A Tale about the Anonymous

Well, let me tell you another interesting tale. Last night was tedious and as I sat sipping my coffee early this morning admiring the huge collection of books which I have no memory of writing except for one, strangely, my door bell rang. It was the beautiful lady that I had called for an audition the other day. Just like Mr Haemarth, I want my books to be made into movies. I gorged out my best piece of all times, 'The Persian Brunette' in which I wanted to cast my beautiful model for the role of my leading lady. She had brought me a bouquet of white roses with a card attached to it – "Thank you, Mrs. Crystal A Steen."

It's a shame for someone like Mr. Haemarth to stoop this low. I'm talking about the article in today's paper - "Writer manifests own thriller: kills five". His passion for thrillers already looked suspicious when he singlehandedly released two volumes of "The Dead" in a brief span of sixty days. Now, things have really gone out of hand. It's an unfortunate disclosure for his readers who were anticipating the third book of the series which was taking forever to come out. I too read the first two volumes and knew something was wrong. Seriously wrong. They were too authentic to be fictional.

Dr Paedro, the protagonist of his series earned a plenitude of accolades and Mr Haemarth never backed off relating the fictional hero with himself. He also commented on several occasions that Dr Paedro was his alter ego. Now with five dead bodies lying in his backyard and an incomplete script of the third book where Dr Paedro turns out to be the antagonist, many heads turned to him.

In his latest interrogation, he was seen insisting how he was being framed and the actual murderer was Emithy. Emithy? That's too farfetched in my opinion. She is still an amateur who has no identity of her own because nobody takes her seriously. No, it can't be her, she is yet to have a brush with fame. But the convict is still unshakable in his belief solely based on their last meeting which was not a pleasant one. He got riled up over a silly dispute. She had just gone to gift him a book which he could have politely declined instead of throwing her out of his empire, as he liked to call it.

Well, let me tell you another interesting tale. Last night was tedious and as I sat sipping my coffee early this morning admiring the huge collection of books which I have no memory of writing except for one, strangely, my door bell rang. It was the beautiful lady that I had called for an audition the other day. Just like Mr Haemarth, I want my books to be made into movies. I gorged out my best piece of all times, 'The Persian Brunette' in which I wanted to cast my beautiful model for the role of my leading lady. She had brought me a bouquet of white roses with a card attached to it – "Thank you, Mrs. Crystal A Steen." I accepted it humbly. It looked like we were each other's first choices. She was willing to play the brunette that gets ruthlessly slain by an old covetous woman. But there's a twist, I forgot to mention two things - one, the movie would probably never make it to the screens and two, she would have to die. Just like those five fools who came to audition for the 'The dead.'

Nobody will ever know how I planned and executed it. I had it in my mind. I like my thrillers served real but Mr Haemarth never realised what he was dealing with until he unscrupulously plagiarized two full volumes of my books, the third one of which he couldn't lay his hands on. So he must pay the price in lieu of the success he had stolen from me. I quickly finished my business deal with the brunette and marked a special note on the second unfinished draft of the same series. Before I called it a day, I wanted to see my criminal one last time so I took the keys and drove straight, not to the police station (mind you!) but to the hospital. In one of the posh infirmary beds, lay my dear patient, a greedy looking old lady. I brought her some presents- a bouquet of white bloody roses with her name Mrs. Crystal A Steen attached and my unfinished volume of 'The Persian Brunette', the first part of which she shamelessly stole from me. My visit was once again disregarded by the covetous sister of silly Haemarth. But this time she had fear in her eyes. She was petrified to be defeated by someone who had no identity, someone who wasn't taken seriously by anyone. I bet she remembered my name when her heart felt sudden tremors at the sight of her brother's condition and that's probably the actual reason of her sudden stroke.

I bet nobody knows my name. I was Dr Paedro aka Mr Haemarth when I partly buried the bodies at his backyard. I was Mrs. Crystal when I killed the brunette. I was anonymous when the duo took advantage of me and my ideas. I'm anonymous when you read my stories under someone else's name. Tonight and like most nights, I'm Emithy, waiting for the news to flash in tomorrow's paper – "Writer's sister hides dead body of a model in wardrobe."

The interesting part is, they will never know how I did it. It's my story. I executed it. It's always in my mind and I will never complete it.

And if they find out, they will finally take me seriously.

By: Nirmali Medhi

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