Wicked Little Words

by Stevie J. Cole

  "Hell, it was only fifty bucks." Another loud draw from her cigarette. "You got that fancy scholarship. You don't need no money."

  "Any money. Basic grammar. It's any money." I groan, frustrated by the reminder of what shit I came from. "I can't help you. I'm sorry."

  I hang up the phone and toss it into my backpack. Within a minute it's ringing again, so I turn it off.

  Honestly, I don't know why I sent her the fifty dollars I did. She's a drunk. A drug addict. She was barely able to take care of me growing up. I've lived in cars, bathed in gas station sinks. When I was twelve, we moved into some run-down project housing on the outskirts of town, and I thought we were rich. The older I grew, the more I realized the only reason we lived the way we did was because my mother was a loser and couldn't hold down a job. But if you were to ask her, she'd blame me for her lot in life. She had me when she was fifteen, ran away from home. She "did the best she could." I roll my eyes as I hear her saying those exact words.

  But the worst thing wasn't the fact that I lived off stale drive-thru food or went to ten different schools from first to fourth grade. No. The worst thing about growing up in poverty was the ridicule. I wore the same clothes damn near every day. I couldn't take regular showers or afford deodorant. And how do you think that worked out for an awkward, redheaded preteen? Well, how it worked out is one of the reasons I generally don't like people.

  What people say to you, even if you hate them, it fucks with your head. Ugly. Smelly. Dumb. So I didn't have friends. I didn't talk to anyone. I read, and eventually, I started writing. It was an escape. Fiction was the only way I stayed sane. But I didn't read romances or fairy tales. Nope. I looked for the gritty, the perverse. The dark. Because those kinds of stories gave me hope that there were far worse things in life than what I was dealing with. And that's why Mercer's writings are my favorites. Compared to the things his characters go through, my life resembles a Disney film, complete with singing, enchanted animals.

  I always find hope. And as long as Mr. Mercer hasn't chosen a student yet, I still have hope.

  “Don’t Fear the Reaper”—Denmark + Winter

  Sifting through the thousands of emails and short stories my assistant "handpicked" for me out of the tens of thousands we received leads me to two conclusions. One, this new generation of writers is a fucking joke… and two, I need a new fucking assistant.

  Janine, my aforementioned assistant, has been entrenched in her position for years now, so her being replaced is a pipe dream. I only meet with her a few times a month, and even that’s too much for me. I'd rather keep people at a distance, and that includes those who work for me.

  A Princeton grad, Janine’s not all dumb. Perhaps she really did choose the best submissions this country's top writing programs have to offer and my plans of finding a co-writer are just futile. I can't imagine working with a single one of these so-called writers recycling other people's stories into their own ten-page drivel. I've read some version of Psycho at least a hundred times already. Stephen King clones? Don't even get me started.

  I pull up a blank email and angrily jab at the keys.

  Janine,

  I find it incredibly hard to believe that this is the best of the best. Am I losing my fucking mind here, or are you losing your touch?

  - Your Unhappy Boss

  And sent.

  I couldn’t give two fucks about her feelings. I refuse to read another word of this shit.

  Almost immediately, Janine responds. She knows well enough, from her years working for me, that I do not wait around for a response. Phone alerts will always remain on and loud enough to wake the dead.

  EA,

  So sorry for the last few batches. Unfortunately, this seems to be the best of what's come in. I do have some good news though. I just read a fantastic story. Edwin, just read the name…

  -Janine

  I open the document and scroll down the title page, stopping immediately. I let the cursor flash over the name. Are my eyes deceiving me? Miranda Cross… Miranda, Miranda, Miranda. Oh, how the name sends a surge of adrenaline throughout my body, like the electric tingling you get beneath the skin when the dealer hands you a full house, when life calls out loud and clear, Today, is your day!

  Miranda, to most, means nothing. It means nothing to those who don't value the art of the written word. Who don't appreciate the classics. Who can't appreciate quiet legends operating right beneath their noses.

  Miranda, to me, is a way of life.

  I was fifteen years old and just entering the world of tainted fantasies and dreams of carnage when I randomly stumbled onto The Collector by John Fowles at the public library. Another moment when everything seemed to line up perfectly.

  The Collector, for you uneducated fucks, is about a man, Frederick Clegg, who collects butterflies as a hobby. They are his life. But eventually, they just aren't enough to quell his need to collect, to contain, to control. That's when he decides to take a girl he's been obsessed with for some time. After careful preparation, he drugs and kidnaps her before keeping her locked in his cellar in an attempt to make her fall in love with him.

  The name of that girl? Miranda Grey.

  My obsession with the book led me to research everything about it. I found that many serial killers were equally obsessed with the book. Some even carried a copy with them on their murderous conquests. Eventually, my research led me to the Holy Grail, the inspiration for my kill shed, and the reason EA Mercer is splattered on best-seller lists across the world—Leonard Lake and Charles Ng.

  Lake and Ng saw the beauty in The Collector just as I do. They respected and appreciated the need, the yearning, the ultimate desire to control other people. They understood that, as a stronger, smarter human being, it is our prerogative—no, our duty—to rid the world of lesser humans. To take what we wish and do what we want with it. We are the masters. They are the slaves.

  Lake and Ng built their own kill shed in the wooded mountains of California, where they tortured, raped, and killed women, all while taping their endeavors. Sometimes they killed whole families to get rid of witnesses. The tapes, I sadly have never been able to get my hands on. However, Ng drew a few of the murders in almost childlike fashion, with crayons and jagged, uneven lines. One of them depicted him placing a baby over a burning charcoal grill. Not my style, per se, but inspiring nonetheless!

  Yes, Miranda Cross will do just fine. Now it's time to see if her story carries any weight. But if I have to guess, I imagine it will knock me right on my ass. The universe lines itself up for me sometimes, and when it does, nothing can stop me.

  “Goner”—Twenty-One Pilots

  Jesus Christ…

  The pain radiates from my toe to my ankle, all the way to my shin.

  "Fuck!" I hop on one foot, holding the other as I take several deep breaths in an attempt to make the pain subside. I glare at the corner of the dresser where I stubbed my toe. Dumb piece of fucking furniture.

  I can't stop my body from shaking or myself from sweating. I've tried three times to put on eyeliner. But due to my unsteady hand, I've made a mess of it and had to wash off this ridiculous makeup twice. I've never been one to pile on cosmetics. I don't see the point. All of it is a lie. It's for vain girls with nothing inside their heads, for shallow people who only have their looks. Think about the damn word makeup. To make up for something you lack. Yet, here I sit in front of my mirror, attempting to draw a perfect thin black line around my round eyes.

  And why?

  Because in precisely two hours, twenty-seven minutes, and fifteen seconds—give or take a few—I'll be face-to-face with EA Mercer. Just the thought makes a large lump form in my throat. I swallow around it. Around it because it won't budge.

  How many people get to have coffee with their idol, with the person who helped them ignore the shitty environment they grew up in? With the person who influenced their decision of what to do with their otherwise seemingly doomed existence?

  Calm down, Mirand
a. Using my left hand, I steady my right and slowly, carefully—successfully—manage to line my eyes.

  Once I finish applying my face, I step back and stare at my reflection. Pale skin. Hazel eyes framed in thick made-up lashes. As I stare at myself, I can't help but think that with all this shit on my face, I actually look like a 1940s pinup. Nice dress. New shoes I bought on credit. Full face of flawless makeup. I look completely put together, girly, and possibly sociable. Oh, how fake first impressions can be. But if there’s one thing I've learned in life, it's that impressions determine everything.

  Really, looks determine everything. No one cares if you're smart or nice or caring. No. People care, first and foremost, about your appearance. And for the first time in my life, as I take in the stunning redhead in the mirror with polished nails and a trim waist, I believe that my looks might possibly help me.

  Just before I turn to leave, I coat my full lips with a bright red lipstick that reminds me of Marilyn Monroe. After all, the one thing I've learned from reading each of Mr. Mercer's books a minimum of four times is that he has a penchant for an hourglass figure and a redhead with slut-red lips.

  "Would you like more water?" the gangly waiter asks for the second time in five minutes.

  I force a smile and shake my head. "No, thank you though."

  I glance at the dainty antique watch on my wrist. Five minutes overdue. I tap my foot on the floor of the empty coffee shop. Clasping the glass with both hands, I go over the possible questions he may ask me. What are your goals as a writer? To be you. What made you decide to write? You. Who is your favorite author? You. You. You!

  I clear my throat and remind myself to not answer "you" to everything or else I may scare him. After all, I can't have him thinking I'm some crazy, obsessed fan. I'm not. I'm a reader—no, I’m a writer. A writer, not a stalker.

  I swallow around that lump once more, and as I do, a shadow falls over the table—a shadow that sends chill bumps scattering over my skin. Slowly, I glance up, my pulse steadily picking up as my gaze scans up a pair of jeans to a freshly pressed dark gray shirt, to the face of the man who changed my whole world. This man's mind is beautifully mad, and the worst part about this meeting is that I now realize he may be just as beautiful physically as he is mentally. Tanned skin. Dark, impossibly bottomless eyes. Thick, messy brown hair. It's enough to make even me—a girl who cares nothing at all for men—swoon.

  And swoon I fucking do. My mouth is suddenly dry, my mind a jumbled mess. Sweat slicks my skin, and my head spins. For a brief moment, I fear the sheer delight from being so damn close to him may make me faint. I manage a polite smile, fighting to keep it from spreading all the way across my face.

  "Mr. Mercer," I say, holding out my hand.

  Everything seems to move in slow motion, and my pulse goes crazy at the thought that I am actually about to touch him.

  He stops several feet in front of the table, glaring at me, but he doesn't take my outstretched hand. His eyes narrow slightly, and I break out into a sweat. The smile quickly fades from my face. Without a word, he pulls out the chair across from me. The second he sits, he snaps his fingers at the barista then redirects his attention to me. He's not actually looking at me—no, he's studying me like an opponent sizing up the rival they know they'll too easily knock to the ground. I anxiously drum my fingers over the table and clear my throat as I wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.

  "Ms. Cross, I must say I appreciate your timeliness. There's nothing that pisses me off more than someone who's late for a meeting. So for that, I thank you." His eyes never leave mine, and it's both intimidating and unnervingly sexy.

  Never in my life did I think I'd be sitting across from EA Mercer. I try my best to stifle the sweat beginning to creep down my forehead.

  "Thank you, Mr. Mercer. I…" I take a breath. I remind myself to remain collected even though every muscle in my body is ready to give out. "It's such an honor to even be considered for this opportunity. I—"

  The barista stops at the end of the table and stares at us.

  Edwin looks at me, annoyance etched on his face. "Coffee. Black. Ms. Cross, have you ordered already?"

  "Miranda, please." I shoot a smile at Edwin before I glance at the barista. "I'll just stick with my water."

  A nervous smile forms on the barista’s face as he nods and scurries off. I don’t blame him. Mr. Mercer is intimidating.

  "So how much do you know about what I'm looking for here? I realize I didn’t give much guidance, but you do understand whomever I choose will be co-writing my next novel—potentially ghostwriting," he says with a sliver of arrogance to his tone.

  "Uh, yes." My heart rate accelerates. "I knew about the co-writing bit, of course, the contest and all. I think that was clear in the email, but I, uh, I wasn't aware it may be ghostwriting…" I ramble, telling myself to shut the hell up.

  Edwin straightens, narrowing his eyes on me. "And is that a problem? You do understand the opportunity I'm presenting, correct?"

  My mouth has suddenly gone dry. "Yes, I absolutely do, and I didn't mean for that to sound, um, I didn't mean for it to sound…" Shit. Get it together, Miranda. "I didn't mean for it to sound unappreciative. I'd love any opportunity to write with you, Mr. Mercer."

  "Good." His dark eyes lock with mine in the most intense stare I've possibly ever witnessed. "Very good… because I liked your story, Miranda. I don’t like many other people's work, and after the thousands of shit stories from your peers my assistant sent over the past month, yours certainly stood out."

  Edwin’s stare remains glued to mine.

  A smile tears at my lips. "Thank you very much for—"

  "Don't thank me. I'm not one for doling out compliments. I find them pointless. I am only stating a fact. You still need a lot of work, but I think the potential is there. I'm not set on who I will choose just yet—or whether or not I'll choose anyone at all. This is not something I wanted to do. Not by a long shot," he scoffs.

  And what do you say to that? What kind of response could I possibly give to that? While I assumed he'd be arrogant, I didn't think he'd be rude. He almost seems disgusted by the idea of co-writing with someone, which does take away from the appeal, but no amount of arrogance in the world could make me step away from this opportunity.

  "The fact that you see any potential with my work at all, honestly, is enough. I've read every single one of your books—several times—and you're a genius with words. So whether you decide to go any further than this right here, well…" I nervously drum my fingers over the tabletop, and he smirks. Something in that smirk makes me uneasy.

  "That's what I like to hear. My publisher wants this book by December. That means we have a little over two months. While I don't often meet anyone's deadline but my own, I would like to get started on this book right away. If you are chosen, I would ask that you come out to my cabin to work. Whether you have school or not, this is the timeline. Would that be an issue?"

  "Not at all." I shake my head. "I can take the fall semester off."

  He stands. "Well, Miranda, my assistant will be in touch if I decide to work with you. Have a good day."

  He turns on his heel, slipping his jacket on, and walks briskly for the door. My mouth gapes. I know I should say something, but his sudden departure has me at a loss for words. Did I really just come all the way out here for this?

  I stand abruptly, the legs of my chair scraping over the floor. "Thanks, Mr. Mercer. It was nice to meet you," I call feebly, shaking my head at how stupid I sound.

  Of course he doesn't respond or even turn. He simply continues toward the door, leaving me standing in an uncomfortable silence.

  “Closer”—Nine Inch Nails

  A gust of wind blows, leaves swirling in its wake. Another angry puff from the storm brewing, and the cold autumn rain slaps against my window. I stare mindlessly at the blinking cursor and blank page, my fingers tapping my antique mahogany desk. I write prologues that stick with you. They pull you in,
beat the ever-loving shit out of you, and leave you begging for more. That's not an easy feat—even for someone with my skill.

  I just can't seem to get the words out. They're right on the tip of my tongue, but just as all my other novels have started, so does this one—the words coming out in a big pile of steaming shit. Writer's block is not new to me, but the first page… the first page is a real bitch.

  And Miranda. Fucking Miranda Cross. The woman hasn't left my mind since I left her at the coffee shop two days ago. Her talent is undeniable, though she'll never hear me say it, but I don't know if that's why she's taken up residence in my brain or if it's because fate seems to be wrapping its hands tightly around my neck.

  She's beautiful, no doubt about that. I'd be lying if I said that hadn't taken me by complete surprise. Her story was good. Really good. And from the ruthlessness of it, I would've never expected someone so timid and beautiful. Beautiful women don't struggle. Beauty is like a free pass through life.

  I pull her manuscript from my desk drawer. I turn to the climax and pour over her words once more:

  I grip the handle of the hunting knife in my right hand. That woman is to blame for the way my life unraveled like loose thread. She's selfish. She took what should have been mine. She drove me to this. Really, she did, so it's fine that I don't feel guilty as I step to the edge of her bed and envision plunging this blade so deeply into her chest that it pins her to the fucking mattress. My pulse skips a few beats. My skin buzzes with excitement.

  Without a flicker of hesitation, I quickly jab the knife into her side then pull it out. It feels just like stabbing a ripe pumpkin. And oh, does she fucking wail. Wakes up with a jolt and a high-pitched scream. She's balled up, clutching her side, not even paying attention to me standing at the side of her bed.

  I laugh deep in my throat and lean over the mattress. Fisting her blond ponytail, I yank her face toward mine. "Shhh, Marian. Shhh."