FICTION | LETTERS | DRAMA

Heartbreaker Dies a Literary Death

A story about words and power

A woman sits at her desk, hunched over an empty page and surrounded by crumpled papers. Frustrated, she sighs and stretches. The reflection in her computer’s dark, switched-off display is a sorrowful sight. Her red, puffy eyes rest above dark, tired rings. Once, they had been blue-grey crystals — the center of attention. Now, they seem dull; their sparkle is lost to pain.

He had called her Snow White, his fairy tale princess, for her porcelain face. Now, it reminds her of a fading spectre as the days pass. Pale and dull-eyed, she stares at her reflection and the tangled mess framing her face. Once, those dark and lively curls had made her desirable. They reminded her of a wild bird habitat now.

She yells in frustration, crumbling the piece of paper on her desk. It joins a few of the other discarded letters in a corner. As the music switches to Kurt Cobain singing about self-hatred and death wishes, she buries her face in her hands and considers the easy way out.

She looks at her ghostly reflection on the display and releases a pained, joyless laugh. Like the sorrow she hides from the world, the pitiful laugh remains unknown to others. It vanishes in the emptiness where her joy has disappeared.

“I could literally ghost you,” she says to her reflection, “I already look like a wraith.”

But she had promised herself to forsake him that much power over her? She grabs the half-full wine glass on her desk and swallows its contents in one gulp. Shortly after, the glass flies through the air and joins the last unfinished letter, bursting into countless fragments.

Disgusted, more by herself than the drink, she inhales long and deliberately. Stiff and almost robotic, her hands grab a new piece of paper, and she starts writing again.

Dear Heartbreaker,

He chuckles when he reads the name she used to call him, imagining those times when he still desired her. The letter carries the scent of her favourite perfume.

Using that moniker makes me chuckle. Who could have known that this word, once used to express desire and affection, would turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy?

He scowls and grins insecurely.

Do you remember the day I found out? When I cursed you, wishing you would drop dead? You only laughed and said my skill at deadly curses was as pathetic as my dreamy delusions of a future as a writer.

His grin changes from insecure to malice, annoyed by her melodrama.

You are probably nodding now. After all, you always liked to be right. The only thing you wanted more was to see your words strike true like punches. Their damage was just the same. Instead of bruises, they left scars on my soul. All those years, your words ate me from inside like cancer.

He hesitates and snorts before saying something utterly vulgar and crumbles the letter with one strong hand. But then, his curiosity wins, and he unfolds it again.

Did you feel your temper rise, the furnace that fuels your angry words? Probably, you feel wronged again. You always did. Do you want to learn a secret I learned as a writer? Every villain is the hero of their own story! You are the Voldemort of my story.

His bushy eyebrows move closer together as the skin wrinkles above his nose. He reads on with his mouth forming a thin line.

Tell me! Did it hurt? Will you reconsider your ways and build a different relationship with her? Or are her softer, tighter skin and fuller lips all you need in future?

Insecurity returns as he reads on, raising his eyebrows.

When I told you to drop dead, you joked a literal death would not be as bad as a literary death. I beg to defer.

For that reason, I dedicated my first book to you. It is my way of making you understand how much power words can have. I bet it washes that smug smile right off your face. But maybe you don’t have the guts to read it after all.

Farewell, dear Heartbreaker!

Angrily, he exposes his teeth and picks up the thick book she sent with the letter. Its title reads, “Heartbreaker”. He feels the urge to destroy her literary work like he wants to ruin her letter. But curiosity wins again, and he reads it until he is drawn in, unable to put it away.

The sun rises when he puts the book down. But it isn’t over. He will weep for weeks.

A short conversation on Twitter inspired this story.

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