FicWad

A glimmer, a mere candleflame in comparison to the bonfire of happiness he used to experience with Her, was felt. It conflicted with his feeling of disconnection, confusing him in just the slightest. It never showed about the surface, though. Never crossed his physical appearance. Trapped within his mysterious depths, never to see the light of day, only the camoflage of darkness.

They sat down, the author and the talk show hostess. He was nervous but trying his best not to show it. His wrists itched; they were in plain view. It was only a matter of time before someone watched close enough to realize there were scars. And when that happened...

"So, c'mon, Mr. Big Shot! Tell us about your book! And you know we've all been dieing to know who let somoene like you slip away like that," the hostess squealed, excited to have him on her show.

He laughed, hiding everything. "Well, what would you all like to know? It was started about three years ago, quickly grrew into what it is today. Took an entire year to find someone crazy to publish a no name kid with his only background in writing being a short horror published in some obscure magazine no one ever heard of," he looked into the camera and winked slyly. "That's right, Dill, I called you crazy. Thanks for the chance of a lifetime."

Crowd clapped and a few cheers, but it died somewhat quickly. The prodigy author spoke, smiled, even winked. Fantastic.



"This is the same man I talked to over the phone yesterday?" She whispered to herself as she watched him from the audiance. "He looks happy."



"That answered my first question," the hostess told him with a smile, "but how about my second? Who let such a handsome, young, and undeniably talented man go?"

He frowned. The glimmer of happiness fled, running off to hide somewhere else, deep within the author. In his current state, in such an extreme case of disassociation, he wondered why he ever attempted to pretend to be happy - who gives a fuck? He felt his mood completely spin, flipping from a cheerful cover to the possibility of his mask falling off. The curtains to fall, and the true play to begin.

"Who? Someone who was my life. The best person who not only made me the happiest man in the world, but who ultimately hurt me the most. Do you have any idea? Even the slimmest idea of. . ." He stopped himself. It seemed as if the entire world went dead silent. The tv cameras drank it up like someone who spent days in the desert and was just handed fresh water. He felt doomed.


In the audience, she was as speechless as everyone else, her mind racing. This will not end well, oh no. she thought morbidly.


The hostess was unsure how to respond. She had not been expecting that, she had not known what to expect, to be truthful, but she had definantly not been expecting that. She had to save this, somehow.

"I'm sorry for your loss. Truly, I am. Don't you think that maybe it wasn't all bad, though? Your book has done wonderful things for people - along with the money you've earned. You know your donations aren't as secret as you think they are, right? Hehe." She tried to get him to laugh.

He knew enough, just barely, but enough, to respond in a way that wont get him in trouble. He was thinking one thing, but I'm not happy, so who gives a fuck? but realized how selfish that was, so instead he said, "I've recieved letters daily, not exactly a flood - I'm not that good - but more than enough to realize I've done some good. I'm happy that I've managed to help people."

I just wish I could be happy, too

"Hey, you know what'll cheer you up? We have someone in the audiance who claims you've helped her through a very hard time in her life with your book. She's been dieing to meet you. What do you say?"

That wasn't mentioned backstage, or in the agreement to come to the talk show. He was not warned, not told, not even briefly heard about meeting a fan onstage. He didn't know how to truly reaction, so he fell into safe-mode. Smiled, looking at the hostess and nodded. "I would love to meet her."

The hostess smiled and stood up, looking out into the crowd. She called out a fake name that no one knew was actually a fake, not even the hostess knew. ". . . come on down!"



She stood up, knees weak, head spinning, feeling faint. What if he recognizes me? Why am I doing this? She questioned her motives and her ability to walk even as she made her way down the steps toward the stage. This is the closest I've been to him in three years. Please, don't let him realize its me. I can't hurt him again.