Fiend

by Leslie Marie Banaban

"Write your demons away."

[typing...]

The man stood before her no more than two meters away. The same man who caused her rhapsody months before. A man who likes clothing himself with innocence and shy smiles - a face of a psychopath. "Calista," a voice hissed. "I was hurt by a girl I loved. She left me for another. I cried for weeks and it hurt. I don't want that for you. I want you to be more than a broken heart."

His voice sent sadness inside of her yet sudden rage surged through her veins. The scream he made after turned Calista into a feared ladybug. "I attested my feelings to you who did nothing but only hurt me," he smiled sadly and formed a nightmare through dark clouds.

The scream in her throat turned sober and Calista threw herself into a morose. The man reached his hands to her neck and his fingers formed into claws.

A blow to her face knocked her chest out. The man took the scissors and cut off an inch of her hair up to her neck. She struggled and moaned. Her head shook back and forth when she felt her blood rush, "No. No." "Yes, Calista. Yes. And now it's time to pay the demon."

Calista was not the first to suffer nor would be the last of them. The question was how many more until the nightmares stop? [...end of typing...]

So far, aside from a couple of hitches and doubts, my first plan was working out fine and I was fortunate because I didn't have a reserved plan. What I am referring to is that should Calista be a slice of cold meat or simply dead by now?

Call me heartless, I am the worst author but only for the best thriller book in town. Poor girl, I don't have grudges for her but I also don't like her as much as I like my story's antagonist, the killer. "Mister," the stranger's voice caught my attention.

Her short black hair framed a face as colorless as the patients of ventilators and monitors on their deathbeds. Again, she not only talked but also ran towards my table. "Your office looks pretty clean yet uppish," she eyed, scanned, and smiled at me. Silencing my thoughts, she then spoke. "Anyway, have you ever gotten a cup of coffee?" "I'm not into that," I replied. "What do you mean? Not into coffee?"

I just nodded. "Is this your way of rejecting me?" Her brows and lips curved down. With hands trailed on her face, I remained calm. "Well, lady, I am not exactly sure what you are getting at -" "Oh," she cut me off, acted, and plastered a questioning look. "I think you know very well what I'm getting at."

Yet, I don't get it. "Who thought of this and told you to write?" "Myself." It was who told myself to write my story and when I started my career, I became an author. As a writer, I prioritized two things: reality was not a thing and things are not real.

I admit I am a complicated person. I work not only for my success but to be the best - and so, I become the character of my own story. Am I Calista?

But I am a "he."

The book and the life I had made for Calista is circling around who I am and the adventure I write is a testimony of my living.

I am a pioneer of my own decisions based on my experiences since I published my existence and, here today, something is off about the plot of my own story. "I wouldn't say I had interfered with it all, right?" I just flew back into reality

when the short hair girl chuckled.

I can see no reaction from her - she's steady. She's fine. "I am not concerned with your opinion and you know what? Get to the point," I looked frustrated now on my part.

After a few moments of silence, the lady in front intensely looked at me. "Would it be fair to say that you are not what you expect?" she was trying to sound friendly to make it all sound perfectly natural though the irony of it, we are strangers. "And you are?" "Come on, get real. Well done for acting and trying and hiding but the stain never goes away."

Spiraling into madness, hot tears pricked from her eyes.

Who is she? Who am I?

I find myself with my hands over my ears, the voices in my head muttering something.

Why be dramatic?

My mind does not feel sober and I feel that I lack some memories.

Years. My problems never left me as the mentally unstable person I am now and even before. Violent voices hit my brain and my head seemed to bleed - so is the girl who confronted me. "I forgot that fiends are able to write back but with red blood as their ink so it can stain not only the medium but also someone's life. You see, I'll write back with the same mess you wrote for me." "You?" "Yes. It's me. I'm Calista. And now it's time to pay the demon."

Selcouth by Shanly Yanna Granada