Empty Summer
It should never have happened.
In the waning days of that dreadfully sticky summer, Roger slithered about on his sofa like an outstretched sloth, gazing dreamily at the beautiful figure before him. Entranced by her presence, he crawled up towards the window that separated his world from hers, running his fingers across the two-dimensional image of her hair, kissing her glowing cheeks. She was busy chattering to her best friend, gossiping as usual about who had dumped the boy next door, who had run off with the alimony and who had just happened to kiss that fat girl with the horrible glasses who spent all day reading about Einstein.
He so dearly wanted to be a part of that world, known as fiction, yet seemed eternally stuck in suspended animation in what was called reality. He sent her dozens of letters: eloquent essays talking of the monotonousness of his shifts at a greasy spoon café, of how his one attempt at a relationship had deserted him in a rage, screaming, “You’re a freak!” and how she was his salvation, always ending with the same painstaking signature. He sent her chocolates, cards, teddy bears. He even gave her roses in a pink box wrapped up with a neatly tied ribbon and a small card addressed simply, “For my one true love.”
To her, these were merely gifts from a fan, and who doesn’t mind them? As with all fans, she would return the mail, albeit in the same format, beginning in the same artificial way – “I acknowledge receipt of your letter” – and ending in the same blunt phrase, “Regards,” accompanied by a photocopied signature.
But, as we all know, this was no ordinary ‘fan.’
It all started to go wrong the moment she had a boyfriend. She received the letters as normal, but this time they spoke of “inconsolable grief” at the news, as if they were eulogies for a never-ending funeral. The ceaseless tide of chocolates, cards and flowers suddenly abated. When she fell out with Bill, the letters predictably congratulated her for “throwing away such rubbish”. Yet the scriptwriters decided to bring him back and the couple married, for reasons unknown to and, let’s face it, ignored by Roger, swept away in anger at the ridiculous affair. She meant the world to him. How could she have run back to that idiot after showering her with all his love and devotion? He set out to punish her once and for all.
He immediately called a private investigator. As it turns out, she was an actress called Cynthia, who called home a modest cottage in the next town. He packed a set of tatty clothes, a shiny photo of her, a copy of “The Catcher in the Rye” and a small knife, the kind normally used to slice oranges.
Early the next morning, the bell rang. Twice. Cynthia hurriedly slipped on her dressing gown and trotted down the stairs to answer the door, to find –
A somewhat embarrassed figure standing on her porch.
He crinkled a smile. “Hi. You remember me, don’t you? Your one true love.”
She shot an icy look at him, before slamming the door in his face.
Coarse anger ran through his veins. How could… how could she disappoint him like that? Not even saying hello… That did it. He slinked into the background, sickened, and began to mentally rehearse the final act, the one where he would confront his lover, slide the knife into her flesh and return her cold, malicious gesture.
He was ready.
It took two full days before anyone came to their senses. Someone called the police. Officers burst into her house, searching for any sign of her. In spite of their best efforts, nothing materialised. Often they would stumble across something that rekindled their hopes, only for them to be extinguished moments later. Eventually, the disappearance of the beautiful actress – the angelic face so full of promise that had captured millions – faded from the front pages; a ghost that lived only in the memories of those that knew and loved her. They continued to hope and pray that she would turn up suddenly on their doorstep, dazed but alive, until they too realised that their dream was all but an empty fantasy.
Roger returned to his job at the fast food café after his ‘sick leave,’ and no one ever questioned him about the indescribable fate of his victim. But that’s another story.
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