By Rose Q. Addams
They found him, arms curved inward as if protecting something, but the fire that left him a charred husk had destroyed what he’d cradled: A Ricky Henderson rookie card, the most precious of all his collection.
Together forever.
I close my eyes, and sigh. Then, I delete the file. When I write a specialized demise for someone who deserves it, it feels just right, like Baby Bear’s porridge.
I know, it’s controversial. Especially in the wake of the #AvengingWriter trend, and the ensuing debate over “correcting” wrongs committed against you. Some participants said they’d obsessively plotted elaborately gruesome ends over increasingly smaller offenses.
For me, it’s great writing practice. No showboating, no torture—just a fitting end. It’s not always personal, either. Sometimes I plan a death for someone who’s hurt a friend, or criminals I’ve heard about. I just need enough details to make it theirs.
Today’s victim: the memorabilia-collecting husband of a customer whose card was declined. Again. She left in tears without a gift for her niece’s wedding.
I never show anyone the stories, or even keep them. So, what’s the harm in it?
***
“Asleep in your clothes? On the sofa? Girls these days…”
I bolt upright. A slender figure in a severe black dress lifts a brow as I rub my eyes.
“How did you get in here?” I ask.
“I’ve been here for years,” the woman replies crisply. She strides to the bookshelf and removes a volume, proffering it. “Miss Minchin, at your service. Or not.”
A Little Princess. I gape at the book, then up at her.
“You’ll catch flies,” she says, brushing a speck off her skirt, only returning her gaze to me once my mouth snaps shut.
“How—?” I begin again, idiotically, and she waves the question away.
“I was sent to warn you—”
“Warn me?”
“Don’t interrupt,” she says, despite having cut me off moments earlier. “Now, personally, I don’t have a stake in your choices. However, you need to know. Your choices are your own. No one else has to live with your actions, so do what’s good for yourself. No one else will.”
“Why are you here?” I attempt to imitate her rigidly perfect posture as she stares at me, expectant and scornful.
“This ‘Avenging Writer’ business,” she says. “You’ve written 500 such stories… Apparently, that’s enough that we’re supposed to intervene. Three visitations tonight, and you make a choice tomorrow. ‘Tis the season for death to the old self, if such a thing is necessary.”
“But if you don’t want to be here…”
“Characters are shaped to an author’s design. Rarely do we get a chance to return the favor… Don’t waste mine.” She fades away before my eyes.
***
“You oughta be a little kinder. It’ll get ya further.”
My eyes pop open to a ruddy, grubby boy in overalls, who leans against the bookshelf, whittling. As I open my mouth, the stick and knife vanish, and he grins, extending a hand. “Huck Finn. Glad to meet ya.”
“Can’t say the same,” I reply, folding my arms. “I’d rather be sleeping.”
“Then I’ll say my piece quick and leave you to it.” He flops on the floor and looks up, eyes twinkling. “You’re hurting. But that doesn’t mean you let it get the best of you. Find hope. Either enjoy the good in this world… or make it.”
“Why should I listen to you?” I snap, then bite my tongue as his eyes grow solemn.
“Because,” he says simply, “I’ve tasted enough suffering. Why make it for someone else? That’s not justice.”
I have no answer for one who suffered so much, so young.
He fades away silently.
***
A sharp clap wakes me again; the fire dies down almost instantly, and a gaunt, elderly man sits across from me in the armchair, cane at his side. “Good evening,” he says with an appraising glance. “Don’t mind the fire—I prefer the cold. More cost-effective, you see. Now, this hasn’t been pleasant, I’m sure, but you’re far from the first to experience it.”
“And just who are you?”
His lips pinch thinly, eyes growing hard. “I suppose I should play my past self. You’ll never recognize me, otherwise.”
He scowls at me, then barks, “A stake of holly through one’s heart… or perhaps a pen? Seeing how you like things poetic and tailor-made.”
“You’re Scrooge. Fitting.” I put my face in my hands, and groan. “I don’t suppose I ate a bit of bad beef?”
“It’s Mister Scrooge to you. And I’m afraid this is real.” He crosses his legs. “There is, as they say, truth in fiction. Dickens had his own visitations. He wrote me as an attempt at redemption. You’re not the first to ‘enact justice,’ after all. In his case, for the poor. You can see his bitterness across his works, his rage against society and its injustices.
“But let me ask you this: how many people enjoy reading Dickens, apart from one work?”
Personally, I know one.
“Few to none,” Scrooge continues. “Because his works are repetitive. The poor are abused. The rich, full of avarice and hatred. All suffer.”
“He was trying to raise awareness,” I argue, weakly.
“He was bitter,” he rejoins angrily. “I should know. How many do you see edified by his literary tirades?”
“Some people.”
“If that were true, what’s your excuse? No, you hide your stories—you know it’s wrong. It hardens your heart to dwell on wickedness instead of light. It poisons you. Dickens drove himself mad with his obsession.”
“It’s not an obsession for me.”
“It will be, in the end. A guilty pleasure that consumes and condemns you, and for what?”
He rises, taking up his cane. “I came not out of sentiment, but because when your soul is required of you, I will not have stood idly by, a paltry excuse, like I was for my creator.
“You’ve been warned.”
With that, he vanishes, leaving me to await the sunrise.
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