If I still wrote I think the way that the trees on the hill cresting over the horizon would inspire me, but I barely notice it. All I can think about is the pile of patient information still on my desk, that one dick that always calls me ‘lady-thing,’ and Janet. No clue why they keep her around, I think the doctors are the only ones in the clinic that she hasn’t cussed out yet. Today was the first time I snapped back at her, but of course I’m the only one who’s expected to learn from this. I can’t wait to get home.
At first, I thought that walking to work would be fun. Three weeks have gone by, and I’m really missing my car. It’s the shittiest goddamn thing on wheels, but if I had it, I’d be home already. No clue what’s taking the mechanic so long. I call every day to ask about it, but all I get is fast talking excuses. I tell myself that it’s only fifteen more minutes, but after today that only makes me more crazy.
Maybe calling Jordan would cheer me up. She always has something funny to say. Except I can’t remember if she’s working right now.
Shit. I really should be a better sister.
I flip through our messages for the one that has her schedule. Back when we lived together, it was easier to remember. A calendar with a different bird each month hung on the wall where we’d write down our schedules as soon as we got them. July had a canary, I remember because we had three weekends together. Now that I’m on an 8-5, it’s harder to keep track of her shape-shifting hours - especially since she picks up so many extra shifts. I’m happy for her, though. It might come with extra responsibilities, but she was born to be a sous chef.
A horn blares at me right before I even touch the crosswalk. Some asshole in a white Jeep Wrangler shakes his head like I’m some ditzy doll unaware of her surroundings. I give him the bird and a hearty “Fuck you!”
“You wish, sweetheart.” He lifts his neckbeard to look down at me, then peels onto the main road like he’s scared to hear my comeback.
On the other side of the street, I spot someone that makes me forget all of the stress. A white streak slices through luscious, red hair. A blue eye peeks out at me. It’s spring, yet she’s wearing a canvas coat and gloves. She takes a drag of her cigarette, then tosses a sly look to the side.
That’s Diamond Williams.
At least, it looks just like her - just like how I described her when I tried to write a novel.
This time, I’m really not paying attention when I cross the street. Thankfully, no car is there to hit me.
When I reach her, I try to play it cool. There’s really no cool way to ogle someone, though. The more details I spot, the more I remember the novel I abandoned. She looks exactly how I imagined her.
“Sorry,” I say. “I thought you were someone I know.”
“What makes you think I’m not?” What she says - even the way she says it - it’s uncanny.
I take a deep breath. Then another. I think I’m about to freak out. Is this what schizophrenia is like?
“Relax, darling,” she drops her cigarette and stamps it out. “It’s not like I’m Britney Spears.”
Holy shit. That’s exactly what she would say.
My hands go into my hair. My nails dig all the way into my scalp and scrape until they fall off the back.
This isn’t real.
“Hey, I’ve heard about this,” I point my finger in her face. “You’re gangstalking me, aren’t you?”
The words slip out of my mouth like vomit. As soon as I hear myself say it, I have to take another breath and swallow the fact that those words came from me.
She tilts her head down, eyes locked on mine. “I’m what?”
I stammer when I say it again. “Gangstalking. When people get together to harass someone like me.”
“Why would they do that?”
I shrug. “You tell me.”
“I am not gangstalking you,” she says. She scans me up and down. “You’re different than I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone less disheveled.” Yeah, she would be a mean girl. I mean, she is. Was? How do you refer to someone from an abandoned manuscript? “Which direction are we going?”
“We?” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “We can stand by the traffic light all day or we can walk and talk. Your choice.”
I put my hands in my pocket. One more deep breath for good measure and I start down the sidewalk toward home. I’m next to the road, she’s next to the grass. We pass a pile of dog poop, the kind that’s all dried up from sitting out in the sun for days. “We don’t have that where I’m from,” Diamond says.
“Not really a detail I thought about adding to your world.” Am I really buying that she’s a character I created here in the flesh? I guess I am. The alternative is that I’m being gangstalked, and somehow that seems less realistic.
“Why not?” She says.
“People don’t want to read about dog poop.” I shake my head and look around. There’s an old man sitting in a lawn chair across the street. The garage door on his house is blue. He’s got a longneck in his hand and a neutral expression on his face as he watches us go down the street. Nothing seems weird about this to him. “I’m sorry, how did you get here? In the real world, I mean.”
“Stories don’t just stop when you finish writing them. They don’t stop when you finish reading them either.”
“Except I never finished writing your story,” I say.
“But you’re done with it,” she ripostes. “Do you really ever plan to go back and finish that novel?”
I sink my head into my shoulders. I told myself I would go back to it for months. Then that became years. After that, I said I would go back and try a different story, maybe a short story or flash fiction piece, just to keep in practice. I never did, though. Never even finished the first draft of Diamond’s book.
I’m silent for too long. Going back to writing, it’s something I do think about from time to time. Just doesn’t seem like there’s any point. When I don’t respond, Diamond’s cheek twitches and she looks away.
“So, how’d you get here?” I say.
“I walked,” Diamond doesn’t look at me.
“That’s not a real answer.”
“I can’t help it if I joke,” she says. “You made me this way.”
“I didn’t make you real, though.”
She chortles. “You did.”
“How?” I shake my head.
“You wrote me.”
“That’s not how it works.” My hands, I can’t control them. They start talking with me. “Frodo never came to Tolkien and said ‘hey, dude, let’s grab a beer.’”
Diamond crosses her arms and stares at me dead on. “I wouldn’t invite you out for drinks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Alan Moore met John Constantine.”
“Alan Moore claims to have met John Constantine.” My eyebrows pull together. “Besides, that guy’s ego is titanic. He’d convince himself he invented carpet if he thought no one would challenge him on it. You can tell by the way he writes.”
Diamond licks the inside of her cheek. She stops walking and shakes her head a little bit. “You don’t think it’s at least a little bit plausible? I mean, I’m standing right in front of you. Or do you still think I’m gangstalking you?”
Hold on. I look over the scene in front of me. The way her tongue puffed out her cheek, I’m pretty sure that’s a description I came up with. I squint, imagine a city behind her and we’re at the part where Victoria betrays her. “Wait, are you mad at me?”
“You don’t get mad at God?”
I scoff and put my hands up. “God’s not real. Even if he was, I don't get to find him and talk to him.”
“How do you know?” She starts walking again, her pace faster this time. “You ever tried?”
“Yeah, believe me, I’ve tried,” I say. “What is this about, anyway? Why would you want to talk to me if you hate me?”
“You really should lock your door,” She says.
Knowing about Alan Moore’s story, knowing I hadn’t finished my manuscript, even meeting me on my way home — I should have put the pieces together earlier. I mean, I created her, there’s really no excuse for not knowing. She’s done her homework, investigated me and the world I live in.
“You read the manuscript,” I say. I used to print out each chapter as I wrote them. I thought it would motivate me, but that clearly didn’t work.
“You’re pretty cruel, you know that?” Diamond turns, pointing right at me. Her face has transformed and I recognize hatred in her eyes. “Betrayed by my best friend, tortured—I’m surprised that Mike Calhoun shooting my son wasn’t something you wrote. Of course, you created Calhoun, so the blame falls on you.”
My heart sinks. “You had a son?”
Diamond takes out a cigarette. Her lighter is gold plated. It’s not the one I wrote her having. She takes a long drag. “Like I said, stories move on.”
I swallow a stone. I can’t look at her. Words. I always thought I was the brilliant writer who was great with words. Even after I stopped, I’ve used that as a defense when someone challenges something obscure I laid down during scrabble. But, every time a tragedy strikes, I never know what to say. Jordan had to go to the hospital a couple of years ago, she’d gotten hit by a car. I brought her three meals every day, but I couldn’t find anything to say that would comfort her. We watched T.V. together, but didn’t say much throughout the whole stay.
“I’ll go back,” I say. “I’ll make edits, I’ll give you a story that-”
“Don’t.” Diamond takes another drag. “Gideon wasn’t my only kid. I’ve got two daughters and a nephew I look after. Evie, Amelia, and Xander. You?” she stares into the clouds above us, “You wouldn’t get them right.”
“I don’t know what I can do, then.”
“Just tell me why.”
I clear my throat. “Writing is how I explore my emotions, I guess. I’m never excited, or sad, or happy—not fully. I guess there’s something wrong with me, but I don’t really feel what’s on my mind until I’m creating fiction. When I write, it’s like there’s nothing else I have to do, nothing at all to worry about. I’m free.”
“So, why’d you stop?”
I chuckle and shake my head. “Came home from work one day and I was tired. I said I would write tomorrow, then the same thing came out of my mouth the next day. Then, my sister went into the hospital and I didn’t have the time. The next time I looked at the screen, months had gone by. I couldn’t get a single word out. I hated that feeling.”
I take a deep breath. She inhales her cigarette. I start walking again, making my way home. She follows.
Eventually, we reach my apartment. She drops her cigarette on the parking lot and twists the toe of her stiletto into it. I wasn’t even thinking about how uncomfortable the walk must have been in those, but that’s Diamond Williams. ‘The woman who would walk a mile in stilettos to kick your ass.’ I’m pretty sure that was the opening line.
“This is me,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “Guess I’ll be going back to the city.”
“You never told me how you got here.”
She smirks. “Why would I?”
“Point taken.”
“Next time you write, put some dog poop in the grass,” she says. “I like this world. It’s not all car chases and shootouts. Sometimes, things look ugly and it’s completely mundane why. Nothing like the city.”
I chuckle. It’s funny to hear her say it like that. A name never did come to mind for the city she lives in, so I never gave it one. We shake hands, and she walks away. I open the door to my apartment and think of the words to start a new story. I call Jordan to tell her all about it, and as soon as she answers I ask her about her day.
Superb.