Three days ago.
I only saw him once. In the parade of faces, and endless strings of names scribbled into my book with a signature and token personal sentiment, he was near the end of the afternoon's ordeal. My smile was relexive by then, and when I asked him his name, he put his hand on mine. "Alan," he said, and the second stretched into an hour as he smiled.
It was six in the evening when I unlocked my apartment, jaw sore from eight hours of smiles and pleasantries at the bookstore. I wanted dinner, I wanted a hot bath, and I wanted bed. My purse and my keys were dropped within the first few steps past the threshold, and I kicked off my shoes with a long exhalation. I had a few moments of relief, there, until I looked over to my answering machine and saw the LED blinking at a frantic pace. I might have groaned in resignation as I walked over to the telephone and pushed the button. I don't remember too clearly.
Over three dozen messages, all of them in the same voice, and saying the same thing.
"Hello Sheryl. Real soon now."
Alan's voice.
I may have screamed.
I didn't get my bath that night, and dinner felt like wet cardboard in my mouth. I sat at the kitchen counter, chewing like some sort of machine. My eyes stayed locked to the telephone, waiting for it to ring, praying it didn't, knowing it would. It didn't. Not through a dinner I barely noticed, not through the hour I spent checking every door and window in my apartment, and not through the hours I stayed wide awake in bed until exhaustion overrode fear.
It rang just after I fell asleep.
"What do you want?!" I yelled into the handset, before giving the caller a chance to say anything. I knew who it was, who it had to be. I wasn't disappointed.
His voice was friendly, agreeable. The same tone he gave his name in. "Aw, Sheryl. There's no need to be so excitable. We've got three whole days yet."
The bravery had to come from somewhere, I guess. I don't know where it is now. "Look, you sick little freak. If you call me one more time I'm going to have the police on you faster than you can blink. Got me?"
"Now now, Sheryl honey. That's no way to talk. You get some sleep now, and we'll talk soon. Sweet dreams, darling." And the line went dead.
He knew damn well I wasn't going to be sleeping that night.
Two days ago, I drove to the telephone company to have my number changed. The clerk was agreeable enough, and on impulse I asked her if there was some way of checking calls made to the old number. There was. We checked. I received exactly no phone calls the day before. I ignored the questions of the clerk and walked out of the office, numb.
I called my publicist, and had her cancel my signing that afternoon. She asked why, and I remember giving her some excuse about not feeling well. I hurried home, looking over my shoulder enough that I nearly drove off the road. My apartment was still in the condition I left it, and the dark LED on the answering machine caused a wave of relief that almost knocked me down. I locked the door, chained it, and propped a chair under the knob before crawling into bed and passing out.
Yesterday, I woke up and it was already dark out. I pulled myself out of bed and into the kitchen. And staring at me, stealing my breath and seizing my heart, was the single, blinking red eye of the answering machine.
It was ridiculous. No one knew the number. No one /could/ know the number. I pressed the 'play' button.
"Hello dear. It's me again. I hope you're all rested?" His voice. I could see the smile behind it. "I want you to be plenty awake for tomorrow. We've got a big day ahead of us, after all. I won't bother with calling again, though. I'm sure you'd just get bored."
Oh God, no. Please, no. This isn't happening, I haven't woken up yet. I'll wake up, and it'll be gone and this won't be happening to me oh God...
Today. I haven't slept yet. I'm sitting on my couch, watching the front door. The longest kitchen knife I own is by my hand. And I'm waiting, because I can't bring myself to do anything else.
And something twists in the room.
"Sheryl. So nice to see you waiting for me. Have you missed me?"
I try to be graceful. I try to turn around to face him, scooping up the knife. My knees collapse and I'm sitting on the floor, looking up at him through the tears that are already starting. He's walking towards me as I hear the knife clattering from numbed fingers.
He's squatting in front of me now, and I'm trying to back away but it never seems to work, I never seem to gain any distance. His hand is out, and I have to steel myself not to faint when surprisingly soft hands touch my cheek. "Today's the day, Sheryl..."
My eyes are squeezed shut now, my cheeks soaked with tears from the fear and his skin on mine. "W...why me? I just write books..."
He nods, his hand moving from my cheek to pick up the knife. "I know you do, baby. That /is/ why. See, Sheryl, people like your books. Your books help them. And we just can't have that. Do you understand?"
Please no, God. He can't mean it. I can't move, I can barely breathe. My heart is irregular, staggering under the strain, I can't take it any more and my jaw clenches. "Just get it over with..."
I open my eyes in time to see that same hour-long smile as light glints from the knife. He kisses me on the forehead. "Thank you."
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