8

 

The man sitting on the couch stared at the screen in front of him with growing satisfaction. First, Laura's desperate, frantic efforts to get rid of the snake at all costs, her frantic escapes, each time ending in failure. The idea of the burnt matches also proved to be a bull's-eye; that fucking bitch had almost gone mad. And finally, the letter. He knew how afraid Laura was of mice, which was why he'd resorted to this very trick. And now she was going to read it. She was going to find out. And that was the point. He wanted her to find out what he wanted her to know. Was she really so naive that she thought she'd find out the truth? Well, in a sense, it will be true for her. So it will be some kind of truth. Laura Marshall's truth. But, as someone once said, there are as many truths as there are people. So, for her, the truth will be what she reads. Because it will be the last thing she reads in her life. In fact, she doesn't quite know with her eyes yet, but she surely senses it subconsciously, it will be the last thing she does in her miserable life.

The woman picked up the letter she had just dropped on the dresser. The words, its very beginning, reeked of hatred. Who could be so cruel? Who could hate her so much? And why? There was only one way to find out. She began reading again.

"Laura.

As you can see, I've decided on the most neutral beginning possible. I've decided, that alone might tell you you're dealing with a man. But that's probably nothing new. You've probably already guessed that much. After all, you're a very capable and quite intelligent young woman. I'm curious what else you've managed to guess by now. Let me guess. You probably know you're going to die. Oh yes, you know you're going to die, that there's no hope left for you. You probably also guess that this death won't be easy or pleasant at all—is there such a thing as an easy, light, and pleasant death? People seem to think that simply falling asleep and not waking up is precisely such a death. But what do we really know about this? What do we know about what a person experiences when they sleep and never wake up? Are they suffering? Are they asking for help? We don't know, we know nothing about it. But shh, enough about that. It doesn't concern you. This is just a little digression, perhaps to force your frantic brain into the effort called thinking? You'll see if it worked. Well, me too. You probably already know that I see your every move."

Laura glanced around nervously, as if her enemy might be lurking somewhere in the corner, the one who had brought all this upon her, the one who had made her where she was now, the one who had made her what she was. As if someone—she claimed to be watching her—had been with her in this apartment the whole time, was with her now, in her kitchen. He probably is—she thought, but certainly not in the sense I'm thinking of. Cameras, of course—she muttered to herself. Why didn't I think of that? I wonder if there's a microphone here, then...

"Yes, yes, don't look so surprised. What, haven't you figured it out yet? I don't believe it... I thought you were a truly intelligent woman. Well, it seems you haven't quite lived up to my expectations. Anyway, let's get back to the letter. I just wanted to add that I not only see you, but I can hear you too... You like that, right?"

I knew... but what good is knowing that to me now?

"You're probably wondering who has any reason to hate you as much. You see, there's someone you've hurt. Yes, I know, that won't tell you anything either; you've hurt more than one person in your lousy life. I'll try to put you on the right track. I'm a man. You've known me for a while now. The circumstances in which we met—well, I won't reveal that to you, because that would be too easy. You claimed you loved me, that there was—and never was—no one else in your life besides me. A lie, like so many others. Right? You claim you're not lying? And what about the date of your return from Florida? And about your mother, who is alive, well, and definitely not going to the other world? The only thing ailing her is a slight "mental disorder," right? Or, to put it simply—Mommy has a problem... And you're not supposed to admit it to the world... That's why Mommy had to die." And about Daddy, who doesn't want to know you, who's hiding from the police of the entire world somewhere in the mountains... wait, where was that? Well, you know that... No, I'll just write this so you don't think I don't know. The Alps, right? Should I also tell you the reason he's hiding?

"A small child, small, tiny...

Kiss me, Daddy...

That's not Daddy, that's a stranger..."

I don't think I need to write more, do I?

I wonder if you know this too? You know it? I mean, I'd actually like to know if you know this firsthand, or just what Daddy did in his life? Yes, I wonder if one call to the police would have been enough to get him taken care of? But that's a topic for later; I'll think about that after I've dealt with you, bitch!

Well, it's time to go. Both this nice—you have to admit—letter and your miserable, worthless life. Goodbye, Laura, and believe me, this decision didn't come easy. But it's better this way. Better for you, because you won't be able to hurt anyone anymore, and better for me, because I'll finally be at peace. At least I hope so.

M."

Laura sat frozen, the letter long since dropped to the floor, and she still couldn't believe what she'd just read. What cruelty, what brutality, what a complete lack of humanity emanated from every word of it. Whoever wrote it, he hated her as much as possible. "M"—that meant nothing to her. Marcel? No, that was impossible. Marcel loved her, not hated her. But that "M" at the end was haunting her. You'd better admit it, it's more of a few details in the letter that are troubling you—a few minor details, as the author put it, that only Marcel could know. Unless it was someone Marcel had told. But that was impossible. Marcel was the epitome of discretion, a typical representative of his class, a typical resident of the City, and they never gossiped. I'll go absolutely crazy if I don't stop thinking about it. But the intrusive thoughts wouldn't leave her mind. It was as if she had suddenly become powerless, as if she had no influence whatsoever over what was happening to her. As if she had suddenly found herself outside her body, and certainly outside her mind, passively observing what was happening there. If we assume it wasn't Marcel, then who? No one else was possible. Only him.

Marcel raced through the streets, deserted at this hour. Just a few more minutes and he'd be at Laura's. He'd then discover that his beloved hadn't deceived him at all. That this was all, in fact, some terrible mistake, some bad dream. Or perhaps he was about to wake up from that afternoon nap he'd so enjoyed? Despite the proof in the form of the passenger list, despite the call to the airport confirming that, yes, Mrs. Laura Marshall had been on today's 7:30 a.m. flight from Florida to California, despite all this evidence, so obvious, Marcel still harbored a lingering hope that this was just a bad dream, some mistake. "I think I'm getting melodramatic and repeating myself," the man muttered to himself. "I'll soon find out who's right." But he knew it would be a mere formality. In his world, in the City, in the circle he moved in, everyone knew him, from the cleaning lady to the nice lady at the airport to the CEOs of major corporations, no one dared to make fun of him. Hearing who was calling, everyone immediately began to behave as if the king himself had graced them with his attention. Because that was exactly what he was, wasn't he? He was a king, even if only in his own backyard. But he was. That's why he knew what he'd heard today was true. The only question was how this anonymous figure knew so much? And why wasn't there a hint of servility in his voice, so pervasive in everyone he spoke to? No, it seemed quite the opposite, that he, Marcel, was impressed, that he was the one submitting, that he was the one asking. He'd never encountered such a situation before, had never been faced with such a fact. It was a new, strange feeling, and Marcel knew she definitely wouldn't like him. I'd know soon. I'll deal with you in a moment. I'll show you what it means to deceive me," Marcel muttered under his breath, completely unaware that he was talking to himself. If anyone who knew him saw him now, they would surely be horrified. Marcel was nothing like the serious, dispassionate businessman he once was. His impeccably styled hair was all windswept and disheveled from nervously running his fingers through it, his suit was rumpled from constant fidgeting and impatiently straightening, his tie, which felt like it was about to strangle him, had long since been forgotten in a dark corner of the car. But that wasn't important; suddenly, somehow, he no longer cared about his appearance. He had to know, he had to, at all costs. Nothing else mattered, everything else ceased to matter. Only that one burning, restless desire remained. He had to know... Otherwise, he felt he would go mad...