Only Slightly Twisted

I never dreamt that I'd be seeing the front door of my dream house for the first time, through the scope of a sniper rifle. However, neither would one sanely consider that becoming immortal would be a legitimate career choice thirty-six years ago, but here we are. I took a sip of coffee from the flask resting on my briefcase and lined up my shot to the door. Once prepared I shifted each leg until I was comfortable. I had tucked myself away out of view, on a mound I'd been laying on for the past fifteen minutes. Patiently focused with only the elements for company, I caught my breath in my peripheral vision. One eye poised on the scope, and the other on the regular puff of steam dissipating quickly in the breeze. I should have been freezing, the surrounding snow had carpeted the county the night before, but my body pounded with caffeine-infused adrenaline. For every day of the last two weeks, mine and James' routine had been the same. He would leave his house at quarter past nine, his boyfriend, or husband- No, let's call him, the gold digger, (I don't want to be too generous) would kiss him on the cheek. They'd be classically 'cute', a luxury James never treated me to, and I would vomit into my mouth. Then he'd saunter to the car parked on the drive, with myself watching from the mound I'd grown oddly attached too. It was no different today, although this time I wasn't watching through a pair of binoculars, and there was a fresh, white backdrop of snow. Most would say it was picturesque, but not today. the white calm of winter was a stark contrast against this stale but still bitter lover holding a sniper rifle. My pocket vibrated. I reached in keeping an eye on the cottage whilst pulling the phone to my face. It was a text from my manager, Ms Marrs who I had already missed five calls from. The text read:

‘Alex, where are you? Your meeting has been rescheduled for ten o’clock, with Ms Judith Hedger. Don’t mess this up! This is your last chance! Don’t be late, and don’t forget the books!’

I sighed at the phone, putting it back into my pocket. Erasing the text from my memory, I looked back towards the house, and took a sip of coffee… Did I still have feelings for James? Of course I did! The words 'unbridled rage' spring to mind. Someone forces you to endure literal agony, and then further emotional turmoil for thirty-six years - all the natural feelings you'd expect. I digress. To calm my nerves took another sip of coffee. A couple of seconds before nine-fifteen the front door opened, and out stepped James leaving his gold digger at the door. My sip of coffee spoiled and curdled into a venom in my mouth. As a reflex, I turned away from the scope. I paused taking in a slow breath of fresh air. I still wasn’t used to seeing James’ face. Whereas ageing had completely halted for me, it had only slowed down for him. The years had carved frown lines around his features, with permanent bags under his eyes. Yet he was still handsome. I hated that. I returned my gaze without the aid of the scope. I’m ashamed to admit that I stared longingly at the cottage, and the life that should have been ours; there was no time to dwell however. I only had a small window of time. Looking back through the scope, I placed the neon red cross between James' eyebrows. I couldn't help seeing the face. Not the one of the aged man through the scope, no. It was the infamous face that'd only appear when I closed my eyes to sleep, the one I had now conjured to stare back at me through the lens. The fixed expression James had held in my head for thirty-six years grabbed me by the throat. It was the expression he had after we kissed for the last time. His gritted teeth, and transfixing eyes I couldn't look away from, before the inevitable, and unthinkable happened. A glimpse of that night and a darkened alleyway numbed me for a second. I had no time to get sentimental. My finger teased the trigger as he kissed his lover, and my teeth gritted just like his years ago. I breathed quicker, following him through the lens as he walked to his car. They both looked happy. How could he be so kind? My eyes began to fill with tears, and I had to turn away again, placing the rifle in the snow. I wiped away the tears taking in the winter landscape behind me. I heard the car door open and close, followed by a couple of attempts to start the car. The engine fought hard with laboured exhales, before a full mechanical roar filled the open air. I couldn't watch as my missed opportunity drove away. I just laid back in the snow and listened. In the weeks I had been watching James' life through the windows of our cottage, I never dared to let myself think about when he was my fiancée. But as I began to feel the cold in my cheeks burn, I started to see the events of that night again. It took over my vision, with every image pulsing into the clouds above. The lottery ticket and the restaurant. Ms Marrs and The Forgetting Book. The climactic last kiss in the alleyway, and the chilling ending with me laying in blood, finally signing my name in the little black book. I closed my eyes; daylight glowing through my eyelids birthing blotches of colour that danced into the hazy memories of the Carlito's restaurant doorway.

I was back.

I found myself at the table in the restaurant thirty-six years prior. James and I had been together for five years by this point. We were happy, you wouldn’t be engaged if you weren’t happy. James had arranged for us to meet for a vague business dinner so we could take the next step in our future. We couldn’t get married, so buying a house would have to do. With my savings and the winnings of a twenty-thousand-pound scratch card, we could finally move to the country like we had planned. Ms Marrs sat opposite us. At the time, I believed her to be a saleswoman of sorts. Marrs was the definition of a glamour model. She was statuesque, with a stunning face; complimented by her long blonde hair. Full red lips matched with a glamorous red suit, and gold teardrop earrings that occasionally glinted in the candlelight. Ms Marrs had placed the two books in front of us. One red book, and a slightly smaller black book.

“So my darlings” Ms Marrs purred drawing my attention back.

“The books. Are we ready to sign, do we know which we’d like to sign, or do we still have questions?” Marr’s blue eyes darted between us. I paused in the memory, looking at the books with ruminating eyes. Eyes that were thirty-six years older than when the memory had originally taken place.

The Forgetting Book. A red leather-bound book, with a simple power. If one signs their name into the book, they are forgotten by the world. You still exist, and people still notice you; however now, they no longer remember you. The black book was the same, however it gave you more ‘gifts’ one might say. Seventy-five percent of a destiny of your choosing, with the other twenty-five percent being owned by Ms Marrs, and lastly (to my horror). Immortality. It was hard at the time to believe. The books sounded like relics from a fantasy novel. I didn’t believe in destiny and now I had to trade it in for a quiet life, free from harassment and prejudice with my fiancée? Yet no one needed to be immortal, the black book wasn’t an option, so The Forgetting Book it was. It had its perks. A healthy, long life free of disease (which meant aids would no longer be an issue), plus a bonus package of ten-thousand pounds which would mean we could definitely afford the good lino. I resumed the memory in my mind.

“There’s a second book?” I was shocked.

“We thought there was only one book.” James followed.

Suddenly my pocket vibrated. Confused, I reached in, pulling out my present day mobile. What? Dazed by the sight of an Apple iPhone in nineteen-eighty-five, I looked back up at Ms Marrs. Breaking the events of the memory, Ms Marrs was no longer the slightly drunk version of herself from that evening. The woman who sat in front of me now looked mad.

“Alex! The meeting! This is your last chance!”

“Yeah, you can kill me tomorrow babe.” James said taking me by surprise. This broke the events of the memory even more, descending it into a dreamlike madness.

James morphed into his current self; middle aged, yet still smug. Seeing red, I lunged at him from my chair pulling him to the floor. As we both hit the ground, the permanence of the memory began to glitch and the whole room fell away, landing James and I in the alleyway. This was it. We were about to kiss for the last time. His face stricken with the nightmarish, fixed expression.

“No!” refusing to see the events about to unfold, I pushed James away, and fell back.

Slam! The memory obliterated into fragments of light as the sharp sound of a front door closing pulled me into the present.

I abruptly sat up from the memory, as my eyes adjusted to daylight. Blurred dots became specks of snow straggling behind one another as they fell. I reflected on the memory.

Don’t forget the books! I remembered Ms Marrs’ text and turned to the brief case next to the rifle. Placing the coffee flask on the ground, I pulled the case onto my lap. Releasing each clasp, I pulled open the top to reveal two books. One red, and one black. I opened the smaller black book and began to flick through the pages, stopping at page eighty-two. I stared numbly at the old paper. There I was, Alexander Powell in black and white. Immortalised.

The endless breaking of my heart had become a null drone in my head.

It was all a set up.

Kill me, take the money, and get off scot-free because no one will ever remember you. It’s Genius.

“Thanks a lot James.” I whispered bitterly to myself.

“For God sake!” A voice cut through the sombre moment. Turning around to the cottage, the gold-digger scuffed though the snow. They were daintily carrying a dangerously overfilled bin-liner. What kind of hook up takes the rubbish out? I thought to myself… This bitch. The sight of James’ gold-digger rejuvenated a rage that took over. Dropping the book, I scrambled to the rifle and lined up my shot. Was this petty? I couldn’t have cared if it was. I lined up the target. There! Without hesitation, my finger squeezed the trigger and a shot rang out. I watched through the lens as it hit just beneath the targets hand. The bullet ripped open the bin liner, with its contents spilling out. I watched in a gleeful silence, as James’ gold-digger fell to ground. From a distance I heard a shocked voice yell out “Jesus Christ!” before scrambling back inside. The door slammed shut and I sat there in silence. Obviously shooting a bin bag wasn’t going to cheer me up, but it gave me a brief smile.

The breeze pushed across my face as I stared at the cottage. The gold-digger was lucky, but they wouldn’t be so lucky next time.

Next time, James will watch on helplessly.

As next time.

My target will be their heads.