The Writer in the Dark

Chapter 1

Soft and bitter cotton. That is what the cigarette smoke looked like in this small cafe. It was dancing, almost drifting through the sticky air and I watched it slowly fading away to nothing, just to be brought back to life seconds later. That was actually my cue to take another drag of my cigarette. I let the smoke grace my lungs, letting it kiss the inner walls and slowly exhaling its heavenly toxic nature. I closed my eyes, absorbing distant and random conversations of distant and random strangers. There was subtle and hidden hunger, sleeping inside each and one of them. That's where we sort of set ourselves apart from each other, even though it is always the same concept, the same game, the same system. For some the hunger aches for money, power, glory. Or it aches for a family, for health, for sex, for friendships or a good reputation. Only thing that we currently had in common was that we all were smoking the same cheap cigarettes, drinking the same burned coffee, tangled up in the same soft and bitter cotton, potentially waiting for something to break through. I took a sip from my black coffee and glanced at the watch behind the counter.

My client should have been arriving any minute, now. I examined the edge of my cup that carries a brief trail of my red lipstick. A weak and involuntarily smile placed itself on my lips. I always liked that about wearing lipstick. I started to open my journal, monotonously writing down today's date. The sound of the pen scratching onto the thin paper and the loud chatter inside the cafe collided into each other, even though they were no strangers anymore. My meetings always took place in different cafes or diners. It was the only place I could go to that was filled with life, but where everybody seemed to mind their own business. I would have been lying, if I said that some men didn't make any attempts into talking to me. A lonely girl inside a cafe with the only bittersweet company of a pen and thick journal seemed to make a delicious target, right? In fact numerous people tried talking to me. But I would always say something mean, even off-putting. Always smiling, of course. It was a tired smile, maybe even worn out. And whenever they left I just sighed out of relieve. They kept on telling us that we need to stay hungry. Our hunger should feed off other people's desires. Our hunger should be the foundation for other stories. This was my life, my destiny, my curse. I wrote down what people need, in their eyes. What was lacking in their lives and what needed to be changed. The result was optimal and modified satisfaction.

But they were never satisfied.

Mrs Hatcher walked into the cafe and I didn't even have to look up to know that it was her. Her heavy perfume penetrated its way into my nose and I rolled my eyes instantly, while writing her name down onto the paper. I slightly rose my head for her, so she could spot me better. She was wearing a thick fur jacket, vigorously looking around which made her entire jewelry shake, almost symbolizing her inner restlessness. I couldn't help but notice how much out of place she seemed. Not because she didn't belong in this sticky and cheap cafe. No, it rather seemed like she didn't belong to her own self. For a split second I considered not making any sign and letting her struggle to find me, but that went against the rules. I closed my eyes for a moment, the faint shaking of Mrs Hatchers jewelry kept interrupting my thoughts anyways so I rose my hand in a subtle manner and she finally saw me. She laughed out of relieve and made her way to me, knocked off a few cups with her huge purse and ignored other people's cussing. I instantly regretted making her notice me.

She took a seat in front of me and I could see that she had been crying. I mechanically took out a tissue and let her take it. Before I could even say anything she shouted:,, You have to kill him!" I let out a sigh and started to write down notes in my journal. It was for the report that followed to every story, so the collectors knew what exactly took place in every conversation with a client. Without looking up I said: ,, Mrs. Hatcher, I think you are well aware of the fact that I can't do this. We've already discussed this many times, haven't we?" My voice sounded hollow and tired, because this conversation took place once every week. Mrs. Hatcher scoffed and waved with her hand in a defensive manner:,, I am familiar with those silly little rules, but I don't care! You have to do something! That son of a bitch is sucking the life out of me and he sure as well doesn't deserve to have one!" To insert some clarification at this point: Mrs Hatcher was referring to her husband, Mr Hatcher. They had been married for over 20 years and lived in sweet wealth, held in bitter and unfortunate arms. Mr Hatcher had been cheating on Mrs Hatcher for quite some time now. While he was running into the arms of his lover, Mrs Hatcher had taken it upon herself to run into mine every week, begged me to kill him and the other woman in his life. It was the same procedure each time: I told her no, she started getting hysterical and ended up asking for materialistic salvation instead. I wrote down every shoe brand she wanted, every car you could ever dream of, describing a new and modern architectural structure for her house. But as the ink on my paper would slowly start to dry, the tears on her face would remain wet. The expression on her face wouldn't change and I knew that adding new details in her life had become a rehearsed mechanism. As I was finishing my notes she looked out the window and for a few seconds the sound of my pen was the only thing that cut through the air, until she said:,, I wasn't always like this, you know." I paused and slowly rose my head to look at her. Her blonde hair was up in a perfect bun, only one streak of it framed the left side of her pale and hollow cheek. Her green eyes seemed blurry from crying too much. She was still facing the window:,, Have you ever loved? So much that you would gladly die from the pain of it?"

Now she was facing me and I just kept looking at her. No. I never did. I read and wrote about it, watched and met people who did. But I wasn't meant for this. I had always been an expedient, nothing more and nothing less. I created the stories, the beginnings and the end of them. I had to live with the truth that there will be no one who would write mine and I inhaled that truth with every morning and every evening of my life. I inhaled it without questioning it. Instead of telling her all of this I just gathered my things and stood up:,, You will receive the writings in a couple of days, just add them beside your other books in your shelf. Well, you are already familiar with that procedure."

Without saying anything I put on my coat and started to walk out of the cafe, just to be embraced by cooling air, briefly kissing my face, accompanied by the night skies. I took a deep breath and looked up to the sky. The stars seemed to be so near and reachable and yet I felt so far away from everything. In this moment I just longed for the sky to open up and swallow me, consume me, until there was nothing left of me. ,, Can you do that?'' , I whispered. My eyes were still looking up, showing fragile trails of hope. Was it the desire to be a real or even a tiny fragment of something meaningful? The stars just kept smiling at me in bittersweet silence and I shook my head, letting a forceful chuckle escape my lips. I kept on walking, I kept on moving and I decided to never slow down and ask myself why.