Chapter 2

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.