NEVERMORE : A twist to the tale

“Dear Mister Asshole—”

“You didn’t.” My best friend, Emma, rushed out of the bathroom and froze by the doorway with my black-tie dress on. “You couldn’t possibly have written that?”

I slumped on her couch in my purple pajama shorts and sweater emblazoned with the powerful message, please do not annoy me or everything you say may end up in my novel.

My phone in one hand, my tea in another, and in the mood for chaos, I assured her, “Oh, but I did. Do you want me to read the rest? Because I promise you it’s worse.”

“Scheisse, Aurore,” she cursed in her native language, then dropped the heels she was holding on the ground. “Your personality will get you into trouble.”

As always.

Emma took a seat next to me. If Emma was the epitome of the blonde and exemplary princess, I was known as the contemporary fairy-tale godmother.

Not that I looked like an old spinster—even though I was definitely acting like it. I wasn’t the hopeful one with warm advice either. No, that wasn’t me anymore. I was the fairy godmother who arrived at an event and weighed down the atmosphere, often accompanied by evil crows. The kind that had the extreme talent of pushing people away with a fuck-off glare and who exchanged sunshine and rainbows for being embittered, like an angry cat ready to pounce at any opportunity.

I would be mistaken as lonely, reading romance books peacefully under my blanket. That was until I snapped and threw them across the room, some of them meeting my trash can, the others having pages ripped or succumbing to another tragic fate. Yes, I was that evil. I couldn’t handle the couple’s flawless happiness and how I was cast away from this ever happening to me in the land of boring reality.

My magic power was that I had built myself an infallible armor in order to protect those I love. And my curse, because there is always a curse, was that I was blessed with a permanent membership to Atlas’ everlasting punishment, holding on my shoulders all the weights of my unsuccessful achievements. And if I were to let down my world, I’d let down everyone around me.

“I’m not the only one with a wretched personality for trouble.” I showed her Spectre’s Instagram page. “Read the latest article.”

I handed her my phone so she’d tap on the link in the bio. Spectre, otherwise known as one of the most famous and revolutionary artists of our time or, as I called him earlier, asshole, was the only living person I entirely loathed. One I would gladly transform into a frog that no princess’s kiss could save from my devilry.

He was a man probably coming from one of those privileged families who hid his identity like a coward. No one knew who that artist was, and that made him the biggest mystery of the century. He’d opened his social media account a couple of months ago and already had one million followers, yet he didn’t show his face and posted only TikToks and pictures of his studio, paintings, galleries, “accolades,” and upcoming events. Events he never participated in, but the anticipation of crossing his path made people buy tickets at crazy prices to see him. I did my research correctly. Spying was an art, after all.

“Are you still reading?” I leaned toward the phone, impatient to get to the point.

“The article is talking about The Sad Girl.” She didn’t lift her eyes away from the screen.

Here we go. The reason for Spectre’s success was this painting, world-renowned as The Sad Girl. Enthralling title, wasn’t it?

Well, I am The Sad Girl.

He made me The Sad Girl the day my villain era began seven years ago: dreams crashing into ashes, heart crumbling, and hope vanishing. That painting had exposed my so-not-healed wounds, and if I had to rank the worst days of my life, this one would top them all. Why? Because that was the day that started the downfall of everything around me, and I was unable to stop it, fix it, or make it all go away. And somehow, I made it worse.

All those years ago, Spectre had illustrated these devastating and weak emotions to perfection by releasing his biggest piece of all: The Sad Girl. A painting of which I became aware after the apogee of his career only a couple of months ago. I had waited for the right moment to write to him on the networks—but as usual, my timing was bad. Having your apartment lease ending in two months would do just that to you.

That was why I’d made it my personal vendetta to unmask the phantom that he was.

The Sad Girl portrayed a woman wearing a long midnight dress with a split down her leg. She stood on the verge of the Alexander III bridge under a starry night sky. You’d think she was about to jump into the void and end her life, the way her hair fluttered in the wind, and she didn’t even try to balance herself with her arms as if all hope was lost. Lights, like the one of a lamp post, illuminated her in the surrounding darkness, and unstoppable tears flew down her vacant eyes—aka The Sad Girl. With her hand, she threw ripped papers that drifted away like an unreachable dream vanishing forever in the water.

I remembered this moment like it was yesterday, and it was a constant reminder of what I had lost and how much I had failed my sister. I promised myself I’d never cry again. I’d never expose myself to that vulnerability.

“The painting is exhibited in Germany.” Emma’s azure eyes flashed to me. “Spectre will be back in Paris. It said: Das mythische Werk The Sad Girl—”

“I know.”

It looked like the painting was traveling more than I, which was the final strike for me to finally reach out to Spectre a couple of days ago. My sister knowing I was The Sad Girl was humiliating enough—I didn’t need all of Europe to see my tears. “That’s why I sent him that very polite Instagram letter.”

Emma glanced at her watch, and a smile flickered across her face. “Léo is waiting for me, but I want to hear the latest carnage you did.”

I led her to the page of my message. “Here you go. I know you’ll disapprove, but this was therapeutic.”

“You’re supposed to burn the letter, not send it afterwards.”

“Next time, I should try voodoo dolls by the postal office. Maybe that would work better and attract his attention.” I curved my lips with sarcasm, and Emma shook her head in disbelief as she started reading.

Dear Mister Asshole,

I wouldn’t flaunt your qualities as a liar, thief, and egomaniac, so I’ll be cutting to the chase by introducing myself: I’m The Sad Girl—turned into a very angry one, in case you want to snap another picture of me and turn me into a world-renowned circus clown. I would be delighted to sue you for copyright infringement.

A thing I’d already researched but gave up doing. Spectre was almost untouchable. Money can buy everyone, and money wasn’t something I had. So, I was following Spectre, being a ghost myself. I was his most faithful stalker.

But I’m kind enough to write to you first—something you’ve denied doing with me. If in your charming personality of swindler and fraud you have an ounce of humanity, you would do what is right. I await your response with great impatience. Wishing you a day of personal reflection and growth.

The girl who hates you bitterly.

“That man will never answer you.” Emma barely bit back a laugh, settling on a cheeky smile. “Maybe if you had been nicer, and—”

“You know I don’t do well with finesse and kindness.” But I did do well with enraged letters written in the comfort of my hermit Parisian studio.

She pursed her lips together, malicious glee in her eyes. “Just like the time I convinced you to accompany me to my yoga retreat, and you were walking around with your computer and your three-meter extension cord, looking for the network, with your mosquito spray. I can still see you frightening the campsite manager on his misleading advertising of the high-performance Wi-Fi network.”

“An uninspiring experience that I never want to relive.” I brought a hand to my face. I was pretty sure my head was plastered on every trailer like a serial killer wanted poster. “By the way, you look beautiful as always. I hope Léo will keep his eyes on you.” Léo was her French Prince Charming boyfriend of four years. “And beware with your heart—men can be deceitful. And if he still doesn’t propose to you, you have to—”

“I know,” she said as if she was bored of my constant warning. “He’ll do it soon, I know he will, and it’s gonna be the happiest day of my life.”

“Or the day he traps you forever with him.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll take care of your baby.”

I shifted my stare to the English bulldog, Rosalind, or Rosie, who was slumped in her basket.

“Stop worrying. He’s one of the good ones. Thank you for looking after Rosalind again, and for lending me your dress and doing my makeup. You’re the best.” Emma rose in the direction of the door. “My fairy godmother.”

Wicked godmother. The first time she called me was when I was coming home from my weekend job at the amusement park Ever After. She used to be my downstairs neighbor and was having a breakdown at her doorstep because a giant spider haunted her living room. In a fit of weakness, armed with a broom, I strived to dislodge Peter the spider but instead, lost sight of him. As a result, I claimed to have slain him, but I can guarantee you that Peter was still alive and in top form. That’s how, on a lie based on my inability to help, our friendship blossomed.

“No problem. I brought reinforcements.” I dug the cookie dough ice cream out of my bag. “And plus, I have some writing to do. You can keep the dress, by the way.”

Her eyes snapped open like a character in a cartoon movie. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I don’t wear them, anyway.” I could give her a piece of my unworn gown collection. She’d make better use of it. “This one is so you. It’ll bring you luck.”

“Wow, I—I don’t have the words.”

“Just leave,” I ordered, my lips splitting into a cynical grin. “I have work to do.”

She furrowed her brows. “Still no inspiration, huh?”

I was a romance author on a deadline. I had two months left in my apartment before being evicted, which meant two months to finish my book and to find a way to give it to the head of Ever After Publishing—all because I missed out on their international writing competition by a week. Once this miracle was accomplished, all I had to do was charm them with my almost nonexistent tale and hopefully earn enough money to survive and make my happily-somehow-ever-after come true before I went back to the countryside to help my family. Easy enough. This villainous plan was flawed, but it was the only one I had.

I made a promise to my sister, Luna, before everything, that I would write a fairy-tale story just like old times. Years ago, I signed my first and last publishing deal that allowed me to afford to live in the big city instead of being depressed in my small one, and this story resulted in the editors rewriting my book until the point it was a stranger to me.

Yet, I promised myself I’d prove to Luna that happy endings could exist; that if I could make my dreams come true, she could too. She always set me as her example, believing in me more than anyone ever did.

That’s why I couldn’t fail.

Even the antihero always had a soft spot for someone, and, well, she was mine. The only reason keeping me from being the town’s depressed black soul.

She was nine years younger than me, and we used to sleep in the same room before I left, our country house being too small. Every night, we used to look at the star stickers we had stuck on the ceiling, and I’d regale her with bedtime short stories to help her sleep and keep the monsters away. Because that’s what we’re taught to believe—that no matter what, the story will end well.

“I can’t disappoint Luna. With everything that happened to her, she—” I swallowed, ignoring the slam of sadness trying to wash over the reminders of my heart. I wasn’t there for her. “She still didn’t stop believing, and now, she’s counting on me to keep my promise.”

But I sucked. I couldn’t write a fairy tale to save my life, and I had started thousands of projects that I ended up giving up and found excuses more outrageous than the others to her: “Writing a book takes time, Luna. I’m almost done.” “I wrote a chapter. You’ll love it.” “My computer died—I lost my project.”

“You don’t have to be strong for her. She deserves to—”

“No,” I cut her off. “I won’t tell her that I’m working as a ghostwriter to be able to pay the rent for an overpriced apartment where I have to use the communal toilets on the landing. That my love life is lacking because I have higher standards, that any real-life man can’t hope to fill at least ten percent, and that working at Ever After as a pixie is not leading me even close to joining their publishing company. I can take it. She can’t.”

Luna had an overdeveloped sensitivity; she took care of the well-being of everyone else before herself. If I were to tell her the truth, it would crush her and the wonder she still has, and my pride couldn’t handle it if I failed her. Again.

I wouldn’t condemn her happy ending because I couldn’t get one for myself.

“But Luna loves you. Maybe you just need to get out instead of dating your ancient computer. You never know what or who you can find in the streets of love.” Emma waved goodbye to me and wrenched the door closed.

True love was the biggest lie of all. It was something made up by people like me in books and movies. An escape from real life.

Love faded away, and my expectations in that register couldn’t be met.

I was in love once. Only once.

But my heart had somehow managed to be broken more than once.

“Looks like it’s just you and I, Rosie,” I said to the dog, who at the same instant switched places with a grunt and laid her butt facing me as if I was annoying her.

I needed to kill that cookie dough ice cream if I wanted to finish my work tonight and find inspiration.

“You’ve been a bad girl, and I’ll have to punish you.” He trails delicious kisses the length of your collarbone, his fingers skimming across your shivering skin. You gasp when you feel his hard velvet shaft? Cock? Hardness?

I yawned and stretched my arms, the empty pot of ice cream by my side. It was almost midnight, and I hadn’t moved away from the couch since Emma’s departure, my eyes red from looking at the blinking cursor on the screen.

I was selling fairy tales on the weekend (more like sugar candies, but dreaming doesn’t hurt) and selling kink tales during the week at the magical price of thirty euros for each short story imposed by my pervert of a boss, whose nickname was “Daddykink—the dad of pleasure.” You’d think being an erotic ghostwriter was a dream job, but I could barely afford to pay my bills because renting a shithole in the heart of the capital was as expensive as a country house.

I had no recognition and no author rights, but I somehow still managed to convince my mother over the years that I was a successful author by sending her money to pay for the institution my sister had been recovering in, and now for her sessions with the psychologist and home lessons. My dad had cut us out of his life, and it was up to me to take on the role of mean big sister by bringing in the money, killing the vibe with my nasty remarks, and never being perfect enough for the standards everyone had for me until the point I was boiling, all my emotions locked inside. As my mother would say, I had an impenetrable heart of stone, resistant to any trial.

Little did she know a heart could bleed beneath a hardened exterior.

Daddykink: Hi, my little fairy hands. Next week, I have a new blog short story for you about the dom/com sex scene. Ready to pay you 35 euros for 10k words.

I couldn’t escape my nickname, but life was smiling at me with what people with a stable job would call a promotion.

“How generous of you,” I mumbled, closing off the windows on the screen, done for tonight, with still no book written.

I turned up the volume of the villain playlist music playing on my gamer headset and rose up to stretch my legs, waiting for ideas to pop into my head, but I wasn’t able to imagine myself as a main character other than the Evil Queen getting revenge by putting the head of a certain artist on a pike.

That’s when I got lost in the black hole of anti-inspiration: swiping on my phone through social media before staring at the wall, wondering how I was going to get out of this writing block. I could write a novel in a month, but the blank-page syndrome had been persistent—despite that lame attempt at writing anything else but romance.

Rosie suddenly barked at me, and I snapped my eyes wide open, breaking away from my mental storm. She wagged her tail, her tongue out. That capricious dog.

“Gosh, right now?” I redid my half ponytail, tied up by my ivory-and-black ribbon.

Rosie barked again, and I surrendered, grabbing her leash. She went crazy, gesturing everywhere for a lazy dog.

I sprinted to the couch on my way to grab my jeans. “Wait, I need to change first—”

She barked again in hostility, and I shushed her. She would wake all the neighbors if she continued. Which she did until I put the jeans down.

“Fine, you win.” I grimaced. “I can’t believe you’re making me go out dressed like this.”

I jumped into my glitter pink flip-flops that looked stolen from a seven-year-old girl and unlocked the door. Arriving in the hallway after taking the elevator—because Rosie and the stairs didn’t make a good duo—I took sight of my reflection in the enormous glass mirror. I looked either like a patient escaping from a psychiatric asylum for unicorns or like Chewbacca with my long, messy brownish hair.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. “Wait a second, Rosie. Maybe it’s your mistress.”

Emma was the crazy, worried kind of mom. If I didn’t send her a picture of Rosie each hour doing absolutely nothing, she’d freak out, thinking her baby was sick or something. If only Rosie wouldn’t make grumpy faces in each pic, maybe she wouldn’t worry so much. Speaking of, Rosie wasn’t waiting. She was scratching the door with her paw, wanting to go outside. She made me feel like a bad dog sitter as I unlocked my phone and—

“Holy shit!” It wasn’t Rosie who woke all the neighbors, after all, but my scream echoing through the building. She even stopped scratching the door, her puppy eyes set on me.

I would have whispered that I was sorry if it wasn’t for my throat being too dry to speak and the shock scouring through me.

I had one notification from Spectre.

One message.

One sentence.

Only one.

I finally found you.