Mirthless

“You’re going to lose this job, Khloe,” Carl stated gravely. “And I’ll be sorry to see it happen.”

I wasn’t even in the mood for this. “Carl, please. Not now.”

“Then when, Khloe?!”

His yell caught me off guard and I lifted my head. He looked mad, but more than that, he looked confused.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked, my voice trembling just as heavily as the leaves of the oak tree outside my window.

“I want you to tell me what is happening. I want you to tell me why you switched to this genre of writing and have refused to switch back even though your career has taken a backlash because of it?”

I took a deep breath, willing my voice to be still, and looked at him. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

I buried my face in my hands as I spoke. “I just can’t.”
Carl ambled over to me. “We’ve known each other since high school, Khloe. You can tell me anything. Anything at all. And I promise you, even if I can’t solve it, I’ll know someone who can.”

I chuckled. “I doubt anyone can help me. But I’ll tell you. You might need to grab a seat for this.”

I could tell Carl was locked in because he had his chair beside mine in less than a second and a look of wonderment already etched on his face. I nearly laughed again, but my sad reality quietened me. Taking another deep breath, I began to tell him. From the very beginning.

---

My Mom always knew about my gift of writing. But she always had a sad expression on her face anytime she mentioned it, always adding, “I just hope it’s not your Nana’s gift,” at the end. I was seven then and Nana had died two years before. I remember asking Mom severally why she always said that but she never responded. Only instructing that I should only write when I was happy.

I didn’t know what she meant but I did what she said. If I was sad, even though my spirit would be bursting for an outlet, I never wrote. Till Mother died shortly after my seventeenth birthday, I did as she asked. And then I stopped and started writing in all times. When I was happy, when I was sad. And that’s when my talent truly flourished.

From then till college and afterwards, it was one win after the other. People loved my stories, especially since I’d found my niche which was writing tragedies. Somehow I was able to whip up a story sadder than life itself even when I was in the best of moods. It wasn’t until two things happened in my life that I realized something was wrong. I was already a bestselling author then and working with one of the best publishing houses in the country. And then my dog died.

I didn’t have a lot of friends and Mandy had been more than a pet but a companion. Losing her hit me so hard and I thought I was never going to recover from it. But then, six months later, my best friend, Courtney, died. As I cried that day beside her body, mangled from being crushed by a hit and run car, a lady nurse came to me. And in her way of comforting me, said, “It’s alright, sweetie. These things happen. Just like Diane in your book. We could lose the people closest to us in ways just as bad.”

My sobs died in my throat as I turned to stare at the nurse. Misunderstanding my bewildered look, she immediately apologised for what she’d said. But as I ran back home like a woman possessed that day, I realized why there was something nearly familiar about seeing my best friend’s mangled body. Because I’d seen this happen before. I’d written it myself.

Instinctively, I went to my Mom’s old box that I never opened even after she’d died. And then I saw the letter. I screamed, and burst into tears when I was done reading because I’d uncovered the mystery. In that letter was my Mom’s apology and reason why she never wanted me writing when I was sad. Because I had Nana’s gift. The terrible gift that turned every tragic story I wrote into reality. But she thought not writing when I was sad would guarantee that I only wrote happy things.

And then my life began to play like a poorly written movie. From the story I’d written when I was seventeen for Greek Tragedy class about a little girl who’d lost her Mom to a heart attack, to the story I’d written ten years later about fictitious Catherine who’d lost her dog to poison meant for rats and then to Diane, the protagonist’s best friend who got mangled by a car. I realized it then, that I had singlehandedly caused the deaths of the people I loved because of the stories I wrote. All because of this sick gift.

And now I was suffering backlash because I’d immediately switched genres to sappy, happy endings and now my readers were on my neck because of how terribly written they were. But how could I continue writing tragedies when that spelt disaster for anyone I knew? And maybe even those I didn’t. Now I had to make a choice. Lose my entire career or cause more disaster with my writings.

---

Carl stared at me like I had horns growing from my ears.

“You were right,” he finally muttered.

“About what?”

“What you said in the beginning. I doubt anyone can help you.”

I laughed, long and mirthlessly. Was I truly doomed?

Jhymi🖤

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