The Emissary

SENSTIVE CONTENT: Stalking, Mental Illness

It wasn’t her fault. 

The girl didn’t mean anything by it, really; she was just the messenger. 

“I swear on my life,” the girl chattered to her friends at the table. “She ran off with that newscaster, the tall one. With the teeth. The sexy one.” 

She didn’t realize that I was listening, or even who I was at all. She wasn’t even cognizant of the fact that her message was the nail in the coffin, a coffin I once thought had been a lifeboat. 

I stood and headed for the hallway the girl described, the sounds of the girl and her friends giggling like school children raking down my spine. All at once I felt sick, disoriented–and yet, somehow, clear of mind. 

I didn’t bother to excuse myself as I brushed past the other gala attendees, nearly knocking over the older woman who just won for her work uncovering child trafficking in the Congo, or dealing with hungry children in Chicago, or something like that. 

I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. 

I was being cheated on. Right now. In this moment. As I walked across the marble hallway, my thoughts punctured by the sound of my dress shoes clacking along, my girlfriend–my beautiful, intelligent, otherworldly girlfriend–was with another man. 

And not just any man. Oh no, she was with Chip Hemlock, senior correspondent to NBC, and  former flame to the love of my life. He was perfect. It was infuriating. 

Tall, dark, handsome, everything God wanted Man to be. With broad shoulders, a sharp jaw, and skin so clear you could see yourself in it, his only flaw was a small gap between his two front teeth. An imperfection, perhaps. A way to signal to women that Hey, nobody’s perfect, I’ve got things wrong with me. You can approach me. A perfect trap for distracted women, a group that now included my beloved Josie. 

Click-clack. Click-clack. 

The hallway was elaborate, the attendees trickling out of the stimulating environment of the ballroom. Rich men, beautiful women, guests of the highest caliber loitered along the hall, a few on their phones, others deep in conversation, at least one lost and looking for the restroom. 

Click-clack. Click-clack. 

I couldn’t focus on the elegant details of the hall, couldn’t fully comprehend the spotless, ancient mirrors on the wall or my exasperated, almost-windswept reflection of mine as I rushed by, too overwhelmed by the task at hand. The walls seemed to contract, then expand, matching the waves of sickness and lucidity I was overcome, then soothed by. 

Click-clack. Click-clack. 

Foolish sound. Foolish sound of foolish shoes on a stupid man. A stupid man who thought it was a good idea to propose to the love of his life on the biggest night of her life. Of our lives. She would take home a Pulitzer, I would take home a fiancé. That was the plan. Both of us, winners. Both of us embarking on the next chapter of our glorious lives together. 

Key word in this fantasy of mine: together. We were supposed to do this together. 

The ring in my pocket got heavier with each step I took, like it wanted me to slow me down, to prevent me from walking in on what was sure to be an existence-shattering moment, thus validating my biggest fear and the truth that fed it. 

I was losing her. Actively losing her. To this buck-toothed bozo with a raging god complex, and to the world, to some extent. 

The world wanted my Josie; of that, I was sure. I’d known her since before we started dating, and saw how largely ignored she was in the years before this recent launch. Not many people understood her work when it first came out, so her fans were few. It was hard to stand by and watch when strangers used to take that polite, accommodating tone when she spoke about her novel, that tone people assume when they’re talking to a 30-year-old with no direction in life. 

The snapping of my shoes ceased as I ascended one of the large, curving staircases that framed the exit and led to a row of rooms on the second floor. 

I think I loved her, even then. Her hair was that original, mousy brown color, untouched by the bleach and chemicals she now soiled it with. She was shy. Her voice shook when she spoke in front of a crowd, but her ideas were so potent, so electrifying, it spurred her readers to spread the message of her work like she was the messiah. In that small, homely woman laid a magnificent, bewildering soul with a mind that yearned to be understood, but wasn’t. That was part of the charm, in some ways. For all her brilliance, only a select few were able to see her for the genius that she was. 

But like with all things good and pure, the masses caught wind of her. It wasn’t long before capitalism sunk his teeth in, and fed. 

It was slow at first. A few tags online, a boost in sales here and there. A niche, internet podcast raved about her first book, labeled it “underrated,” and sales increased again. 

More people started showing up. More fans, more press, more attention. Men who would have made fun of her in high school now salivated over her in the audience, in interviews, asking her questions about her inspiration and her characters and her process–like anyone really gave a shit. (Biggest lesson I learned, on Josie’s ride to the top? Male journalists are just goon-headed robots trolling for pussy.)

I reached the top of the staircase, my thoughts hyper-focused on finding her, on my winsome, my brilliant, my perplexing Josie-bear. The doors of the second landing were all closed, except one at the end of the hall. Just slightly ajar, a thin stream of light fell along the floor like a beacon. I beelined for it, but hesitated when a large man in all-black slipped from the room, and shut the door behind him. 

They hired security. A guard to stand watch as they ravaged each others’ bodies a floor above me, someone to stand watch as the woman I loved, the woman I supported and studied and cherished, invited another man between her legs and into her fragile, fragile soul. Did she know what she was doing? Did she even know this man was out here? These thoughts fortified my resolve and spurred me on, my mission clear. 

I nearly galloped down the hall toward the dark knight that stood watch. He was burly, with small eyes and a big face. His taser sat at his hip, his arms crossed over his gut. His stare was punitive, yet indifferent. He looked like his inner world was drenched in primary colors. 

I wondered if he knew what was going on behind those doors, this guard. If he was complicit in the sullying of my future bride. Did he know what was at stake? Did he care? Or was this just a job to him? I can respect a man who does what he needs to get by. It’s a hard world out there. But unfortunately for him, I was on an errand of the soul. 

The guard didn’t notice me at first, thanks to what others have described as my meek and unassuming manner. I approached swiftly, focused only on the soft voices I now heard beyond the door, on what was surely my sweet Josie’s tinkering laugh. By the time the guard noticed I was there, I had already burst through the door–

And there they were. On the couch, knee-to-knee, his face inches from hers. His mouth was spread wide, all of his teeth on display. A demon ready to feed. I lunged for him, but the guard yanked me back before I could wrap my hands around his throat. 

“Daniel!” Josie exclaimed. “What the fuck are you doing?” She stared at me like she’d never seen me before. She was still under Chip’s spell, then. Damn that gap-toothed heathen. 

“I’m here to rescue you,” I wheezed, the force of the guard’s grip still tight on my collar. 

“Rescue me? From what? My interview?” she spat out, her anger clearly rising. She waved her arm around at the room before her. Indeed, a small recording device and a pen and paper sat between her and Chip. But that was just set dressing, another part of this devil’s ruse! Couldn’t she see that? 

And that’s when it dawned on me…Oh, my sweet Josie. She didn’t know? 

“Know what, Daniel?” I flinched. Had I said that out loud? No matter. Maybe it was time to tell her the truth of what tonight was supposed to be for us. How tonight would mark the beginning of her new life, her true life, one that was bound to mine in body and soul. And how this monster, this so-called journalist–whose work, for what it’s worth, was so surface-level, so puffy, he was better suited to the gas station news networks than to national television–was about to ruin everything. 

The silence was heavy as she waited for my response. Chip put himself in front of her, a false pledge of protection. With each passing second, he inched closer to my bride, my princess, my reason for living…I needed to think! To act! 

The surprise would be ruined, then. The beauty of this moment, this moment every ordinary-looking woman like her dreams about, would be marred by this miscreant’s doings. But if a ruined dream was the price I paid for her soul, then pay it I would. Nothing would come between me and the woman I’d loved since I first laid eyes on her. Nothing. 

“I was going to propose to you tonight,” I let the words flow from me, squeezing every ounce of pure love and adoration into my message, hoping she would forgive me for the lack of showmanship that accompanied my proposal. I watched them float to her, watched as she blinked several times and shook her head, my Sleeping Beauty waking from her slumber–

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” she hissed. She was upset. I understood why.  

“I know the timing’s nonsense, and the situation is less than ideal–”

“Less than ideal?” she barked a laugh. 

“--but if you could find it in your heart to forgive me, my love, my Josie, my angel,” I reached for my pocket, difficult when the guard’s fist was still at my neck, and pulled out the ring. “Would you still do the honor of being my bride?” 

Silence. Chip, at least, had the good sense to finally shut his saber toothed trap. Although he now stared at my future wife with a tinge of bewilderment I didn’t quite care for. 

“Daniel,” Josie almost whispered (from incredulity, I assumed). “Daniel, I don’t even know where to begin…”

I tried to go to her, to the light of my life. I reached for her, as far as the guard’s grip would allow. 

“Don’t feel the need to say yes right away my love, give me the chance–”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” she said, “Oh no, dude, my answer is a hard, hard no.” 

The world stopped on its axis. What did she just say?

“I said no, bonehead,” she snapped. (I must’ve thought out loud again.) “Not only did you just try to assault the reporter attempting to interview me about one of the biggest nights in my career, if not my entire life, but you did it because you wanted to propose to me?--” I nodded, unsure of what her career had anything to do with it. 

“Daniel, are you out of your mind? We’ve known each other for, what, three weeks, maybe four?!” she paused, as if waiting for me to put the pieces together. But I didn’t respond. She took a deep breath and yelled, “There’s no way in hell I’m gonna fuckin’ marry you!” 

The rage was instant, and powerful. Uncontrollable, unfettered fury flowed through my veins, triggered by her careless dismissal. 

That bitch. That evil, conniving, scornful whore. She stepped back, her eyes widened in shock. I must’ve spoken out loud again. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. My senses were blurred by anger, my spirit shrieking from within. 

She wouldn’t marry me? Ha! After everything I’d done for her? After the years of devotion, of servitude to her cause? Every reading, every convention, every book release, every Reddit AMA, every goddamn Great Morning America appearance, I was there! Me! I was the man who championed her work when reviewers tore it to pieces! I was the one who sent her flowers when she moved apartments! Who watered her plants when she was on her book tour! Who bought her groceries when she didn’t leave the house writing for days at a time! Who risked their neck to change her oil and fold her laundry in the dead of night, lest I get caught and mis-labeled a perverted fanatic, just so she could focus on her craft! Who else would be so thoughtful, so attentive, for no pay and no acknowledgement?–no one! No one else! Not Chip! Not her mother! Not God! Me! 

I sat by and watched as she took lovers into her heart and bed, stood by and did nothing as they left her vulnerable, unguarded. One after the other, I watched as they ripped through her, leaving holes large enough for more fiends of the male variety through. For so long, I had accepted my role as her silent guardian, had followed the monastic path to serve at the feet of literary godhood, when it became clear that my hands-off approach wasn’t enough to keep her safe. 

So I inserted myself into her narrative. Risked my own path as her masked protector in order to better serve my lady. From men, from the world–and at a certain point, from herself. 

“We’re so connected,” she’d said after our third date, when I ordered her a pistachio gelato without asking. “It’s pretty sick.” 

My heart sang when she said that. That was my sign. She recognized our connection, saw what we could be–what we would be!--together. I bought the ring the next day. 

Oh, how far we’d fallen! The night at the gelato shop was only a few days ago, but it might as well have been a lifetime. 

Now, I looked into the eyes of my beloved–no longer excited by the prospect of having someone so in-tuned with them. No, she saw me as one thing and one thing only, if the shouts for police were any indication. 

I realized then, as the guard smashed my face into the ground and the officers wrenched my wrists into the cuffs, that maybe I had put my faith into the wrong woman. As they shoved me into the back of the cop car, the presence of the partition, a cage of my own making, I considered how the mistakes I made, although few in number, ultimately sealed my fate. 

Maybe that’s why I didn’t protest when the state deemed me unfit to live in society. I guess an indefinite stay at a psychiatric hospital is better than a stint in a state penitentiary. But who’s to say one prison’s better than the other?

Now I spend my days staring at white walls, talking about my childhood with groups of strangers, taking blue pills for this, pink pills for that. I finger paint on Tuesdays, undergo ketamine therapy on Fridays. It’s a quiet life, a peaceful one. 

The memories of Josie and I’s ill-fated love are distant now, like the residual fears of a childhood nightmare. Her star has only risen since she rejected me. I guess my outburst, recorded by the small camera team I was unaware of, went viral, and her sales have skyrocketed since. I’m sure it helps to sell books about being stalked by an invisible, demonic force when the author has gone through a similar experience, although I wholeheartedly disagree with the implication.

My assignment is complete, for now. Josie and Chip are expecting their third child together, and her next book comes out in the fall. 

On nights when my mind wanders into darker territories, I comb through my recollect, where I could have been a better person, a man worthy of Josie and her creative genius. 

I think about the gala, about the plush carpet, the feeling of a fist around my neck. I think about how beautiful Josie looked, clad in a gown of the most precious silk, and how she looked at me when she learned the truth. 

But mostly, I think of the girl at the table who I overheard that fateful night. An exchange of gossip, a bit of hearsay, a bit of speculation–and my life was never the same. Some nights I thank God for her, and for women’s penchant for gossip. If not for women like her, I would still be the same obsessive, dangerous man I’d once been, would still be unhealed, a menace to society. 

And other nights? I wish I’d shot the fucking messenger.