I Already Know The Title

Content Warning: This story contains graphic violence, gore and psychological horror which some readers may find disturbing.

I stare at the back of her head, urging her hair to go up in flames - the smug bitch. I take a sip of my coffee without averting my gaze. She sits taking selfies with an obnoxious cup of something - a Frankenstein coffee. It took her ridiculously long to order the concoction, and she was downright nasty to the poor staff; threatening to post about the slow service to her thousands of followers. And then, had the audacity to ask me who I’m looking at as she barged past. Maybe not those exact words, but the implication was there for all to hear. The staff didn’t seem bothered. They probably deal with her type all the time.

I decide that it’s no use - her hair isn’t catching fire, despite my best efforts. I glance at my notepad. It’s gleaming, off-white page glares back at me, mocking. Writers-block has had me in a death-grip for far too long. I came here today believing a change of scenery would spark a fightback. That I would be hit with a sudden moment of brilliance; a conversation, or a standout action by a complete stranger that would blast me right into the stratosphere of best-selling author. How wrong I was. Instead, I’m angrier than ever and my rage is aimed directly at this vaguely familiar woman. She isn’t the cause of my rage. I’ve always had it in one way or another, but it’s always been well guarded. Subdued. Lately, however, I can feel it deep inside, frothing and raging to be set free. After all, there are only so many rejections an author can take before it begins to take its toll.

The woman suddenly jumps up and runs to the door, holding it open for an elderly lady with a walking stick. Probably so she can post about how kind and caring she is to all of her followers.

I'm not fully certain why, but I want to hurt her for humiliating me. I want to wipe that smirk off of her perfectly proportioned face. I want to show her followers how ugly she is on the inside. How brittle and cheap her lavish exterior is. But, I’m not stupid - so I decide to hurt her the only other way I know how.

I grab my pen, wielding it like a knife. And, I begin to write - digging the pen in to the paper, imagining it tearing through flesh.

“She sips her coffee and is horrified as she notices a dead spider inside…” I begin. I hear a shriek and look up. She is spitting coffee back into her cup, screaming at the staff as she wipes her mouth.

“There’s a spider in my coffee!” She grabs her phone and takes a picture of the inside of the cup.

My jaw drops as I slowly look down at my notepad. Is this just a mere coincidence? I look back at the woman. A barista stands talking to her, apologising profusely whilst offering her a refund and a new coffee, free of charge. The girl accepts the refund, but asks that her free coffee go to the old lady she just helped in. I see right through her guise. I can perfectly visualise her video to her disciples. Describing in great detail how she helped a little old lady and got her a free coffee, even though her own experience was so traumatic and life altering. I see the click-bait title. I hear the cliched inspirational quotes at the end of the video.

I begin writing again.

“The old lady laughs at her offer and tells her to fuck off.” And, sure enough, the skeletal old lady repeats the same phrase, and with venom.

This. Is. Brilliant.

The girl is visibly shocked at this outburst, speechless even. The staff are exchanging glances, unsure how to react. The old lady looks confused. Almost like she knows what she said, but has no idea why she said it. And then there’s me. I sit smirking at the girl over the rim of my black coffee.

“I think it’s best that I leave.” The girl says.

I quickly write and one of the baristas shouts, “good riddance!”

She snarls, grabs her leather handbag and her phone and storms towards the exit. I’m still wearing my grin, obviously. She looks at me and mutters, “gang of freaks.”

I quickly grab my belongings and follow her, but not before I write, “she steps in dog-muck when she exits the coffee shop.” Sure enough, she squeals as she steps in some dog-shit, ruining her perfect designer trainers. I continue following, struggling to walk and write at the same time. My breath is coming quick now, adrenaline surging. She fishes around in her bag, pulling out a set of keys and a white Range Rover flashes as it unlocks. I stop to quickly write.

She goes to the boot and pulls out a bottle of water which she uses to clean her dirty shoe. I can’t tell if my plan has worked yet. But I am validated as she gets in the vehicle, straps on her seatbelt, and attempts to drive. The vehicle lurches, the sound of metal scraping against metal is audible, even from this distance. I begin to laugh and look at my last sentence, “her vehicle has been clamped”. The beauty of it is that she’s not even parked illegally. I can see her breathing heavily now, starting to become distressed and unnerved. I already anticipated this next action, so it comes as no surprise as I watch while she grabs her phone and begins blubbering when she realises the battery is dead. As if I would let her call for help.

She is crying inside her car now, her perfect make-up ruined. If only your followers could see you now. I look down at my notepad, pondering if I’ve punished her enough - I’ve certainly ruined her day. A small part of me feels almost guilty. But, I’m sick of beautiful people always acting like I’m invisible, especially the women. If I had even an ounce of their beauty, I’d have a book deal by now and not some self-published novella that sold less than fifty copies. One review said I lacked an understanding of basic human emotion and likened me to a robot. Another said the novel was littered with bigotry. Fools, the lot of them. It’s not my fault they’re too dense to understand.

With my renewed anger I decide that I’m not quitting now. In fact, I make the decision to crank it up a notch. I begin to write. She gets out of her car and begins walking down the street. A biker spits at her as he passes. She’s naturally disgusted; who wouldn’t be with a strangers phlegm running down your arm? She vomits in the street, chunks of it stuck in her hair, which is now wild and making her look rabid. I don’t know if I caused her to vomit or if she managed that all by herself, but I write it nonetheless, because why not?

Next, I make a teenager, dressed all in black, run past and snatch her bag, along with her phone. She screams at people to help her, but my story prevents them. They ignore her, she’s invisible to everyone. Everyone except me. Now she can begin to know how I feel. The old me would have felt guilty about all this. But, I now know I am special in ways you can not begin to comprehend.

I decide to see how far I can go and begin writing again, my hand frantic, my wrist hurting while my wrath oozes like blood on to the page. I look up and hold my breath. A homeless man appears and staggers towards her. He flashes his yellow teeth and takes a huge chunk out of her shoulder. The screams are like a symphony to my ears. She tries to run, but I'm obviously not going to allow that, so she trips and lands heavily on her back. The homeless man descends upon her, continuing to gnaw at her flesh. More homeless people begin to arrive, men and women alike. All with a deep, primitive hunger in their eyes as they begin feasting. Her screams are almost drowned out by the snarls and guttural sounds of her assailants. Her designer t-shirt now in rags upon the pavement.

The people around look horrified, but are only able to watch as she cries for someone to help. None of them able to fathom just why they are unable to help, and why they have an overwhelming urge to film and live-stream this beautiful atrocity. They don’t understand that the girl’s followers need to see how her beauty is only skin deep.

Her screams begin turning to a gurgle as the assailants dig deeper with their teeth. Their dirty fingernails scratching and clawing away in their hunger. One of the homeless people keel over. His eyes staring blankly at nothing. His throat bulging where parts of the girl got stuck and choked him. His own fault for being greedy.

As the last sparkle of life begins to fade away, she looks at me - and in that moment, she knows it was I who did this to her. That it was I that created this masterpiece that will be seen all over the world. That will be talked about for years to come. And, she was the unfortunate star of my twisted tale. A tale, quite literally, of riches to rags.

I close my notepad, smiling. And I walk away. I hear screams behind me as the crowd regain their freedom and chaos ensues. I imagine it to be my round of applause. My end credits.

I’m almost back at the coffee shop, satisfied that my decision to go there in the first place was worth it - I did just write a story that will be remembered forever. Before I enter, I spot someone I recognise. It’s a peer from a literary group I used to attend, and he would regularly ridicule my work. He walks past me without so much as a glance.

I follow him, opening my notepad.

I can already feel a sequel coming on. I already know the title.

I quickly write my first prompt and the man stops short. I smile as the adrenaline starts surging again. My hand scribbles another suggestion and the man turns to face me. We make eye contact and he smiles.

My heart stops. Excitement turns to fear. My mouth dry. Unable to move.

He’s holding the same notepad as me. He walks towards me, his face menacing - madness ablaze in his wild eyes. He opens the page and thrusts it towards my face. I cannot run. I cannot scream or fight. I am stuck rigid. Completely at the mercy of his whims.

I don’t want to read but I can’t help it, I have no choice. The words a mirror I did not know existed until now.

“He visits the coffee shop, believing he is a failed author. He fails to remember he’s already a best selling author who left me a scathing review on my only published work - calling me bigoted. He sees the slut that left another review saying I lack an understanding of basic human emotion. He immediately feels the very real emotion of hatred for her. She doesn’t know who he is, of course. He quickly comes to believe that everything he writes is happening to the girl, and he takes great pleasure in humiliating and torturing her in the most vile way he can conjure. He believes he has created a masterpiece.

"Until he meets me.

"I show him that it was in fact I that created this work of art. It was I that forced a family man to take great pleasure in torturing his own wife. His memories now come flooding back. How he read my book and showed it to his wife. How they both left negative reviews. How they both ruined my writing career before it had even started! I let him bathe in the knowledge of what he done, and how much he enjoyed it. I let his pain simmer.

"He notices the screams surrounding his wife’s corpse have gone quiet, the street perfectly still. Relaxing almost. The calm before the storm. He can hear the guttural drawl of the homeless approaching him, still soaked in his own wife’s blood. Parts of her clinging to them, trying to get back to her husband.

“The sequel is reaching its finale, but he knows how this ends. And he already knows the title. Because I told him”