The Harvest

Can you keep a secret?

I’m sure you can. We all can when it’s in our best interests. We can when it’s our own secret. After all, we keep the secret of our true selves hidden throughout our lives.

Why?

Because we know that some fucker will use it against us.

You see, there is magic in this. Powerful magic. And by giving someone the magical words of your secret self, you open a door that can never be closed and you hand your power to another.

So, if I tell you my secret, I’m afraid I will have to kill you!

She smiles at the preface.

Then she reads it out to the other occupant of the room.

“What do you think?” she asks him.

“Mmmmm! Hmmmm! MMMMM!” he struggles against his bonds as he tries to make himself understood through the gag, but his lips are sealed by it. He can barely breath in his panic.

She closes her laptop and turns to look at him, “I thought so.” She tilts her head to examine him further, “you know, that’s the most sense you’ve made as far as I am concerned.”

The multi-award winning author rises from the chair and stalks towards him. There is a message in the way she carries herself and his eyes go wide as he reads it. There is a power in her that will be vented. She is an inevitable conclusion.

“I think this one will sell over a million. What do you think?”

He shakes his head. Not in negation of the question posed but at the viciously sharp knife she’s taken out of her handbag.

“You don’t think so?” she chuckles, “but then, what can I expect from a naysayer such as yourself?”

She walks behind him. This sends him into a frenzy of activity as he anticipates a move he cannot see telegraphed. Just as she intended. Leaning forwards, she whispers in his ear, “it used to hurt. Reading bad reviews. People like you do it to get a kick. Well that kick is uncalled for and it always, always hurts. You should be careful when you hurt others. They may just retaliate.”

She goes silent then. Straightens up and says nothing. Allowing that silence to do its work for her. Clawing at his sanity. Delivering the next instalment of payback. She watches him intently. Not exactly enjoying what she is witnessing. It goes so far beyond that simple feeling. Eventually, once he’s stewed in a terror of his own making, she leans in once more, “then I had a moment of inspiration. Another moment of inspiration. Not that you’d understand that. You fucking worm!”

She sighs as though her words are wasted upon him, and in many respects they are. The words are for her and the effect they have upon him. An indulgent piece of theatre that she thoroughly immerses herself in. She needs this. She needs him, “I decided to recycle the bad reviewers. Seek them out and use them for inspiration. Repurpose that negative energy into something worthwhile. Something I can use. And for that, I gift them a ringside seat to my triumph. A one off appearance at their home. I write just for them. Then I recite the words they have provided. We share a unique moment together.”

Now she places the blade of the knife against his throat and presses it just enough to indent the skin, but not so it draws blood. Not yet. The time for that will come soon enough.

“Waaaah! Mmmmm! Waaaah!”

“I recognise the tune, but can’t recollect the lyrics,” she says gleefully, “something about the Highway to Hell maybe? Or is it that you should be so lucky? You know? You really can’t sing. You’re as bad at that as you are at book reviews.”

In vain, he tries again. “Waaaah! Mmmmm! Waaaah!”

“You want mercy don’t you? Did you deploy the concept of mercy or decency when you wrote your review?” she pauses. He’s silent now. “No, I didn’t think so.”

She presses the blade ever so slightly harder against his throat. Breathes her words into his ear. “The only reason I can think for letting you live is so that you can see the fruits of our labour. You have inspired my next novel and for that I give thanks. As long as there are bitter turds such as you in this world, I will never have writer’s block. I am taking back from you. And you’ll never see what becomes of the child we have made together. Just as well. You’d be the worst of father’s. She’s better off without you.”

The words spill out of her and the bound man in the chair realises that this is about more than the bad review he gave her last book. About more than him. He is the scapegoat. The sacrificial lamb for a bad childhood, or an abusive adult relationship. Perhaps both. After all, one begets another and so it is and so it will ever be.

She continues to spit her bile into his ear, but he no longer hears her. Only feels the pain and anger bubbling up from within her. A cauldron that is spilling over and cannot be stopped. Not now. Not ever.

In the face of her growing, pure hatred, he knows he is done for. Wants to close his eyes in an act of small mercy, but finds that he can’t. His own body betraying him with an interesting malfunction he did not know possible. He learns something new in his final moments, and there are many lessons presented to him that would be of use in a future that he will never have.

He feels the blade moving, but it is her sobbing that takes centre stage. “you bastard! You bastard! Why did you have to be so mean! Always so mean! Why was I never good enough? Why did you hate me so?”

This next novel of hers is a triumph. It comes from nowhere and marks an evolution no one sees coming. A literary masterpiece and a best-seller. The world steps back and claps its hands at her artistry.

When asked “where did this come from?”

She shrugs, smiles enigmatically and says, “I couldn’t possibly say. What I will say is, there’s more to come. Lots more to come.”