I'm Not Afraid of Anyone I Write Into Existence

Content Warning:

This story contains strong language, graphic imagery related to death and decomposition, psychological tension, and themes of emotional and psychological manipulation. Reader discretion is advised.

BAM, BAM, BAM!

"Open up! I know you're in there!"

"What the heck?" I muttered, jerking my neck toward the sound.

BANG! BANG!

"Writer Girl, I said open the door!"

My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I contemplated ignoring the knock and finishing my next book, All About Geoff, or stopping to answer the door.

THUD… THUD, THUD!

"Dang. It’s almost midnight," I whispered, eyes darting to the clock on my computer.

WHAM!

"WRITER GIRL, OPEN THE DOOR!"

"What the—"

I bolted out of my seat as the room fell into an uneasy silence. Fear surged through my veins. My ears perked like radar while I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes, focusing like I had a superpower—X-ray vision.

FZZZT!

My eyes misted as a hot, pulsating tingle lingered… festering, preparing, collecting energy before shooting out to—

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, POUND!

"Damn it! Open your gawd-damn door, Writer Girl! Your lights are on, and I see your green car in the driveway. I know you're up and in there!"

My mouth flew open in disbelief as my eyes widened with terror.

"Open up before I bash every window you got!"

BABOOMP, BABOOMP, BABOOMP!

Wildly, my heart raced. Do I open the door or not?

POUND!

"Ugh! I can’t take this anymore!" I cried, hands flaring to tightly clutch my head.

“WRITER GIRL!”

Who the heck calls me by that name? I wondered as the pounding in my head grew stronger and louder. I found myself tiptoeing to the door.

My chest puffed, my head raised, and my body pressed firmly against the cold, hard, wooden door.

"Ah!" A shaky breath escaped my tortured soul as my head throbbed.

My palm smacked my forehead.

"Dang! It’s David!"

Quickly, I spun and leaned against the door, chest rising fast like a stopwatch counting the thousandths of a millisecond!

THUD! THUD! THUD!

What the heck?! I bounced as the door shuddered.

"Writer Girl! Open this mother-fricken door before I kick it in!"

THUD! THUD!

Beads—no, oceans—of sweat, like a waterfall, cascaded down my temples as my chest burned with each fear-filled breath.

RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE!

"Writer Girl! This is the last time I'm going to ask you nicely to open this motherf’in door!" David growled.

Oh my gosh! I don’t understand. Why is he here? I didn’t write anything about him. What could he possibly want with me?

I backed away, eyes glued to the door as I aimlessly paced before it.

BLAM!

I jumped as if someone had thrown a live grenade at me.

My head bolted toward my cell phone as Call the fricken police! raced through my mind like I was the anchor in a relay race.

...No... they won’t get here in time, my heart said, passing the baton to my head.

Just let him in, my mind panted loudly, sprinting toward me.

I stood in the ready position to accept the baton.

"WRITER GIRL, SO YOU WANT ME TO ACT A FOOL!"

"Ow!" I cried as my mind slammed the baton into my hands.

No. I can’t. He sounds upset— I cried, as fear nailed my feet to the ground.

Go! ... You know he can’t hurt you, my mind declared.

I sighed, extended my hand, and twisted the lock.

BADUMP, BADUMP! BLAAM!

My heart raced frantically as David angrily shoved the door open—it blasted past me and slammed into the wall. The house quaked like it had been struck by a 9.9 earthquake.

"Really, David?"

My finger trembled as I pointed at him.

"Are you crazy, stupid, or just trying to piss me off? Because I know you saw me standing there—and I know you know I’m not scared of you."

I grabbed the door’s edge and tried to hurl it shut.

"Hmph," David growled, catching it before it closed.

Eyes locked on mine, he stepped inside and gently pushed it shut behind him.

Bouncing on his heels like a prizefighter, he squared up—fists clenched, thick muscles rippling like waves crashing against a raging sea.

"I heard from a reliable source you renamed your first book to: Why Not Geoff? Then gave that punk-ass Geoff his own sequel. All About Geoff.

But me..."

He thumped his chest, leaning in until his nose nearly brushed mine.

"What the fuck did I get?"

I narrowed my eyes. I wasn’t scared—at least, not yet—but the fire building in my chest said one thing: I was definitely pissed.

David puckered his lips.

Oh no, you are not kissing me.

I jabbed a finger at his vile mouth.

"Ahuh! Ahuh!" I hacked, breath hitching.

"Ugh." My eyes misted. David’s rancid breath smelled like he’d just eaten a plate of hot dodo.

I twisted my neck, fanning the air.

“David, move back,” I gasped.

He smirked—clearly enjoying my discomfort.

Seductively, he winked and circled his tongue around his chapped lips.

“Writer Girl, is that why you made me a bad boy? So you could have me?” he cooed, reaching out his cracked, ashy hand to caress my cheek.

I reeled back. "David, what makes you think you have the right to touch me?"

My chest rose like a volcano ready to erupt.

WHACK!

I slapped his hand away.

He grinned and gyrated his hips.

"Ooh, I love spirited women. Why didn’t you make Carolyn feisty? I wouldn’t have been so mean to her. Come here," he said, reaching for my braids.

"Oyce!" My arms snapped into a defensive block like I knew karate.

David countered, slipping into an offensive stance. Gracefully, he spun—left leg snapping into a roundhouse kick just inches from my face.

"Did you forget you wrote me as the captain of my college martial arts team?"

"Yah!" he shouted, launching a punch.

My arms reacted—rocking, blocking—

CRACK!

Connected with his nose.

How I did that, I’ll never know. But since I wrote the story, maybe I gave myself skills too.

David grinned, blood trickling from his nose. Eyes locked on mine, he licked his lips and wiped the blood clean.

"Ooh, I like it rough," he whispered, waving me forward. His eyes shimmered. "A good fight turns me on."

I bowed, graceful in retreat, eyes locked on his.

You can’t beat him physically, my mind whispered. But you can outsmart him.

"Okay. Since you like it rough, wait right here—I’ll be right back. Gonna get something to make me feel more comfortable. Would you like me to bring something for you, too?"

David grinned. Undressed me with his horrid, twinkly, beady eyes.

“Ugh,” a chill slid down my spine. I turned and dashed into the living room.

"What can I use?" I mumbled, eyes scanning the space.

There. The fireplace poker.

"Yes. This’ll work."

I hid it behind my back and sauntered back into the room.

"I thought you were going to get something to make you more comfortable?" David asked, lips pulled into a pout.

"What are you hiding behind your back?"

He grinned widely. "Is it something to make you feel sexy and comfortable? Can I watch you undress to put it on?"

I cooed, stepping closer. "It’s just a little something I picked up… to help you remember old times."

David bent to remove his shoes.

What the heck? We’ve never had a physical relationship.

But who cares?

"Surprise!"

His head shot up. Eyes wide. Trembling.

He stumbled backward. I towered—chest puffed like a superhero, poker cocked over my shoulder—ready to whack the mess out of him if necessary.

David’s eyes shimmered. Misted.

"Yeah. You know what I can do with this," I said, flinching toward him.

"Please stop." He backed away. "I didn’t come here for any of that. All I’m saying is—if you’re gonna tell their story—you need to tell mine too."

His beady little eyes filled with tears. "Without me, there wouldn’t be a story," he said softly.

“Hmm.”

My mind raced with memories of the once-loving David—the man I believed in... until I couldn't.

“Writer Girl, you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you anything, David.”

“Yes, you do. I didn’t have a choice in how my life turned out. You decided to write what you did about me. My character flaws and all... were your doing.”

As I paused to reflect on what he said, my hands cupped my face. My eyes welled up as I stared at his bloodied T-shirt.

“Ah!” I gasped and quickly turned my head. “I did write that ending for you?” I muttered, trying to erase the image of his blood-clotted dreads and the gash with matter oozing from his cracked skull.

“Uh! I don’t want to see that!” My hands flared as if parting the Red Sea.

“David, I’m sorry…” I paused as a dull pain cut through my chest.

“What’s happening?” I cried.

David’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Oh, that? …It’s just my body decomposing.”

“Whew!” I exhaled deeply, then paused, placing my hand on a nearby table.

“This is what I felt as my organs began to shut down. Death doesn’t feel good, does it?”

My hand cupped my stomach as I slouched over. “David… I never wanted that for you. Your actions forced me to terminate your existence.”

"How, Writer Girl?" he asked, taking a step closer. "What did I ever say or do to make you write that about me?"

“You didn’t have to. Good or bad, actions have consequences.”

“And I know that. But with the power of your words and your imagination, you can fix it. You could change both of our worlds, Writer Girl.”

Could I?

My eyes shifted toward the soft yellow ceiling light illuminating the room. Did I want to change his story?

I shivered as a warm, cool breeze floated around me, filling the air with the scent of fresh lavender.

SNIFF, SNIFF

“What? David, are you crying?” I asked, glancing downward.

Like a child, he clung to my legs, and suddenly, all I wanted was to protect my little boy.

“Please. If you ever cared about me… rewrite my truth.”

The truth… I mumbled, as my hand gently caressed his neatly formed dreads.

Sympathetically, I stared into his eyes as images of David’s life bounced around in my head like the ball on a roulette wheel.

I sighed as it finally stopped—not at his birth, but at the moment he first introduced himself to Carolyn.

A smile warmed my heart as I fondly recalled one of the many versions of that encounter. The sounds of laughter, loud chattering, feet scampering, and chairs scraping across the cement floors echoed in my ears.

I sighed along with Carolyn as she raised her large glass of iced tea to her lips, then gently lowered it onto the wooden table, careful not to draw attention to her loneliness.

A dull pain creased my heart as her eyes misted with the thought, Why don’t I have someone special in my life?

Quickly, she brushed away the tears hanging like parachute jumpers, waiting to soar. Softly, she sniffed—her nose filtering through the scent of burgers, pepperoni pizza, and tuna sandwiches.

“Huh,” she exhaled, acknowledging the obvious: no one wanted her, and she was destined to sit alone.

Her lip quivered in anguish as she slowly raised a warm fry, dipped in ranch dressing, to her mouth.

THUD!

Her body jumped, eyes shooting upward.

“Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the super-tall athlete said, sliding his tray across the table and plopping down in the vacant seat.

“Umm,” Carolyn gasped.

“What?” he asked, eyes wide. “Is this seat taken? Is someone joining you?”

Her eyes darted around the cafeteria. So many seats... Why sit here?

“It’s okay, I’ll leave,” he said, reaching for his tray.

“No, it’s fine. The seat’s not taken,” she mumbled, keeping her head down to hide the joy racing through her chest.

“I’m David.” He picked up one of her fries, dipped it, and popped it into his mouth.

Her lip twitched. Was she supposed to say something? Complain? This was new.

“Your name’s Carolyn, right?” he paused, holding another fry near his watery, succulent lips.

“Uh,” she mumbled, her eyes scanning the room for encouragement. But nobody noticed.

Wait—how does he know that?

“Carolyn,” he repeated, sweeping his thick, dark chocolate hands through his coarse, rope-like dreads that framed his face like a lion’s mane.

“You know, Carolyn,” he added, dipping a handful of fries, “you’re different.”

Her eyes narrowed as she stared at her tray. This has to stop. At the rate he’s going, he’s going to devour all of my fries.

“Carolyn?”

She inhaled, sucking in her stomach. Like in the cartoons, butterflies fluttered—forming a heart—as her own heart swooned.

I love you… I mean… I love it when he calls me by my name—Mrs. Carolyn Browne.

Lightly, he tapped her shoulder. “Carolyn, are you going to respond?”

“Respond? Did I miss something?”

Blinking rapidly, barely breathing, she took a wild guess and said, “Yes.”

Gently, his hand rose and rested just below her chin.

A soft giggle escaped her lips as he said, “I admire how you carry yourself around campus.”

A crooked smile crept onto her face. She clutched her stomach, unsure how to respond, so she just stared.

“You’re not like the other girls—always chasing or throwing themselves at me.”

A big Kool-Aid smile took over as his hand brushed her cheek.

“Whoo!” Her body tingled, causing her to slightly twitch in her seat.

David—a star athlete—noticed me.

“Carolyn?”

A whisper of a sigh escaped her lips. Her eyes fluttered shut as she fought to quiet her inner thoughts and focus on his words.

“Ah!” She jerked as a tingling sensation rushed through her veins, causing her eyes to shoot open.

Staring deeply into her, he lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it, and bowed slightly.

Oh my gosh. Am I dead? Did I die and go to heaven? Carolyn asked herself, gently pulling free from his grasp, then turning to scan the cafeteria.

Who else just saw that?

“My lady,” he said, gently but firmly turning her face back toward him. “Please tell me—would you like me to pick you up at your house, or would you prefer to meet there for dinner and a movie this Friday?”

BA-DA-DA-DA-DA!

Carolyn’s heart pounded. Her eyes widened, and her body grew weak as if she might faint.

Did David just ask me out on a date—and I missed it?

It took every bit of restraint she had not to cover her mouth and gasp.

“David... thank you for asking. I’d love to go,” she whispered.

A smile lit up his face as his beady eyes twinkled with delight.

“Okay. I’ll pick you up at 7 sharp,” he said, walking away.

“Wait,” Carolyn yelled. “You don’t have my address! How are you going to pick me up?”

“Love will guide me… Just be ready,” he replied as he walked off.

Carolyn’s hands clasped over her heart.

Oh my gosh! I love him. I think he’s going to propose.

SNAP! SNAP!

“Wake up, Writer Girl!”

“Huh?” I responded, not fully conscious, still caught in my daydream.

“See, I wasn’t all bad,” David said, reaching to caress my face.

I flared my hands to block him.

His head dropped. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wanted to thank you... for writing that memory.”

I stared at him, remembering the abuse he suffered as a child and how he fought to overcome it—to become a loving, caring boyfriend, then husband to Carolyn, and father to their children.

And although it shouldn’t have, my heart grieved with his.

My eyes misted as I blinked back tears.

“I wasn’t always a bully. You know that. Before you changed me, I was loving—and you wrote nice things about me.”

A tear splashed and splattered on his hand as we locked eyes.

“Ah!” I gasped. His pain shot through me like flames from hell—as David glared at me with a look of pure, unadulterated hate.

“Bitch, I’m the way I am because of you—you, Writer Girl. You wrote me to be this way. Now fix it!” he shouted as he stormed out of the room.

BLAAM!

My house shook like an earthquake had hit.

CRASH!

The framed copies of my bestsellers lay shattered on the floor.

“He didn’t have to close the door that hard. I can’t stand that asshole,” I muttered.

Oops—sorry. That man brings out the worst in me. Got me cussin’ in here... and I don’t even do that.

Heavily, my chest rose and fell as I locked the door, then set the poker back in place.

Yes, David is a jerk... but he’s right. His story would make an engaging read.

I opened a new tab on my laptop.

Let’s see...

David, My First Love.

Where do I begin this story about you, David—the stupid-ass bully?

I know—I’ll ask Carolyn. I don’t have time for your... foolishness.

RING, RING

“Hello, Carolyn. Did I wake you?

...Well, David just left my house—

I know, that’s what I thought. But he was here.

No, I don’t see how that’s possible either...

Of course, it was him. He came demanding I write a book about his relationship with you...

Yeah—and get this... he wants it to be a love story!

I know, right? I should be laughing.

But honestly... he’s right.

Your experiences with him would make an engaging romance story.

Do I have your permission to write it?