Sacrifices

Part I: Sell Your Soul.

“Hello?” she said as I anchored my eyes to hers, pulling them away from the small black leather bound notebook she was furiously scribbling in. It was a sturdy journal with bone-colored paper filled with a flourished cursive script that didn’t look human.

“Oh-sorry, what were you saying?” I responded meekly.

“I said this is going to be simple and painless. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

She was a distinguished looking woman, with stark white hair and fashionable clothes, seated at an ornate antique writing desk. I was cradled in a plush velvet armchair facing her.

Early morning light was pouring in from the window, coating the room in a thick, bleak stillness. There was a refurbished phonograph in the corner droning grand orchestral music, but the sound was dampened by the imposition of the dawn.

“Okay,” I said.

“Tell me about yourself,” she began.

“Well, I’m twenty two years old. I graduated from college last year and now work as a receptionist at a publishing house. I also take on some odd jobs from time to time, hence me being here,” I explained.

She didn’t look at me as I spoke, just nodded and continued to write in her notebook - filling up page after page.

After a moment she asked, “What interested you in taking this interview?”

“I thought that this would be an enriching experience since, long-term, I’d like to be a writer too.”

She stopped to look at me, tearing herself from her diligent note-taking.

“I see, well if you’re trying to be a writer I suspect the easy money is a welcome benefit,” she retorted and smirked.

I hid a wince and laughed nervously in response.

“I remember when I first got started and the struggle it was to get published,” she mused, “I was pretty self-important when I was young. I thought I had something really special. At least until I got my first round of rejection letters.”

“How did you get your first book published?” I inquired.

“Nepotism.”

“Really?”

“I had a rich uncle who knew someone,” she admitted, “I was convinced that the only way to succeed was to sell your soul. So that’s what I did.”

Her brow furrowed as she continued to write. Something in the way she enunciated her words signaled I shouldn’t press the issue. It sounded guttural, sinister.

“Do you like the music?” she abruptly changed the subject. I took a moment to focus on the music from the phonograph. It was jarring, alien, and angry.

“I’ve never heard anything like it,” I answered.

“It’s a ballet called the Rite of Spring. It’s about a Russian pagan ritual where a young girl sacrifices herself by dancing until she dies,” she explained.

“That’s scary-” I started to say.

“It inspired my next novel,” she said sharply, “The crowd on opening night was so disturbed they started a riot. Stravinsky persevered by adapting it to an orchestral version and was regarded as a genius. I admire his dedication to the story, and his bravery.”

“It is an interesting story,” I conceded.

She nodded and continued with the interview. She asked various baseline questions about my life, my interests, my beliefs, before moving on to scenario based questions. All while writing incessantly.

Her hand was mad as it scratched the pen over each page. It was a haunting yet beautiful display, a terrible hypnosis. At times she focused directly on me and still managed to write in her perfect script with alarming speed.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why did you put up this job listing?” I said to disrupt myself from the trance.

“It’s a part of my process when I’m developing a protagonist. I believe it gives me a more nuanced, and frankly, realistic perspective. I’ve done this for each of my books so far.”

“I see,” I pondered.

“I’ve only got one more question and then you can leave,” she stated.

“Yes?”

“What would you do if you suddenly came into a lot of money?” she asked, eyes intent on my face.

I considered it for a while and then said, “I’d pay off my student debt.”

“How much is it?” she pressed.

“About $20,000,” I answered.

“I’ll pay it.”

“What?”

“I’ll pay off your student debt for you. As thanks for this interview,” she said dismissively.

“You can’t be serious,” I remarked in disbelief. She didn’t deign to respond but simply pulled out her checkbook and assuredly handed me a twenty thousand dollar check.

“I can’t accept this,” I protested, attempting to hand it back to her. The paper grew heavy in my hand and seared into my flesh as if I’d touched a hot skillet.

“You can and you will. I’m not taking it back,” she ordered, “My only request is for you to return here in a week for a follow up interview.”

“That’s all?” I responded. I searched her face for deception and only found the same intense seriousness in her features.

“I’m going to start writing and I’ll inevitably have some more questions as I get into the text. Plus, I’d like to hear what you did with the money,” she gave a half smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Okay.”

Part II: Was It Worth It?

“So tell me, how did you spend the money?”

It was a week later and I had returned to the velvet armchair. It was dusk and the dizzying afternoon heat was thick in the air. A light layer of sweat pooled on my skin and turned the lush fabric into pinpricks beneath me.

“I-I spent it all,” I said through a strained voice. It felt like I was choking on sand.

“On your student debt?” she asked.

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t pay my loans off...I honestly don’t know what happened. I wasted it all,” I couldn’t bring myself to look at her so I stared intently at my hands. I pushed away the thought that they didn’t look like my hands anymore.

“So, how did you spend the money?” she questioned again. It sounded like she was trying to be sympathetic but there was something off in her tone. Was it apathy?

Contentment?

“I don’t know what happened, it was like I couldn’t control myself. I’m so sorry, I have never been like this. Ever. I’m so sorry,” I pleaded.

“It’s alright,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” I countered.

I stood up and paced furiously about the room. The dense humidity was boiling me alive. I was all sweat and unwelcome tears.

“How did it feel? Wasting all of the money?” she asked as she stood and started pacing with me. She matched her steps with mine until we were perfectly in sync.

My mind was racing as I said, “I don’t know, at some points I had fun. Although, I knew what I was doing was irresponsible but I-I couldn’t stop. I felt I had no choice and then...then the money was gone.”

“I’m glad.”

“What?”

I exclaimed and, in a rush, threw her into the wall of the study. I felt something had pushed me to clutch her. Dragging my alien hands along without giving me a choice. I was horrified.

Despite my rage, there was a satisfied look on her face that made me sick.

Even though I was holding her to the wall she was still somehow writing, same as she always had. But, I was close enough to read now.

In a fit of rage that she won’t yet understand, she will throw me against the wall and hold me there. She will be allowed to look into my notebook and see what I’ve been up to. She’s reading it now and is terrified to know what is going on. The realization will click that I’ve taken her agency. She will look up at me and-

I move my attention from the page to look at her, just as she wrote right in front of me, and let her go.

I stepped back in abject horror. I was burning up, dissolving in my own inferno.

“It’s nothing personal,” she said, “It’s for my book. I needed to see my protagonist experience the story in real time.”

I started to cry and curse, fear and desperation washed over me. This must be what hell feels like, I thought. Although I didn’t know if that thought was my own anymore.

“Paying off loans would have been useless. I just wanted you to have some fun before you came back. Plus, I needed to know how strong my hold was,” she explained.

She wrote a few more lines in the notebook and then stopped suddenly.

“It’s over,” she said as she handed the notebook back to me.

She takes the notebook and reads what I have written for her to do. She will set down the notebook on the desk and begin to dance. She won’t stop until she is dead.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get to live forever in my novel. You’ll be immortal,” she said to me. I wanted to spit in her face.

Fire thrust through my veins as I attempted to resist but the more I struggled the more the pain worsened. Defying her only slowed the torture.

I dejectedly set down the notebook on the writing desk and felt myself begin to dance.

“Your sacrifice is much appreciated.”