Wicked Little Words Part 1

WICKED LITTLE WORDS.

by Stevie J. Cole.

BT Urruela.

"Devil Inside Me"-Frank Carter & The Rattlesnakes.

"Gasoline"-Halsey "Don't Fear the Reaper"-Denmark + Winter "Goner"-Twenty-One Pilots.

"Closer"-Nine Inch Nails "Creep"-Radiohead "Pretty Monster"-Reckless Serenade "Pain is a Gift"-Trade Wind "Faces"-The Ratells.

"Dark in My Imagination" of Verona "People Are Strange"-Goodbye Nova "Devil Side" - Foxes "Only the Lonely"-Iggy Pop.

"I Really Want You to Hate Me"-Meg Myers "Doomed"-Bring Me the Horizon "Cry Little Sister"-Gerard McMann "Possum Kingdom"-The Toadies "Killing Time"-City & Colour.

"My Name is Human"-Highly Suspect "London Bridges"-Second Skin.

"Take Her From You"-DEV "Strange Love" - Halsey.

"Down with the Sickness"-Disturbed "Eyes on Fire"-Blue Foundation.

"R&R"-The Cla.s.sic Crime "Big Bad Wolf"-In This Moment "Limousine"-Brand New.

"Paint It Black"- Ciara.

"Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality." - Edgar Allen Poe.

"Devil Inside Me"-Frank Carter & The Rattlesnakes.

It's the screaming that gets to me, tugging at the little bit of conscience I have left. Mind you, it's just a sliver. Screams die out quickly with a pair of panties and duct tape though. And I do just that to the wh.o.r.e strapped to my table-much like one you'd find in a prison's execution room. Perhaps you'd think the screams make me nervous. Maybe force me to abandon my sick plans. But you'd be wrong. My cabin in the hills of western North Carolina is completely isolated for ten miles in either direction. As the cold bite of fall makes its presence known, you're more likely to see a G.o.dd.a.m.n Sasquatch out here than you are another human being. But I'm in luck. I brought this one with me.

And that's not even getting to the true reason I don't worry-the six-inch-thick soundproof panels lining every inch of this shed. Several hundred feet behind my cabin is the kill shed I built with my own hands four years ago. Back before I made it big. Back when this writing thing was just a hobby.

Do you think any of those f.u.c.king readers paid attention to my writing before I started killing people? Before I started getting the murders in my own novels as realistic as possible? You bet your G.o.dd.a.m.n a.s.s they didn't. They want the gore. They want the carnage. They want the mayhem. And G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I'm going to give it to them.

Eight New York Times best sellers so far in my short career. Million-dollar publis.h.i.+ng and movie deals. More interview requests than my stomach can bear. At thirty-three years of age, I'd say I'm not doing too bad for myself. And of course, I turn down all those worthless interview requests. I'm not in this for the fame, nor have I ever been. I'm in this because people will hear me. They will listen to what I have to say. They will feel my words. To know that so many are reading and devouring my words, it's f.u.c.king o.r.g.a.s.mic. I get hard just thinking about it.

But believe me, none of this, not a single f.u.c.king book sale, could've been accomplished without this bloodshed. Without the death I've created in this room. Without witnessing firsthand what a human being looks like truly suffering. What it looks like when the life drains from their face and the thousand-yard death stare follows. All of it makes its way into my novels. And all of it is gobbled up by my readers like it's f.u.c.king Thanksgiving dinner. You can blame me all you want for the deaths of these people, but it's the readers who deserve the blame. They want this. They yearn for it. And by G.o.d, I'm going to be the one to f.u.c.king give it to them.

It's not like I'm killing valuable, productive members of society here. These are f.u.c.king wh.o.r.es. Sc.u.m of the earth. How could someone sell their body for s.e.x? What must have happened to a person in their life to lead them to that? And what easy pickings they make. If you trust a stranger and f.u.c.k a stranger, don't complain when things come back to bite you in the a.s.s. That's just logic. If they can't smell it coming, they belong on my table.

I'd be lying if I said they were the only ones though. But the others had it coming too. I've never murdered an innocent without being provoked. So in the end, they weren't so innocent after all.

This one's an ugly little thing. Barely five feet tall, she was one of my easiest catches to date. The trunk of the rental (always a rental) housed her unconscious body (thank you, chloroform) all the way from Charlotte this time. I change the city each time-Asheville one week, Winton-Salem the next. The rental keeps their DNA out of my vehicle, and the change in cities, well, you're not that f.u.c.king stupid are you?

The hookers never hesitate to climb inside my car. I'm no fat old slob getting the only a.s.s he can. I'm a good-looking guy. Still young enough to have a full head of brown hair, no grays, and I've been told by some that I'm Gavin Rossdale's doppelgnger, which I'll take, but f.u.c.k that p.u.s.s.y. No, they never hesitate to trust me. And those who were cautious were only that way because they thought I was a pig. But by then, it was already too late. Once you're inside my car, not a soul on this planet can save you. Your life is mine to take.

Now I know you must be wondering... is he crazy? I can see how you could think that. But here's the thing: aren't we all a bit crazy in our own way? The fat f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d ordering thirty tacos and a diet c.o.ke at Taco Bell-isn't he f.u.c.king crazy? The pill-popping soccer mom with her mouth around the pool boy's d.i.c.k-isn't she a bit crazy too? f.u.c.k what you think of me anyways. I'm a product of my environment through and through.

Dad hightailed the f.u.c.k out of there before I could even walk. Mommy dearest had a penchant for heroin and the temper of a convict. You think I had a choice? You think I asked to be her whipping boy for eighteen years? You think I f.u.c.king asked to wear a dress? f.u.c.k no. I've found my path to success, and the headcount is worth its weight in gold.

But here I am, sitting with a fresh victim minutes or hours, or maybe even days, from death, and I'm staring mindlessly at a blank screen. The G.o.dd.a.m.n curser's flas.h.i.+ng and flas.h.i.+ng and flas.h.i.+ng. The words are at the tip of my tongue but never quite make it to my fingertips. I want to slam the MacBook into her forehead until either the laptop or her skull breaks. I'd bet on the laptop, but I've learned, in this room, to never underestimate the strength of the most unorthodox murder weapons. I killed someone with a vacuum cleaner once. Just to see if I could do it.

I've had writer's block before-but never anything like this. This is a f.u.c.king nightmare beyond nightmares. The reviews for my last novel were abysmal (though it was still a best seller), and I knew then what I needed to do. I scoured hundreds of negative reviews, most calling for me to soften it up. They loved the murder and mayhem, but my voice, they said, had "become too dominant, too aggressive." They wanted me to become a woman. To p.u.s.s.ify my writing.

That I cannot do. But what I can do is find a woman. The idea of co-writing makes me absolutely ill, but if I could find the right one... if I could find an innocent, easily manipulated little t.w.a.t who will do my bidding then cease to exist, then I'll have my masterpiece. Then they'll have nothing to do but praise me for my work. They'll wors.h.i.+p me. I would have the best of both worlds.

Perhaps I would imprison her for a while. Feed her just enough to keep her alive and have her a.s.sist on future releases. Got to keep the gravy train rolling! I've thought about it, even planned it a little. But they're just no fun when they're alive that long. The screaming, the begging, the fear in their eyes. That fear feeds me for a bit. But days of it? It's just a ha.s.sle. The longest I've kept one alive in my kill shed was a week. But that was because I was right at the climax of my story. I really needed to draw her out. To make her suffer until she just couldn't suffer anymore. As it turned out, a week was her max.

Now, the tough question to answer is how. How do I find her?

"Gasoline"-Halsey.

Dear Students, Mr. Edwin Allen Mercer, NYT best-selling author, is accepting submissions for a possible co-author to collaborate with on his next novel. The submissions are open to all Creative Writing graduate programs in the United States. I believe this is a fantastic opportunity-a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. To be considered, please write a five-thousand-word short story and submit the final draft to Mr. Mercer's a.s.sistant via email. The deadline is strict and set for February 2, 2016, all entries due in by midnight EST.

Best of luck, Dr. Russell.

Master's Program, Emory University.

Email submissions to:.

I push the announcement to the side of my desk and redirect my gaze to the computer screen. Flash. Flash. Flash. The blinking cursor taunts me-Write something, Miranda. It's just words... my fingers tap over the keyboard.

He slowly drags the blade over her skin, watching as her pale flesh tears open. Red blood seeps-s.h.i.+t. Delete.

I watch the cursor wipe out that horrible sentence. Red blood? I roll my eyes. That's unoriginal.

Groaning, I slam my head on the keyboard. I've been sitting here for two hours and have a grand total of five hundred words. The deadline is midnight, and I need to write forty-five hundred more by then. Original words that will wow Mr. Mercer. My stomach knots at the possibility that he may very well read something I've written. How can I ever put words on paper that will impress a number-one NYT best seller-my f.u.c.king idol?

The first time I read one of his novels, I devoured it. Never had a story unfolded like that before. And his details-so graphic I had nightmares for weeks. His word choices, his characters, all perfect and f.u.c.ked up. He possesses a gift that reveals the dark beauty, that carnal piece of humanity, that lives within all of us. Every single one of his works fills me with fascination, so how can I possibly write something up to that standard?

Stress mounts in my chest. Closing my eyes, I inhale. I ma.s.sage my temples as I will my mind to come up with something. I would do just about anything for this position, and I swear to G.o.d, if Margaret Stanley's prissy little a.s.s gets this collaboration...I'll kill her. My eyes pop wide, my lips twisting into a sly grin. If ever I had an idea that may get Mr. Mercer's attention, it's this.

An hour later, I have the perfect story of murder and mayhem, all centered around Mr. Mercer himself. The plot: a begrudged student who didn't win his contest kills the one who does. Simple. Genius. Compelling. Because maybe he'll worry I'll actually do it if he chooses someone other than me.

After I send the email to Ms. Barnes, I sigh. Right now, I have hope, and that's a feeling I rarely experience. Hope for a better life, for something that will set me apart from the rest of the monotonous, humdrum American society. This feeling, it's why people take risks. It's like that moment when you're holding fifty Megabucks tickets, waiting for them to announce the winning numbers. As long as you have those tickets, you can still daydream about all the ways you would squander your fortune.

It's late evening, and I'm alone at work. The best thing about this bookstore-the Little Novel Bookstore off Fifth and Main-is it's hidden away in a c.r.a.ppy part of town. Hardly anyone ever comes in here. There's only a single small window at the front, and once the sun goes down, the store becomes dim and gloomy, the perfect place for me to lose myself in my books. No people and a nice little reading retreat-well, it's the perfect place to work, isn't it?

The bell over the front door dings, prompting me to bookmark my spot in Mercer's The Dark Deceit. It's the fourth time I've read it, and it still makes my heart race as much as it did the first time. I peer over the cramped shelves. I see no one, but I hear the soles of their shoes padding over the tile floor.

I nervously clear my throat, pus.h.i.+ng a bit higher on my tiptoes. My heart slams against my ribs as I frantically glance around to see who walked in and why they're hiding. I have a habit of letting my imagination get the better of me, as I'm told most writers do, and right now all I can think is that whoever just walked in is, at this very moment, pulling a wool ski mask over their nose as they slink around the self-help section. My pulse pounds harder with each beat because I'm now vividly imagining being tied up by this stranger and screaming for help just before he slits my throat open.

"Miranda?"

I spin around, trying to calm my ragged breathing.

Freckle-faced James stands in front of the counter, smiling. "Did my book come in yet?"

"Oh, um..." I shuffle through papers and invoices. "Um, no. Tomorrow maybe?"

He nods. "You doing anything tonight?"

"Working."

"After you get off?"

I hate talking to people. I'm not good at it, and I try to avoid it at all costs. That's one reason I'm studying creative writing, one reason I choose to work at this run-down bookstore. I want as little interaction with the public as humanly possible because, in general, I don't trust people. Ninety-nine percent of them make me uncomfortable.

"After work I'm going home." I reopen my book to the marked page and begin reading, hoping he'll see I don't want to engage in conversation with him.

"Let me take you out or something."

"No." I don't look up from the page.

You see, this is what James does. He comes in once a week, orders some weird, retired t.i.tle, then he tries to talk me into going out with him. He's quirky and ugly. His brown hair is always slicked back; his blue irises do nothing but accentuate how bloodshot his eyes are. And he always has this pungent odor. I think it's marijuana. At least that would explain the bloodshot eyes.

"Ah, come on, Miranda. I ask you out every week. Just go out with me once."

"Why, do you want to kill me or something?" I glare at him over the corner of page 172.

He rolls his beady little eyes. "No."

"You're strange, James."

"So are you." He runs his hand over his greasy hair. "Well, I'll come back tomorrow. For the book, you know?"

I nod, and a few seconds later, the bell over the front jingles as he leaves.

Some people give you that creepy Dahmer vibe, and James does that. Sometimes I think he's debating what herb best brings out the taste of human flesh: rosemary or sage. I'd go with rosemary.

An hour later, I'm halfway through chapter thirty when my cell phone rings. I glance at the screen but don't recognize the number. Maybe it's Ms. Barnes calling to tell me I'm the student Mr. Mercer chose...

"h.e.l.lo?" I try to keep my voice from shaking.

"Baby," my mother slurs.

Closing my eyes, I exhale. "What do you need?"

"Some more money. I need some more money. The heater broke and..."

A man starts shouting in the background. Gla.s.s shatters.

"Can you help your momma out, baby?" She takes an audible drag of her cigarette. That noise alone makes the wretched smell of her Virginia Slims fill my nose. How do smells do that?

"I don't have any money. I sent you half of my last paycheck, and I told you I couldn't do that again."

"h.e.l.l, it was only fifty bucks." Another loud draw from her cigarette. "You got that fancy scholars.h.i.+p. You don't need no money."

"Any money. Basic grammar. It's any money." I groan, frustrated by the reminder of what s.h.i.+t 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 d.a.m.n 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 f.u.c.ks 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 a.s.sistant "handpicked" for me out of the tens of thousands we received leads me to two conclusions. One, this new generation of writers is a f.u.c.king joke... and two, I need a new f.u.c.king a.s.sistant.

Janine, my aforementioned a.s.sistant, 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 f.u.c.king mind here, or are you losing your touch?

- Your Unhappy Boss.

And sent.

I couldn't give two f.u.c.ks about her feelings. I refuse to read another word of this s.h.i.+t.

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 doc.u.ment and scroll down the t.i.tle 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 cla.s.sics. Who can't appreciate quiet legends operating right beneath their noses.