I’ve got a lot of work to do today.”

“Alright. No problem,” he replies seriously, “I’ll be back.”

I can’t tell whether this is a cordial promise or a threat disguised in a nuanced tone, but I am fearful that it is the latter.

A lot of bizzarity has occurred around here recently. The clown was oddly specific about this particular individual, but I’m just not sure what to think anymore. Quarantine is driving me insane I’m afraid, or, at the very least, leading me to experience great paranoia, to the point where I myself am not even sure which fears or rational or irrational, imagined or real.

I sigh, pouring myself a cup of lavender tea to soothe my nerves once more and I continue writing: the hero is now having an affair with the heroine’s best friend, yet, because it’s a romance novel, the couple will make up and live happily ever after. They always do, they always will, even if the relationship in real life would play out as an eternal walk through the brimstones of Hell itself, but, as I said, I don’t have any other particular skills at the moment, just this one, so that’s what I’ll do. That’s what I have to do, and, I must admit, deep down, there’s a part of me that loves it, otherwise I would never have chosen this particular profession I suppose. It’s quite a bit of fun, writing down my naughty thoughts for other people to see. I use a pen name, and for a good reason: Many of the scenes are quite scandalous!

I smirk to myself, grateful to hold onto this brilliant, rather twisted but also lovely pleasure in life. I’ve read about the “side effects” of romance novels for the readers, and one can only begin to imagine how difficult these can be fore the writers themselves: Obsessive expectations about relationships, the idealization of terrible men, a weakness for quick, dirty sex and a tendency to want to romanticize every individual one sees, whether he’s a frog or a prince, but I’m writing love stories, sending something beautiful and creative out into the world, at least, I suppose. I just feel stuck. I’ve felt very stuck for the past three months. I’ve considered writing other novels: suspense, mystery, even horror, but I just don’t seem to have the skills I need in that arena, and I fear that I am too old to develop them at this point.

There’s another knock on the door, and, this time, it is a woman, dressed as a ballerina.

“Hello. Did you just do a show?”

I ask, forgetting for a minute that there is a virus plaguing the entire nation so there is absolutely no way she could have.

“No, silly. It’s Halloween.”

I look at my very reliable apple watch and I realize that it is now November 3rd.

She should know this due to the elections. The world is in a total state of chaos.

I tap her on the shoulder, only to feel my fingers go straight through her skin, and I scream. She cackles.

“Halloween is the night I died! October 31, 1992, at the hands of a man dressed like a clown.”

Shivers run down my spine, and I wonder why exactly these people, well, ghosts I suppose, keep showing up my door, taking pleasure in haunting me.

Were the two men ghosts too? Was I seeing apparitions because I’d spent too much time alone?

I picked up the phone and called Irene.

“Hello?”

“I’m seeing ghosts, Irene. I don’t know what to do! They are literally everywhere. I hate it. I completely hate it.”

“How long have you been holed up in your apartment love?”

I sigh and think about it, then answer.

Three months. I think.

“Have you gone to the grocery store?”

“No. I don’t want to get infected! I’ve gotten everything delivered!”

“Well, at least leave your apartment love. It sounds like you’ve been cooped up a little bit too long! I’ll go with you! I’ll meet you at the store.”

“Okay. Great.”

We meet at Millers and it seems to me that everyone is on edge. The place is as sterile as can be and only a few customers scurry around, keeping as much distance as they possibly can. The marmalade aisle is my favorite, and, also, the most empty, so I head there first and pick out my favorite kind: strawberry. I think I see the clownish figure behind me, but I don’t mention that.

I don’t want Irene to think I’m weirder than she already does, and she would find it odd. People who don’t see ghosts generally do, I suppose.

Not all of them are evil. Actually, during my younger years, when I was seven or eight, I remember speaking to many spirits who were quite friendly. I could tell they were holy: my grandmother who died at the age of thirty-five was one of them. She was quite lovely. Quite lovely indeed. I started to walk to the counter with Irene, but she asked if I wanted anything else before I could get there.

I scratched my chin and thought for a minute. I suppose I wanted some tangerines, and maybe an apple. Come to think of it, I really would appreciate a pecan pie. That’s when I saw him. The man who spoke five languages. He had each one tattooed on his arm and was talking to a bunch of people, but only one at a time, and only one at a time could actually understand him. I sighed.

I hated it when people did that…

He was carrying something. Was it a bomb? I wasn’t sure. It was in his briefcase but I thought I could make out a timer.

“We have to go!” I said swiftly.

“But, you haven’t gotten your tangerines!”

“Irene, that man is going to blow up the store and we have to go.”

She looked, then something clicked inside her and she simply nodded. We practically ran to the door and exited. I left all of my items on the shelf, and, the minute we walked out, just behind us, the place completely exploded.

“What the hell?” she exclaimed.

“Someone’s after me! We have to run!”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. I don’t know what the fuck I did, Irene, but someone keeps following me.”

I look into the parking lot and I see the clown.

“That’s him! That’s the clown. The guy at my door.”

“I see him too! You’re not seeing ghosts, Annette! These people want something you have. Come with me. Let’s get in my car and leave immediately. You can stay at my place. It’ll be safer that way.”

I nod, unable to speak from shock, and I get in her car. She drives me to her place.

“What the fuck is going on? What do these people want?”

“I don’t know what they want! They said I have something, something, but not want.”

“Probably money.”

“Maybe. I got a pretty big advance from my last book.”

“The Diary of a Submissive? You got like four mil for that, Annete! That’s money they’re probably after.”

“They had my grandmother’s locket. We were living in Afghanistan a long time ago and they said it fell when I was escaping. They held onto it.”

I shudder.

“And they know where I live.”

We finally arrive at Irene’s apartment. It’s nice enough, it’s on the bottom floor at least so we don’t have to climb a bunch of stairs, but it’s also much easier to access, and, right now, I’m not sure if it’s a good thing. It’s also smaller than mine, which is saying something (It’s New York, after all), and there’s less place to hide.

We look around and she quickly latches the door.

“You stay here. We’ll read, we’ll watch tv, we’ll knit, but you are not to leave this room, Annette. Understood?”

“Understood,” I nodded, wishing it didn’t have to be this way.

“I just want to sit here and be alone with my thoughts. That’s all.”

“Okay.” she answers.

My mind wanders back to the memories of the past. That night I had tried so desperately for so long to forget. It was in Afghanistan, during a war, in a shack. I was so lonely. My boyfriend of two years (abusive though he was) had just broken up with me and I was shattered, facing confusion, separation anxiety, and enormous amounts of self-doubt. There was a boy laying next to me and he didn’t want to be touched, but I wanted to, and so I touched him, and I kept going and going until he screamed for his mother and she came, hit me, and left, taking him with her.

I remember seeing the locket earlier today and noticing that there was something different about it. Something changed. There was an engraving on the outside of it, stating that...what had it been again? I couldn’t seem to remember. I furrowed my brows, concentrating.

Oh…

The realization flashed on in my mind.

You will pay.

I remember it now because it was etched roughly on, not fancifully, so someone must have used a makeshift instrument of sorts to actually make it happen.

“Irene. They’re trying to get me back for...something I did long ago.”

“How. What will they do?”

“I don’t know. They want me to squirm, they want me to be scared.”

“Okay.”

She sighs and shrugs.

“Well, then, let’s just watch some television. How does that sound?”

“Perfect.” I answer.

There is a knock on the door and Irene gets up and peaks through.

“It’s the man dressed like a clown. How weird is he? He knows it’s past Halloween, right?”

I chuckle despite myself.

“Should I open it?”

“No. Maybe it’s best to leave it locked. He knows I’m here. He wants to hurt me, but I have to tell him something. I’ll write him a letter. Would you slide it underneath the door and promise not to read it?”

“What on earth would you write this fool a letter for?”

I gasp, then sigh.

“I’d rather keep that to myself,” I answer, hanging my head, but I can see Irene’s brows furrowing, and I add hastily, “I’ll tell you later, if you promise not to judge me.”

“What exactly have you done, Annette?”

“Like I said, I’ll tell you later!”

She nods reluctantly and agrees to slide the letter underneath the door. I get out a pen and paper and this is what I write:

Dear….Man,

I am so sorry for hurting you on that night. I was in so much pain that I thought I was going to explode and I allowed myself to let that out on you. I don’t blame you if you never forgive me, in this lifetime or others, but I hope you know that I am genuinely sorry for the deep pain I caused you and have vowed to never hurt another man that way again.

Sincerely,

Annette Baker

It had barely been slipped beneath the door when another note was returned.

Dear Annette,

I forgive you, but my father hasn’t.

Sincerely,

The man you raped (you can call me Peter Parker. It’s more American...I know you people don’t like Middle Eastern names.”

One more note is slipped underneath the door by my hand.

Dear Peter Parker,

Please do the honor of giving me your real name.

Another note was slipped back to me.

Like I gave you my virginity unwillingly. No thank you. I don’t have to do anything for you. Not anything at all.

Sorry for asking.

I forgive you.

He slowly walked away. We both heard the footsteps and prayed he would not come back, that he wouldn’t find us here, and he didn’t, not for a month or two at least, but someone else did. We turn on the television and the election results are blaring: a fascist versus a reformed fascist who is so open-minded that he hired a half-black woman to be his vice-president. I am so annoyed with the state of the world. At least my bank account is alright. At least I know what is in there. What I would have to lose, and I know it’s safe. I have used every password with the utmost care, writing it down in a small notebook that is...in my desk in my apartment…

After two months of silence, no knocks on the door, Irene and I decide that it’s high time I go back home and get a few things. She says she’ll have her phone on her just in case, and that, if God forbid something happens, someone is there, I should call her immediately and go back to her place.

I nod and head off. It’s within walking distance thankfully. My door is hanging off of its hinges and the place is ransacked: My laptop is gone and so is the notebook with all of my information, my passwords, and...that stash of $2,000 I had for emergencies which I’d stashed underneath the loose floorboard. I quickly left and I called Irene, telling her what had happened. There was no one in sight. It looked as though it had happened quite a long time ago.

I went back home.

“Darling, have you checked your bank accounts? They have access to every one of them with those passwords, and these people seem accustomed to fraudulent behavior.”

I take out my phone and open my accounts. I had $4 million in savings and $50,000 in my checking account the day I’d met the clown, and, as I checked each one of them now, I realized I had exactly $0.

“Empty.”

Why did they want my money. What were they doing with it?

“Report it! Report this to the bank!”

I looked at the charges...wine in California, a Mercedes Benz, and...a house in Tampa.

What the fuck? Why Tampa, when they were here?

I groaned and called.

“Hello!”

“Hello, sir! I would like to report fraud on my bank account.”

“Yes. I was wondering why you bought a house in Tampa!” he chuckled, “I thought you loved your shoebox of an apartment in New York.” he paused, then added jovially, “I know I love mine. No hate, ma’am. It’s just hard to find anything decent-sized around here. I know you have enough funds though. Unquestionably or did...okay. Shutting up now!”

I could hear him pushing a few buttons, “Sorry, dear, it’s been a very long day. Your funds should be returned to your account in a few days.”

“Ughhh...no problem. Thanks!”

“Sure thing! Have a nice day!”

“You too!”

I couldn’t help but think that there was something off with the fellow. Most customer service representatives didn’t treat their customers that way, after all. It was impolite, but like he’d said, maybe he’d just had a long day.

I sighed.

It was hard to trust anyone. Before long, I might even start becoming suspicious of Irene. I had no money, the remnants of an apartment with no door (unacceptable during a pandemic in New York City), and no laptop to make more money.

I wept on Irene’s shoulder, but then she said I could use her computer, so I got straight to work, hoping and praying that the four mil would be back in my bank account by Wednesday.

If it was, I was cashing it out. When people know how much money you make, they’ll do anything they can to take it from you, especially if they work at a bank. I was stashing it in a locked safe and carrying the keys with me at all times. That’s what I was doing. No one would be able to access it, not even the bank manager! It would just be cold hard cash. My cold hard cash. I was so done with these institutions, taking my money from me without a second thought, not keeping a close eye an account that contained four million dollars! The nerve!

I began working on my novel once more. I only had ten thousand words left, and, luckily, I had started it on Google Docs so I still had access to the draft on my computer. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, realizing that my hours upon hours of work had not been performed in vain. I thought maybe I would add some suspense to the affair. I’d always been inspired by real life after all, so I made the mistress cheat on her husband with the gardener, in his own home. The nerve! I know! It would be absolutely horrid if that had happened in real life, but it sure does make for a page turner when it comes to a romance novel. This sort of thing makes paperbacks fly off of the shelves, and it makes dollar bills fly into my pocket! I smirk to myself, knowing what my agenda is in writing this particular genre, and, finally, accepting it.

Today is the day that a sane president of the United States got elected. It is also the day that I said goodbye to Eduardo, the poolboy who worked for me and also cheated on his girlfriend in my Beverly Hills estate (I had an apartment and a house because I’d done well for myself, but someone else was looking after the place. In fact I should probably check in on it in light of recent events.)

Anyway, to make a long story short, Eduardo has been having an affair with me for quite some time now. His wife, Camila, has no idea, but I’ve felt guilty in the back of my mind about it for years on end, and, I must confess, it has inspired many sordid love affairs in my romance novels: That’s what people seem to live for.

I continue typing but I have to stop because tears start rushing down my face. Irene asks me if I’m okay and I tell her I most certainly am not. I miss Eduardo very, very much, and there is no way on earth that I can forgive myself for what I have done to his poor wife Camila. She certainly didn’t deserve this. She had been nothing but my loyal housekeeper for years on end. Eduardo had recently come to New York to see me, and I myself, the writer and the mistress, had had the audacity to break it off with him, after paying for his flight nonetheless and pressuring to come over. There is something you might not know about me: Sex calms me down when I’m in dangerous situations. It always has and it always will. Of course I took a shower and all because there is a global pandemic going around, wreaking havoc on the entire planet, but I still totally lost my head for one night. I did it after the sex, of course, because I didn’t want to miss out on that. That’s what I was looking for, if I was being totally honest with myself. Companionship was not exactly what I was craving: It was just too much damn work.

I was sobbing now, praying to the Lord and then glaring at my phone, working on myself but then deciding not too. I kept going back and forth about whether or not this was the right thing for me to do, but as Irene pointed out so accurately, it was obviously the right moral course of action because this man was married.

Here I am again, in Irene’s apartment and there is another knock on the door. It’s locked and I fear I’m going insane. It’s dark out. I can’t see the moon through the skyscrapers on seventh street, and the streets are invisible. The pollution is becoming more and more intense, and I look around at the art.

“Hello?”

“Hello. It’s Marcuson. The man who speaks five languages.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

“The Seven Social Sins are:

Wealth without work.

Pleasure without conscience.

Knowledge without character.

Commerce without morality.

Science without humanity.

Worship without sacrifice.

Politics without principle.

From a sermon given by Frederick Lewis Donaldson in Westminster Abbey, London, on March 20, 1925.”

― Frederick Lewis Donaldson

“I am here to tell you that we have your life’s savings in our own hands. You are coming into the Mercedes Benz, and, if you don’t, we will kill you.”

I pick up my phone, shivering, and call 911, but there was no reception.

“We’ve taken care of that. You won’t be able to call anyone.”

Crap. Why does Irene have to be out for groceries right now. Why the fuck did I open the door? How stupid!

“May I got the bathroom.”

“Whatever.”

I could climb out the window…

I went to the bathroom and the walls were high, tiles that looked like stone. There was a red towel and a bit of blood on the toilet bowl, but I figured that was probably only because Irene had been menstruating.

That would make the most sense.

That’s before I looked into the shower...there was...a woman there. She was dead. Her corpse was cold and it was too damn much to bear. I tried to escape through the window but I can’t because there is a mirage of guards there, probably people who work for the man who speaks five languages. I lock the door and stay in the room. The bathroom. That was that.

I stayed there, staring at the corpse and wondering who on earth it could be. There was no one staying with us and no one had visited us recently. As I looked closer, I saw the locks of black hair, the glassy brown eyes that used to be so full of life, and then I realized it: the rose on her shirt and the pendant with her husband there. She never traveled without it.

Holy shit...This probably happened the night I was gone...I had slept in this morning. Was Irene actually okay this morning. Did she actually go grocery shopping or...what the fuck happened this morning? What the fuck happened?

I’m shivering at this point, phone in hand. I’m not sure what to do. The man barges in and picks me up, shoving me into his Mercedes. He shoved me into the trunk after putting some shit on my head and I could hear him driving off. At first, the familiar sounds of New York City kept ringing in my ear. Then I started hearing less and less of it. I started hearing coyote howls, and, soon enough, different types of birds. I heard the kidnappers talk about how much they loved the birds.

Damn assholes. They don’t love birds nearly as much as they loved women. God I hope Irene is okay. I hope she’s still alive. I hadn’t had the chance to see if her car was still there, just assumed. That’s all I can really do.

Finally, the car stopped and the guys got out. They took me out of the trunk and I then they put me back into the backseat and they tied me there. I continued looking around, trying to get my bearings. There were so many stars. I hadn’t seen them in so long. I listened to the man and the passenger, plus the other man sitting next to me. I noticed they were all quite handsome, but caught myself, reminding myself that they were kidnappers. They kept speaking in Spanish. They got out and peed, then came back into the car.

We were driving through what seemed like paradise: Daffodils were blooming, but my mouth widened as I realized that we were heading into the forest, deep into the forest, and guess what? There wasn’t a body around. They could choke me, shoot me, rape me, and no one would know the better for it. Not in a million years.

There we were, heading down the winding road. There was this beautiful cabin and, with awe and a pit in my stomach, I realized that’s where we were headed: the only cabin in the woods. That was it. There were no other house. No other people. Just long stretches of woods, that is all it was. That’s everything that was there.

Oh my God. What the fuck am I doing? What will they do to me? I have to figure out how to get away from these people.

I try to practice empathy. I am a Buddhist and I know that there is nothing unbelievable about the human beast: We can do this well. We can do it all. We know what to say and what to do, and then, if we are smart, mean, or both, we reject conventional wisdom, lie, cheat, and steal. If we are geniuses, we simply lie creatively. Isn’t that what a story is, a lie?

“I was amazed as people must be who are seized and kidnapped, and who realize that in the strange world of their captors they have a value absolutely unconnected with anything they know about themselves.”

― Alice Munro, Lives of Girls and Women

I am here now. I am being dragged into the cabin and died to the bed, probably for their sick pleasure. I rack my brains, wondering why on earth these people are doing this to me.

“What do you want? You have my money?”

“I want your keys.”

“My keys.”

“You know what I’m talking about. Give me the keys! Now.”

“Well I don’t have them.”

“Bullshit. You always have them.”

I look down and I remember that I wear the keys around my neck: the keys to the beverly hills house.

Why did they kill Eduardo’s wife? Did they know?

“Why?”

“Why do you think? We want money. I need money for my mother. She has cancer. She needs drugs.”

“So you steal from me? You already have four mil.”

“They’re expensive.”

“How much do you need?”

“5 mil, and I know that house is about that much.”

“Well, I actually got it for $900,000.”

“Close enough,” the man who speaks five languages, Andres, says and rips the necklace off of her neck.

Irene lit the candle and did a recitation. She’d seen the dead woman in the shower and she’d seen the dropped cell phone with a call to 911 that hadn’t gone through. She’d gotten home and found the place empty and the door unlocked. She knew something had happened. She just didn’t know what it was, but she figured it probably had something to do with the man who spoke five languages. She wished she knew what his name was.

It was that place that was in ruins that no one ever knew about because no one ever went up there. No one was around. They could kill her, if they wanted to, in cold blood, and fucking get away with it. Those bastards. How did they know that Annette was having an affair? How long had they been following her.

After miles of driving, she turned on the radio because the intensity of the boredom and the silence was simply too much to bear. She knew what she’d do: She’d pull the knife from the glove compartment, but then she realized that would be stupid. These men had guns. They were experienced criminals. Maybe she could pick one up herself, from one of the makeshift stores that sold them when no one was watching: It shouldn’t be legal, but it was, so she dropped by a little county store and she purchased a solid gun for herself. One she’d knew she’d have to use in self defense when the time came. Irene prepared to kill a man, maybe more than one, in cold blood to save her friend.

The moral barometer of right and wrong quivered back and forth in her heart and in her mind.

Was killing ever okay? What did okay, acceptable, even mean, really? It depended on the circumstances, on the people who would kill her friend for her money, on who sinned and how often, didn’t it? Or was a murderer just a murderer no matter what?

The candle burns not for us, but for all those whom we failed to rescue from prison, who were shot on the way to prison, who were tortured, who were kidnapped, who ‘disappeared’. That’s what the candle is for. Peter Benenson

She sings and hums, chanting to the universe for help, and then she leaves, knowing she cannot stay here if she wishes to be safe. She must find a place where she can call 911 and save her friend.

She wrote a poem in her diary, which had always helped her through troubling times:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

― Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of “A Course in Miracles”

She walked out of the apartment and got into her car. She noticed that Annette’s hat had dropped onto the sidewalk and she picked it up, figuring out what her next move would be.

Where would I go if I was a kidnapper?

She asked herself and the answer came to her immediately.

The Catskills. There weren’t many people, and there was an abandoned cabin up there, perfect for sins of every kind, if they had money, they could probably rent a better one. That’s what they’d done. She was sure of it.

She put her foot on the gas pedal and started driving. She figured she knew exactly where they were.

I am tied to a chair now. She is shaking. Her fingers are trembling. The tiny hairs on her skin are standing straight up, and she looks at these men. Three of them. She looks long and hard and she wonders about their humanity.

Did they have mothers growing up, and if so, what did these women teach them? One man’s mother was sick. He needed drugs so that she would feel better. That was moral, it seemed, at least in his mind. It was moral to lie, murder, cheat, and steal simply to heal her from her condition.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” I say, “It’s awfully horrid when those we love are sick.”

I can see a tear escaping from his eye, but that wouldn’t go along with his tough guy facade, so he rubs it away.

“That’s none o’ yer damn business, ma’am!”

“Well, I suppose it is since you’ve stolen my money and meddled with my affairs. I believe that’s the definition of a person’s business: An event that involves someone’s financial state of wellness. Of peace of mind. Of abundance. And you’ve taken that from me, have you not?”

I hear a car pulling up in the drive, and I silently pray that it’s Irene. A gun is on my throat now. The man is holding it there. I couldn’t believe someone could do this, but, then again, was there anything truly unbelievable about the human beast when you really sat down and thought about it? No. People committed heinous crimes every day, for many reasons, some of them justified in their own minds, and this man, in his own opinion of himself, was a hero: A son saving his mother from the death that we are all so afraid of.

His phone rang and he picked it up. He automatically placed the gun elsewhere before hand and I breathed an enormous sigh of relief.

Then I could see his shoulders hunch as he listened. The man broke down and sobbed uncontrollably.

“My mom’s dead. All of this and she’s dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” I offered.

“Shut up,” he snapped.

“Well, my mom still needs drugs. My sister’s in rehab and my brother’s dealing some blackmarket shit on Wall Street. He needs drugs and he needs them now! So I’m still gonna get your damn house, lady.”

“Is that why you killed the man’s wife?”

“What? I didn’t kill nobody’s wife. Not me, dog. I was just runnin’ around stealin’ shit. What the fuck you talkin’ about?”

I hear a knock on the door.

The kid opens it.

“Who is it?”

Irene is finally here. She’s going to save me from the insanity and she’s...holy shit, the darling, sweet, innocent, pure Irene came to fight. She’s got a gun.

“Untie her. Now!” she says, gun to the man’s neck. He realizes quickly that his doesn’t have any bullets anymore and obeys. Andres is still sobbing and, despite myself, I just want to hug the man. That’s it that’s all. We drive away. I escape.

They try to take me back but eventually give up. Andres’ willpower was the oil on this machine and he’d lost a significant amount of willpower to go through with anything after he learned of his mother’s death.

People are so complicated sometimes…

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome. What the fuck, Annette? I found Eduardo’s wife, Juanita, dead in the shower. Do you know who did that?”

She sighed, “I’m sorry. You’re my best friend and I’m glad you’re alive. It just spooked me. That’s all. I really need to know who the fuck did it.”

“I don’t think it was those guys.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, but I’m not sure about anything thee days,” I answer, looking out of the car window and replaying the rather tame scene of my escape in my mind.

The trees rush past me and I look at her, her beautiful, long blonde hair, her flattering but conservative pink top, and her beautiful, skin-tight jeans.

Irene’s always been prettier than me. She was the one who’d always picked up boys at the bar, while I was locked away in my room, writing something or other about boys falling for women. It was much easier to control on the page than it ever had been in real life.

“They stole all of my money, Irene. They said it was for Andres’ mother, but she just died. Of course, they haven’t given it back. They were fighting about that when we left.”

“Well then I’ll call the police.”

“No. You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I was sleeping with him…”

“What...you were sleeping with him...well, the police know people have affairs, Annette, but, honestly, the poolboy? I didn’t have you pegged for that sort of woman, and after writing all of those novels about sordid affairs too…”

She shook her head in disgust.

“I know. I know. I don’t think Eduardo’s found out.”

“Who the fuck broke into our house though? The only other person who I ever saw was that dude dressed like a clown.”

“That’s the guy who did it. I’m sure of it. I saw a knife once, in his pocket.”

“Well a lot of people carry knives in their pockets, Annette. Cowboys who’ve moved to the big city think that those things remind them of home. They’re heirlooms of sorts, souvenirs from a long-lost era. Everyone has knives.”

“Yeah, but there’s this gang of guys who dress like clowns and they have an emblem on each one: a jester hat. They use the knives to slit peoples’ throats. I looked, and that’s what happened to Jaunita. Exactly what happened to her.”

“Damn. Are you sure?”

“As I said, one can never be sure when it comes to murder. It could be Eduardo, for all I know. Maybe he didn’t want her to find out. It’s odd that she was in New York. She usually stays in Bevery Hills. She must have known something about her husband. Figured out what he was doing behind closed doors and followed him here, determined to hold him accountable for his behavior, but then, she was stopped by someone. Maybe the criminal in her mind. The traitor. The betrayer. She could have been angry. Maybe it started out in self-defense and then, rather than confessing, he took out his knife and slit her neck to save himself from her wrath.”

“Wow, Annette. You really are a writer!” Irene shook her head.

“I swear I never could have made up such a fucking story on the spot, but we don’t know. This is real life. Things aren’t always as they seem. Was anyone following you the night you two...slept in the hotel together?”

I inhale sharply.

“Well, let me think. There was a man. A man with a briefcase and a blue suit. He was wearing glasses. He always wore very pointy black shoes. They seemed expensive, vintage probably.”

“Why on earth did you spend so much time staring at this man’s shoes?”

“Because there was something different about them. A jester hat emblem, and there was a bulge in his pant pocket that looked a lot like the knife I saw. He had a similar stature to the clown.”

“Hmm...That does seem odd.”

“Yeah. He was staying in the room across the hall. I saw him leave early and get breakfast. I didn’t see him after that.”

“I’m calling the police. This is ridiculous. We’re staying at a fucking hotel tonight.”

She dials a number and calls.

“Hello? Jim? Yes, I would like to report a robbery. Andres and these other two guys, I don’t have their names, stole 4 million dollars from my friend, bestselling author Annette Baker.”

She hangs up.

“They’re looking into it.”

“Okay. Let’s stay in a hotel tonight.”

“Have you told Eduardo?”

“No. I haven’t told him.”

We saw the writing on the wall as we continued driving. This is what it said:

The clocks

go forward

by an hour.

We steal time

from the Universe

unaware as yet

we will have to give it back.

Our faces

hang like masks

mirrored in the dark

hospital window

our own ghosts

visiting this night.

I watch myself

as if seeing

someone from another world

who is & isn’t me.

Outside a bird

unknown to us

creates the dawn

whistling like a janitor

opening up

the early morning.

We gain

this extra hour

(this added time) .

The clock caught napping

still living in the not so long ago

my mother

stepping into her future

that is now

her past

the extra hour

like a useless bauble

falling out of

her hand.

Donall Dempsey

You held my hart in your hands and my soul in your mouth, we watched the moon slip through the dark knight, A lullaby of blood and sticky labels, reach for the sky, reach for the sky, No more dollars, No more heists, No more; No more, Bonnie & Clyde.

won't you save me, for I've been running all my life, I've been sinning, I've been stealing and I know that that ain't right, won't you save me, won't you teach me right from wrong, I've been sinning, I've been stealing, please take me home.

We sang to the pound of the engine, you lay your head in my lap, so sweet so simple, you toyed with the coins in my pocket, reach for the sky, reach for the sky, No more dollars, No more heists, No more; No more, Bonnie & Clyde.

won't you save me, for I've been running all my life, I've been sinning, I've been stealing and I know that that ain't right, won't you save me, won't you teach me right from wrong, I've been sinning, I've been stealing, please take me home.

We danced to the backdrop of yellow fields, spattered with red confetti, shookhands with the devil, all dressed in rags, reach for the sky, reach for the sky, No more dollars, No more heists, No more; No more, Bonnie & Clyde.

The devil he has taken me, and I can't run no more, No more sinning or stealing, for now my life is done; you can't save me, You can't teach me right from wrong, No more sinning, No more stealing, For now this soul has gone.

Ten cops, camera and a smile, Photo for a trophy, V8 Ford full of holes, reach for the sky, reach for the sky, No more dollars, No more heists, No more; No more, Bonnie & Clyde.

Percy Flaherty

I wasn’t really sure what to think about it, to be totally honest. The words that had been graffitied on the wall were eerie, particularly because they were etched in red, and there was a jester hat near each one that looked a bit too similar to the shoes and the knife for my taste. The problem was that there was no real way to know if the man I saw by the hotel room was the same man I saw dressed up as a clown: He wore too much face paint. It was a disguise, and a stupid one, and how on earth had he obtained my mother’s locket?