Typist #4 - Every Romance is a Revenge Fantasy
She sat up, pulled off her panties, and shoved her ass at him.
He reached up under her shirt and grabbed her breast, which had swollen with the pregnancy. She made a noise, and he couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or pain, but he didn’t care anymore. She unbuttoned her shirt slowly, and he thought he heard her sniffle. He didn’t know what was happening or where they were headed.
She pulled the blouse off and was completely na**d against his body, giving herself to him.
He slid into her, and he tried to forget.
The next morning, she was all smiles and sunshine.
The night before felt like a bad dream, with Claude as the only witness that any of it had happened, and Claude knew how to keep quiet.
As the two of them enjoyed breakfast in the dining room, Smith turned over the evening’s events in his head, wondering how he might work the drama into the novel he was currently outlining.
He had peace, a beautiful wife, and inspiring material for his work.
His happiness was shortlived, though.
Three months later, their child was born dead, and the relationship died soon after.
The day she moved out, Brynn screamed at him and demanded he return the gun so she could shoot herself. It was exactly the thing he’d been hoping to hear, and that suicide threat allowed him to check her into a mental health facility, for her own protection.
He returned to the penthouse alone, to face the nursery and the nanny quarters and all their shattered dreams.
He called Claude up to the apartment and directed him to the pistol that was hidden at the back of the closet. “You’ll dispose of it in a safe manner?” he asked.
“Give me an hour,” Claude said.
“Take the whole day,” Smith said, and he went to bed, even though the sun was still high in the sky.
Part 5: Remembering through Storytelling
Tori
I woke up sweating, in the middle of the night. Being in my old bedroom, at my mother’s house, had brought back unwanted memories. I cried, and then I got a glass of water and resolved to tell my mother everything, come morning.
The second part of my sleep was more peaceful, and I woke up to the scent of coffee brewing and bacon frying.
I walked downstairs and into the kitchen.
“Mom, I have to tell you some things.”
“Good grief, there’s more? Did we not cover everything last night?” She gave me a quick smile that made me feel brave.
I helped her get the toast buttered and we sat at the little table tucked inside the kitchen.
“Mom, the thing that happened with my old teacher, Mr. Colt, was not just the one time.”
She started to cry. “I should have done more to protect you. You were always so sure of yourself, though, and you shut me out.”
“I don’t blame you! I’m sorry. You made this nice breakfast and now I’m ruining everything.”
She sniffed and took a napkin to dab her nose. “Tell me what you need to tell me. We all need to say these things, to get them out, or they fester like splinters inside us.”
“The thing is, when I tried to remember everything that happened, I’d start to feel like I was suffocating, and then everything would blur and it was too overwhelming. It was like a blackout, like a dream, how it made no sense. Just feelings and things, but not in any order.”
“And you remember now?”
“I do. And the weird thing is, Smith was trying to tell me, but I was still in denial. We were writing part of the book—well, I was typing it and he was pacing around behind me—and we got to this one part about this girl, named Sheri. She’s Detective Dunham’s new girlfriend in the novel. There was a teacher in her school who showed a lot of interest in her. She was his special student.” I looked down at my hands, remembering everything now through the filter of writing about it. “When we were in that part of the story, Smith was only dictating parts of it, to keep me going, but I wrote it. I wrote it from memory, everything that happened. And now it’s not a black hole anymore.”
My mother got up from her chair and came to stand behind me, her arms around my shoulders. “You’re so brave to talk about this. Not many women do.”
I crossed my arms over hers. “I’m okay, Mom! I swear. I had a bad dream last night, when the rest of it came back to me, but I think I’m going to be fine. A shitty thing happened to me, but shitty things happen, and we keep going.”
“So long as we have each other, yes. We keep going.”
I turned and kissed her hand. “Good. Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”
“You sure?”
“Yes! I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
She sat down and blew her nose, her tears stopped.
I poked at my food, wondering what Smith was doing at that moment.
My mother broke off a little chunk of bacon and put it in her mouth. “See, I can hardly taste this bacon,” she said. “That’s emotional trauma for you. Shuts off your senses.” She chewed some more. “Ah, good, it’s coming back.”
“Don’t be upset, Mom. This is a good thing, that I have a clear memory and a clear head.”
Her mouth twisted up in a grin. “Oh, that?” She took another bite of bacon. “Obviously, I’m traumatized because Detective Dunham has some new girlfriend named Sheri, and I honestly thought he was going to settle down with that nice girl, Hannah, from the last novel.”
She winked at me, and I had to laugh.
Part 6: Sweeping Up
Smith Wittingham
Montreal – Hotel Le St. James
As he’d expected, Tori was gone from the hotel penthouse. Gone, and no note—not that the situation had required one.
He looked at the broken lamp on the floor, and the mess he’d made, and he imagined himself ranting and raving like a lunatic—he saw himself through Tori’s eyes, and he didn’t like what he saw.
He searched through the penthouse and found a dustpan, then set to work cleaning up the broken glass of the lamp. What would Detective Dunham do in this situation? He wouldn’t go after the girl, that was for sure. The phone would ring, and he’d have a new case, a new mystery to solve. He’d find some new love interest to lose himself in.
Smith Wittingham did not write romance novels. He did not enjoy that particular brand of revenge fantasy. Revenge fantasy? Yes, that was how he saw them:
The man treats the woman like shit.
But she loves him, and keeps on giving him chance after chance to redeem himself.
He forgets to leave one night, and he wakes up in her arms and something clicks in his brain.
Now he’s in love with her, under her spell. The scent of her makes him lose his will to fight. She’s got him right where she wants him, gelded, and the poor sap will be pu**y-whipped for the rest of his days and nights. It’ll be his comeuppance for being such a dick, and all the women in all the world will be so happy, and the man will never be happy or free again.