Couldn't Put It Down

(Content Warning: Violence, Blood and Gore, Language.)

What is it about a good book? It’s a question that has plagued my mind for thirty years. Maybe it’s the way the authors weave their tales together with vivid imagery like: “Cotton candy as fluffy as the clouds.” Or perhaps it’s the way they infuse their personalities into each story. Who knows, and who cares, really?

Ahem…well…I do care, thank you! 

I just love a good book. Don’t you?

My love for reading began when I was a toddler. While other kids grabbed their crayons to plaster smiley faces on each page of a sacred book, I would actually read the words. Oh…I remember going on grand adventures with some of my heroes like The Hardy Boys or Huck Finn. What a splendid time to be alive! I also used to love the “You Choose the Outcome” scenario books where I had a choice in the outcomes. I was in Heaven if ever there was a place. My vivid imagination only grew from there.

Soon, I found myself reading above my age level. All my teachers were amazed, of course, but I didn’t care what they thought. My hungry eyes and eager hands were always on to the next book. I was blown away by words I didn’t understand, so I read all the encyclopedias I could get my hands on, and “Webster’s Dictionary” became my best friend.

Of course, I got teased a lot. I suppose seeing a blonde-haired girl with thick, black glasses falls into a certain stereotype. Fuck them all, I say. The only thing that ever mattered to me was the stories.

With my advanced intellect, I graduated high school at the tender age of fourteen. I beat the record of sixteen held by Roland Pollock, who is now an astronaut. He must be so jealous! I can imagine him staring down at Earth with kinked eyebrows and a frown that would make the Devil jealous, knowing that I beat him.

Fate is resourceful. I love it! 

After high school, I attended Harvard on a scholarship and majored in Psychology and Literary Arts. Even then, I was a loner. I spent my time studying in the library while horny eyes stared at me from afar. For some reason, most men and a few women thought I was sexy. I must have been blinded by my steadfast determination to graduate with honors, which I did. I would have never surmised that my voluptuous curves and tight ass would attract so many people.

After college, I thought about opening my own psychology practice because, during my intern years under Doctor Harvey Wilcox, I surpassed his rational reasoning skills and diagnosing capabilities. My heart, however, just wasn’t into it. My mind always went back to soft wheat fields where a young boy wearing a straw hat and dirty overalls ran away from a mob because they thought he was hiding a slave named Jim after fleeing from Miss Watson’s home. Huck was always a troubled young man, but his heart had good intentions.

My love for books led me to write my first short story, which was published a few weeks later in Horror Masterworks—a best-selling journal for spooky tales. I wasn’t surprised by the early success. Soon, I was approached by Tim Solet, a high-profile literary agent. It only took him two days to sell my debut novel, “To Kill Without a Purpose,” to Penguin Random House.

Fame and fortune soon followed, and before I knew it, I had published six bestselling books and surpassed Stephen King as the best-selling author in the country. Multiple movies and television shows are in the works as I speak. Even still to this day…I’m not surprised.

As I suspected, Tim and I developed a relationship and got married. The ceremony was private. It had to be. Prying eyes from the blood-hungry press were always on the lookout for juicy tidbits to tear me down. It was just like elementary school but on a higher level of madness. I paid them little attention and focused on my work. My stories were and are the only things that mattered to me.

I know what you’re thinking. Shouldn’t Tim be included in that statement? I would guess you’d be right, but you don’t know the whole story yet.

My love for writing consumed me. I spent most days locked away in my study, surrounded by my books. When I wasn’t typing away at my desk, I was reading. Tim passed my behavior off as a creative process. “All great creative people have their ways and do things a certain way,” he would say.

Like a chisel slowly chipping away at a wooden stump, Tim’s love for me turned into a toxic waste dump. His flatulent stupidity insulted me. As time went on, he couldn’t wrap his tiny mind around the fact that my work was more important than him and his petty needs.

Yesterday, the boiling water sizzling on the stove came to a roaring conclusion. Tim came into my study, and I knew he had something serious to talk about from his steely eyes. The way he looked at me was amusing.

“I see you’re still typing away like always!” he yelled.

My reply was a simple, “Yes.”

His mouth dropped to the floor when he heard my mocking tone. “I’m tired of this,” he said. “You never give me the attention I deserve. Is there anything I should know about?”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Are you having an affair?”

I had to bite my lower lip to stop the laughter. “What are you going on about? You know I never leave unless it’s for a book signing or press event.”

Tim ruffled his face and pointed at my laptop. “Who are you talking to on that damn thing?”

“No one,” I said. “I’m just finishing up the last chapter in my new novel.”

“Sure,” Tim said with a heavy helping of disdain. “I believe you’re having an online relationship with someone!”

At first, I was shocked by the accusation. How could he think that I wondered. Soon, the bewilderment turned into anger, and I snapped back.

“Come on,” Tim demanded. “Spit it out. Tell me the truth!”

I stood from my desk and chastised, “First of all, everyone knows that online romances never work unless they meet in person and develop a physical connection. The only thing that’s there is an emotional bond that is superficial at best. Do I look like an emotional moron to you?!”

“No,” Tim said quickly. “But…I don’t understand why or how you can toss me aside so easily.”

“It’s not like that,” I explained. “When we got together, you knew how busy and dedicated I was to telling my stories. To me…yes…they are the most important things in my life. My work will outlive countless generations. Don’t you understand that?”

“Where do I fit into that picture?” he asked with puppy dog eyes.

I knew what I was about to say was callous, but I didn’t care. It was my truth. “The only place you fit in is the background of my light. In the shadows where no one can see you. That’s where you belong, and that’s where you will stay. My work will always come first. You’re just an unwanted trophy to show the fans that I have a stable, normal life.”

“I can’t believe you said that!” Tim sobbed. The tears flowing down his pale face were amusing. He grabbed my latest novel, “Paint it Red,” from a nearby bookshelf and continued, “In your books, you love to paint the perfect pictures with descriptive words and emotional pull. It’s brilliant, but how’s this for an emotional pull…I want a divorce.”

His demand didn’t surprise me in the least. “You can’t have one,” I said plainly.

“What?!”

“You heard me,” I said. “A divorce would look bad and tarnish my reputation. You can’t have a divorce.”

“Fuck your reputation!” he snapped. His anger was overflowing. I could see spit droplets spewing from his mouth as he spoke. “You think you’re all that! You are nothing! NOTHING!! You say I can’t have a divorce?! Well, I guess the judge will decide that! Oh…and by the way…your stories suck! I can’t tell you how many hate letters I had to hide from you over the years. How many rejections I had to cover up or how I had to pay the publisher a substantial fee to put your books out there because they grew tired of you—”

“Shut you’re fucking mouth!” I yelled. “How dare you make up these lies to spite me!”

“It’s the truth, Marianne! You’re not the hottest thing since sliced bread anymore. And just so you know, all the movie and media deals have fallen through the floor!”

I could feel that boiling water in my gut spill over. I’m sure the steam erupted from my nostrils as I grabbed the book from Tim’s sweaty hands.

“LIES!” I barked. “All lies! It’s fitting I named this book, ‘Paint it Red’ because now I’m going to paint the perfect picture!”

Before Tim could utter another insult, I smashed his nose with the spine of my book. He grabbed his bloody nostrils and stumbled backward into my bookshelf, where my other novels were proudly displayed. I watched in horror as my legacies fell to the floor. Again, the hot coals in my belly needed to expel their power.

I hit Tim’s face multiple times until the only movement I could ascertain was the bloody air bubbles coming from his nose and mouth. He was still alive, but barely. As my eyes roamed the tattered mess around Tim’s prone body, I saw my “Best New Author” award glistening in the light. It was a beacon of inspiration to me. The long golden statue was a curved burning flame with a sharp end at the tip. It was designed to represent the igniting spark and growth of an upcoming writer.

As I grabbed the award and felt the hefty weight in my hands, I knew what I had to do. A divorce would look very bad on me, but an unsolved murdered spouse case would make for a good book. It would fly off the shelves! People love that shit. All I had to do was play the dumb victim and make it all look convincing enough for the cops to buy it.

I drove the award down into Tim’s skull and found myself gawking at the mouth. Who knew it would be so hard to drive a chisel into a stump?

To my surprise, Tim was still alive. His quivering body told me all I needed to know. I picked up my book again and hit the “Best New Author” award like a lumberjack swinging a sledgehammer. Soon enough, the tip of the spear punctured Tim’s brain, and it must have been pretty small because I had to hit that award several times to drive it in all the way.

In the end, what could I say with my fingers taught around my book?

I just couldn’t put it down!