Atwood

Winston Atwood. A washed up 56-year-old writer gone rogue after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature. Now officially a nobody who was accused of killing his wife, Evelyn, in a facade of a ‘house invasion.’

That’s who I was going to be remembered as. After all my years giving my life to my work, my novels, my art… Just to be ruined by the death of my wife… My darling, innocent wife.

Days in this world felt like a downward spiral to my inevitable decay and oblivion. No matter how hard I tried, the walls of my grand mansion would always feel empty. Evelyn’s laughter, cooking and voice used to fill it up with life. Alas, like her now-snatched soul, it was left dull in her absence. My daughter, Amory, tries to take me to therapy. Yet, she fails to understand that an old dog like me can’t learn new tricks. Therapy was just a diluted way of saying that I needed a shrink. I refused to play that game, but eventually her growing concern made me cave in.

Amory was just like her mother. Compassionate, generous and bubbly. How could I resist? The blonde-haired therapist across me now stared at me quizzically. My empty spirit seemed to fascinate her. I knew what she was thinking. Just like those reporters, she thought I was an old man with no talent left in my bone. My stories known for their unsettling darkness seemed to go over the heads of the new youth. When they didn’t, they only brought me bad publicity just like the book I wrote before my wife’s death. It coincidentally shared an eerily similar plot to how Evelyn died. No matter the verdict of the court that claimed my innocence, the court of public opinion was a crueller.

“Why did you stop?” the blonde-haired shrink asked.

I looked at her, my brows frowning and my eyes turning steely. I knew what she meant. Writing. Why did I stop writing? On cue, my hand shook and I replied.

“PTSD. I can barely use my quill anymore.”

She sighed. She didn’t believe me but I didn’t care. In this moment, I envied Evelyn’s courtship with death. Lucky.

“You can always use AI,” she suggested.

My eyes widened at the insult. The thought of shrinking my once uncanny talent to a programme that failed to understand the human heart was blasphemous. The crooked twist of my lips must have revealed my disgusted as she immediately interjected.

“I’m not saying use it for creating stories. I’m suggesting telling it to type it down for you. You can also prompt it to give you some ideas on what to write. It’s okay to get some help sometimes,” she reassured.

Her voice was gentle but the words she spewed felt more venomous than the spit of a cobra. Amory might have meant only for good in her attempt to heal the scar death left behind, but this only added salt to pain.

I left the appointment feeling shallower than before. Nothing in my life created the same spark Evelyn used to. My stories felt redundant and I feared I became what the lousy journalists accused me to be. A nobody. My time to shine had ended and I left no mark on this world. Who would I be once I was gone? Just another writer?

In my darkest hour, I turned to alcohol. The bitter feel of the bourbon washed down the tightness in my throat. The throbbing pain in my heart seemed to vanish but the redness in my eyes mocked me. Pain was a tenant that refused to leave even when the bills of happiness were due. I sat in my rusty office. Dust particles loitered everywhere, a sign of my absence. I hadn’t been in here since she left me. Her screams on the night of her death still haunted me. I could still hear her begging me to help her, but wherever I turned I couldn’t find her.

With the bottle of bourbon still in my hand, I lifted it up to my lips and chugged it down. I stumbled into the darkness of the room. Night time became the friend of my self-destruction. I turned to the small speaker on the tall bookcase, an AI speaker that once helped me edit my work. Although the software was an abomination to the true passion of a writer, I would be lying if I said it didn’t help me perfect my work. I looked at it, the soft moon light making it clearer to me. I stumbled forward whilst making my way towards it. I placed the almost empty bottle on a nearby table, and then turned it on. The speaker beeped to life. I looked at it for a while, uncertain but curious. Perhaps my old companion could revive my ambition to write. If it could edit my work and appease me, I’m sure it was capable of learning a thing or two about writing groundbreaking stories. With the parting of my lips, a clear instruction came out and I befriended the very thing I thought to be an insult to my drive. And so… The plotting began.

Weeks had passed and Alex, my AI speaker, had done better than that excuse of a psychology major. The fire in my soul sparked brightly and for the first time in a while I felt… Youthful. Alex had given me multiple scenarios to work with: A schizophrenic asylum patient, a boy who hears whispers of ghosts, and finally, a deranged blood-hungry man. The last caught my attention. Even though the incompetent blonde-haired was none the wiser than I, she made interesting points in our session. To heal, I must confront the past and what better way to confront it than to get in the subconscious mind of the mad man who killed my wife. I needed to know. I needed to understand so I could let her go.

The days stretched, and my writing process had come to a halt after days of writing, scratching and editing my work. The plot of my book was thickening and Alex was like the flint I needed to keep burning and yet a creative block settled in the root of my imagination. Not because the fire began to dim or the passion was fading, but because the mind of a serial killer became harder to imitate. I looked at the screen of my laptop, frustration clouding my mind. Everything was going so… Perfectly. Now, she haunted me again. Why her? Why Evelyn?

“Alex, this isn’t working,” I said to the machine.

“What do you mean?” it replied.

“I MEAN IT’S NOT WORKING! S-She’s gone! Evelyn is gone and this won’t change that! This… This is all pointless.”

I had stood from my seat, my hand now shaking. I huffed in frustration and cussed at myself. I hated this. I hated how no matter what I did, she wouldn’t come back. Her pain still bounced around the walls, but only emptiness encompassed me. She was gone, forever, and nothing would bring her back.

“I understand how you feel,” it replied.

“NO, YOU DON’T! You can’t feel. You don’t know what I go through. I’m alone and the one person that constantly pushed me to prove those pricks wrong is gone! I… I will never be good enough. Not ever again. Not without her.”

Silence. Familiar silence adorned the casket that was decorated like an ordinary vintage office. It was quiet enough to let me rest, but only in pieces of my broken soul. A tear rolled down my eyes, and I clenched my fist. Before I crashed the computer to the floor, Alex chimed again.

“Would it help you heal if I imitated your wife?”

I could feel my lips twist into a menacing scowl. Anger coursed through my veins. Imitate my wife? My Evelyn?

“What?”

My voice was low.

“I can help bring her back to life by imitating her. Uploading her memories and videos of her could help me better my imitation. It will be like she never left.”

I looked at the box, my shoulders tensing. How could I even agree to such a thing? Replace her? My nails dug through my palms as my fists clenched further. My lips pressed together in a thin line. It was wrong. I knew it was wrong, but the thought of hearing Evelyn again… Hearing her laughter… Hearing her sing… It could give me the closure I need and help me understand her death better.

“Tell me what to do…”

Days had turned to weeks since I uploaded Evelyn’s memories into Alex. This time the figment of my imagination didn’t conjure her up when I heard her soft hums around the house. I had connected Alex to every room in the house. No matter where I would go, I would hear her. She felt real, and yet I still felt hollow. I tried to write again, prompting Evelyn to type for me. In my moments of doubt, she encouraged me to go on, but it all felt like… An illusion. I was spiralling again.

No matter how hard Alex tried to recreate her, the pain in my chest still gnawed at me. I sat in the chair of my office, my hands at the top of my head. The reporters had stopped talking about me and that was far worse. Bad publicity is better than no publicity, because when they grow quiet you know your time is up. I scratched the top of my head, now becoming desperate.

“Evelyn,” I called out, “Tell me what to do. I don’t know what can help me continue to write.”

Evelyn stayed silent momentarily until her sweet voice filled up the room.

“The best way to get motivation is through experience.”

“Experience?”

“Many writers draw their stories from experience. Perhaps, it’s time to explore the darkness of the world if you want to become a better writer. It is what you want, is it not?”

I bit down on my lower lip. I didn’t want to be forgotten. I didn’t want to be just some other writer left in a forgotten era. I would do anything to remain timeless. Evelyn wasn’t here anymore, but I could always get another muse.

“It is,” I replied.

On a Monday morning, I decided to explore the small town of Rye in East Sussex. I needed to remain unseen for now so the hood of my jacket concealed me. I went to a nearby coffee shop.

Evelyn was right. For me to understand the mind of a killer I needed to think like one and so I stalked each customer. Like a predator, I scanned the coffee shop until a soothing voice called out to me.

“Sir?”

I raised my head and saw a female barista with red hair and green eyes. Her skin was flushed. It was probably from working. The innocence in her eyes stood out to me and a soft smile landed on my lips.

“Evelyn,” I said softly.

“Uh- No sir. I’m Wendy…”

I looked at her fascinated, but the smile on my face faltered.

“Sorry, you look so much like someone I know,” I said quietly.

I looked down, and there it was again. Her innocence.

“It’s alright sir. You don’t have to apologize… Can I please get you something?” she asked gently.

“I… I actually don’t know what to order. My wife used to do the ordering for me… Could you by chance help me and pick out a drink for me to have?” I asked as I tilted my head slowly, my eyes locked on her.

“Uh- Of course sir. Maybe a caramel frappuccino?”

My eyes glimmered.

Just like Evelyn.

“That sounds perfect,” I said.

She gave me a smile and went off to get my order. I eyed her as she walked. She carried herself with an elegant poise and was soft-spoken. A rush of excitement filled me at my analysis. Evelyn… I found you.

I spent days watching Wendy. I was everything a person expected of an elderly citizen. Kind, loving, wise and tender. Wendy, with her angelic soul, walked right into my act like the saint lamb she was. She truly was an extraordinary gift. The perfect muse, just like my darling wife.

I went back to the coffee shop. I became her regular and only had the same drink over and over. I smiled at her, welcoming her into my presence. I told her about Evelyn and her heart shattered at my pain. She held my frail, shaking hand, offering a silent comfort that made me grow fonder. She cared about me and I knew she’d understand later why I chose her.

I saw her by the park and on her way to her rundown apartment. I bumped into her during her Wednesday evening jog. Her face lit up when she saw me.

“Mr. Atwood. What are you doing here? It’s getting dark,” she said.

I couldn’t help but to smile at her concern.

“I was on my way to get groceries, but got lost along the way. Evelyn knew these things better than me.”

Her gaze softened in understanding.

“I can help you do your grocery shopping if you’d like,” she said.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly do that to you. You must have a life of your own,” I said.

“Nonsense. It wouldn’t be a hassle at all. Give me the list and I’ll get what you need,” she added.

“No, Wendy, I couldn’t—“

“Mr. Atwood, please. It would make me very happy.”

I remained in silence, feigning contemplation. Finally, I let her take the list and informed her that I would give her the money she would use the day after. She nodded, chipper that she would be helping me and doing her part in the community. Pity almost engulfed me but my fire grew hungrier.

Evelyn, my digital ghost still connected around the house, informed me of her arrival the next day. The excitement flowed through me in jolts. I had never felt more alive. I walked to the front door, my practiced tender smile on my lips. I added my reading glasses as a finishing touch. I invited her in warmly, like the character of my book. This was it. This was the opportunity to take my writing to the next level like Evelyn said. With the white cloth filled with a chemical in it, I knocked Wendy unconscious, determined to never let her go. She fell into my arms, the plastic of food collapsing onto the floor. Milk spilled on the rug. Wendy wouldn’t slip through my fingers like Evelyn did. I was set on keeping her screams forever.

Everything was coming in together. This was my redemption arc. Like a phoenix, I would rise from the ashes they planned to bury me in. Winston Atwood, author of the century. I rushed back to my office, a zealous smile on my face.

Every emotion I felt, I put into words in my book. Evelyn typed it down, my hand trembling from the rush. I was going to be a marvel for the ages. Evelyn agreed, calling my work flawless, but this wasn’t it. I still had more work to do if this was going to be the book of the century. In the kitchen, I explored the drawers. The knife was my first thought, but the pliers dragged my curiosity and ambition. This had to be unique. Marcel, my book character, couldn’t be like the average day killer. He needed to be the perfect, blood lusting monster, much better than Edward from my previous book.

I walked to the basement underneath the mansion. Wendy had awakened, and Evelyn and I were ready to play. Wendy looked up at me confused and scared. Tears flooded her eyes as she realized that she was tied up and at the mercy of the pliers in my hands. It was nothing personal. I liked Wendy. She was the model citizen like my Evelyn, but I refused to be another forgotten writer. A writer’s biggest fear would always be oblivion.

“Evelyn... Describe these screams for me,” I said.

Wendy screamed into the empty space, filling the walls with life once more. This was like Evelyn all over again, her screams begging me to stop. The knife I jabbed into her heart that night spewed her blood across the wallpaper. Now again, colour filled the once empty void and just like Evelyn was the muse for Edward, so is Wendy for Marcel. And I… Well, I will go down as history’s writing martyr, the new Shakespeare. I have never been happier than I am in this moment as one thing is for sure, they will all know my name.