Dear World:

Charity has only one explanation for why her boyfriend vanished into thin air.

Dear World:
by Deidre A. H.

 

“You seem quieter today,” Dr. Willard said observantly; gently.

 

    “Yeah,” whispered Charity.

 

    He leaned forward so his elbows rested upon his knees, clasping his hands together.  “What’s on your mind?”

 

    She took a steadying breath.  The question was like a jump-start to her brain, but instead of gearing her up to roll into smooth explanation, her thoughts exploded about, some vanishing into an unknown distance in the back of her mind.

 

    Charity Birmingham sat on a psychiatrist’s couch, staring at the armrest to her left without actually seeing it.  This office was unlike any other she had visited prior in the past two years:  there was no official couch often seen in movies—in fact, the décor was more akin to a college student’s studio apartment, with old furniture and a computer desk in the corner.  Unlike a college student, however, there were plaques and official recognitions on the walls.  Surrounding those were the crayon drawings and finger paintings pinned to the wall; creations of children usually no more than eight years old (which could be easily assumed as most were signed with a first name and a single-digit number).

 

    Dr. Jacob Willard remained comfortable seated in a leather swivel chair, facing away from the desk and watching her from across the twelve-by-eight-foot room.  He appeared younger than one would have expected from a man of his science; no older than forty, though he had claimed to be thirty-six in his first session with Charity.  He was a stocky man with a round, kind face children could easily trust—which was convenient, as he was normally a child’s psychiatrist.

 

    Charity was only seeing him because her previous sessions with female doctors had done her little to no good.  While talking to another woman was far more comfortable, it had also done her absolutely no good.  In her experience, males tended to be more open-minded and receptive to new ideas.  And the only male specialist she could afford to see was basically a children’s playmate.

 

    So here she was, nervously clutching a well-loved teddy bear in her lap, praying Dr. Willard would hear her entire story—and theories behind it—out through the end.

 

    Dr. Willard allowed the young woman to collect her composure.  It was strange, receiving a request to counsel an adult, but he would not deny anyone his service if they truly believed seeing him would help.  He made sure to always, at the first session, to inform every one of his patients that if they felt he was not helping them, for any reason, they should feel free to find another psychiatrist who would be of more assistance.  It was no different with Charity.

 

    Their first session had not shown anything significant other than the fact she was devastated over her ex-boyfriend’s death, and how he had died.  She had frequent nightmares that usually involved in abandonment of some kind.

 

    And it was a shame, because Charity was an unusually beautiful young woman.  She possessed the curves the current media frowned upon, but would have been adored by fans of Marilyn Monroe.  Tight black curls fell down her shoulders and nearly to her waist, providing curtain on either side of the bear she had brought with her.  She rarely looked at him, preferring the walls to his face,but her eyes were probably brown and were definitely outlined with thick lashes.

 

    After a tense pause, Charity said, “He always had ideas, but I never really believed them until now.”

 

    “Your ex-boyfriend?”

 

    “Yeah.”

 

    Dr. Willard nodded, straightening up and turning to flip back a page on a yellow notepad lying on his desk.  After a moment of scanning, he said, “His name was Craig, correct?”

 

    Charity murmured an agreement.

 

    He turned back to her, his expression remaining neutrally gentle.  “You told me he talked about unusual subjects, but you never mentioned any particular ideas before.  What sort of ideas?”  His fingertips scanned the desk behind him until he found a pencil.  “Death?  Suicide?”

 

    “Yes—I mean . . . sort of,” Charity finally stammered.  “Not that, more like . . . more like nonexistence.”

 

    “I see.”  Dr. Willard tapped the pen against the plastic curve of the chair’s armrest.  Not once did he take his eyes off her, though he was itching to take notes.  “Was Craig very religious?”

 

    Charity shook her head firmly.  “No.  He told me he was raised Methodist, but he ever since I’ve known him he hasn’t believed God or any sort of higher being.”

 

    Saying so brought back bittersweet memories of high school; meeting Craig right before the summer of her freshman year, the day she asked him out sophomore’s winter, graduating two years later, and discussions of engagement right before they had begun college.  Good memories, back when they had still believed in a future together.  Back when everything had still been normal.

 

    The psychiatrist’s probing voice shook her back to the present.  “When did he start talking about not existing?”

 

    Charity leaned her head against the back of the couch, comforting herself by squeezing the teddy bear.  “I guess around fall, three years ago.  We were supposed to be married this summer, you know,” she added distractedly.

 

    Dr. Willard’s sympathy was genuine.  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.  Charity shook her head and waved the needless apology off.

 

    “A couple years ago he started explaining it all to me.  Then, well. . . .”  She lifted her hands helplessly.

 

    “He passed on,” supplied Dr. Willard.

 

    “He didn’t die,” said Charity, bluntly.

 

    Now Dr. Willard broke eye contact with her, turning back to his desk and scanning through his notes.  After a couple patient minutes, he said, “You told me the police reports say he most likely committed suicide—”

 

    “But they have no proof,” she insisted.  “No body.”

 

    After another pause, he continued, “It says here they believe the evidence behind the suicide was his frequent talk of death.”

 

    “It wasn’t suicide,” she said.  “And he didn’t talk about death, he talked about nonexistence.”

 

    Dr. Willard didn’t reply immediately.

 

    Steadily growing agitated, Charity pulled at the teddy bear’s ears.  The hardest part was yet to come, and she wanted to hurry up and get it out of the way.  She wanted to know if someone, anyone, believed her.  If they did, or if they at least found her story more plausible than the others . . . well, she wasn’t sure what she would do, but she hoped the nightmares would begin to fade as much as the details of Craig’s face were beginning to.

 

    Finally, he scribbled something down and turned his attention back to her.  Without having to be prompted, Charity began to share what Craig had told her just nights before he had vanished.

 

    “The smallest thing in the world is supposed to be an atom.  Technically, we’re all made up of atoms, right?”  She never waited for an agreement.  “But according to fundamental science, they’re not all packed together, they’re spaced out.  But what’s filling that space?  There can’t just be space in between, right?  How much space is between?  Not to mention, particles can be in two places at once.  Who’s to say we’re not in two places at once, like doppelgangers?  Or any other object, like that desk,” she said breathlessly, pointing to the furniture behind Dr. Willard.  “There are others just like it, right?  But what if they’re all just one desk, only existing in all different places at once?  Who can disprove that?  There’s only so much the human mind can consciously register and understand.”

 

    Dr. Willard waited as she took a moment to catch her breath before he spoke.  “Those are interesting ideas.”

 

    Charity nodded.  “Craig told me he spent hours, days just thinking about these things.  He said one day he’d understand how the entire universe works, and when he did, everything would stop existing.  Nothing would be real anymore.  There wouldn’t be emotions, wouldn’t be objects, wouldn’t be anything.  The entire universe would just go back to its former nonexistent state.”

 

    “And you think he believed this?”

 

    “Yes,” she said simply.

 

    “And do you believe this caused his . . .” Dr. Willard paused to choose his words carefully.  “ . . . disappearance?”

 

    Now came the difficult part, the part where she stated her actual suspicions of what had happened to Craig.  This was the theory she had clung to for months, and the theory that had all her friends and family—even the detective who had involved herself in Craig’s vanishing—to seek professional help.

 

    “I think,” she said succinctly, “that he figured it out.  I think when he finally did believe it, without any doubts, that it really did happen.”  She drew in a steadying breath before finishing in almost a whisper.  “I think he stopped existing.”

 

    Dr. Willard tapped the pen against the chair again, this time slowly as he stared at a point past her head, frowning. He sunk into deep thought, sorting out all he had just heard.

 

    Charity dug her nails into the teddy bear, holding her breath in anticipation.  The only wish she had resonated throughout her body, making the tips of her fingers and toes tingle, bringing wetness to her eyes.  Please believe me, please believe. . . .

 

    Slowly, Dr. Willard said, “And what convinces you so much that he really stopped existing?”

 

    Hope clutched her throat so tightly, for a moment Charity couldn’t find her voice.  She managed to choke out, “Because for no reason at all, he told me he didn’t love me anymore, and he wasn’t sorry because he couldn’t be.”

 

    Repeating his words, even if paraphrased, knifed a whole different kind of pain in her heart.  All the times he had said he loved her, the talk of engagement and perhaps even one day living together, all had been tossed aside in favor of his fervent search for understanding.  Charity believed that it wasn’t until he had truly detached himself from this world that he finally had achieved the ultimate knowledge.  Only instead of manipulating it, as he had mentioned was possible, he had lost control and given in to the unwritten laws of physics and simply ceased to be.

 

    “Well.”  Silence, except for the tapping of the pen.  “I don’t suppose you think that—”

 

    “He wasn’t cheating on me,” she said tersely, collapsing back into the couch.  Her eyes stung with new tears, this time of frustration.  She tried to hide it by staring down at the bear she had nearly torn in half.

 

    She was still the only one who believed Craig.

 

    Awkward silence fell.  Dr. Willard glanced around uncomfortably.  This was one reason he had chosen child psychology over adult.  Children were, in so many ways, so much simpler to deal with—and their temperaments didn’t much change between the boys and girls.

 

    Dr. Willard continually checked his watch until, minutes later, he said with a note of relief, “It looks like we’ll have to wrap this up.  Do you want to set up another appointment before we go?”

 

    Charity stood, dropping the tattered teddy to the floor.  “No,” she muttered.  “Thanks anyway.”

 

    “Well,” said Dr. Willard uncertainly, “Good luck.”

 

    Charity barely heard the words, as she was already out of the office and down the hallway.

 

 

    Jacob Willard welcomed the coming of autumn by opening the window of his office and inhaling the crisp smell of browning leaves and falling fruits.  He had gone over the day’s schedule upon arriving, and found it to be quite pleasant.  He had six appointments; one with a young boy he was pleased to say was making remarkable improvement since the beginning of their sessions.

 

    Although Charity’s case early last winter had been something he viewed as an unfortunate failure on his part, he also knew it was because he far better associated with the child mind.  Deciphering adult mentality was not his forte.

 

    The distant sound of arguing caught his attention.  Curious, Willard cracked his office door to peer down the hall and toward Samantha’s desk.  Instead of seeing his secretary behind the desk, however, he saw her in the hallway arguing with a fiery middle-aged woman.

 

    The woman glanced up and noticed him immediately.  She ceased exchanging words with Samantha and barreled toward him, pushing the protesting secretary aside.  Alarmed, Willard stepped out and closed the door behind him.

 

    “Ma’am, if there is anything I can do to assist—”

 

    “What did she tell you?” the woman asked in a wavering voice.  Willard eyed her in wordless confusion, and the woman burst into tears.  “What did Charity tell you?”

 

    “Mrs. Birmingham, please,” he said, trying to keep his voice gentle but firm, as he did when one of his patients was beginning to lose control of his or her emotions.  Over the woman’s shoulders, Samantha raised her hands in a helpless, frustrated gesture.  Willard nodded once to excuse her, and then turned his attention back to the hysterical woman at hand.  “When your daughter signed up for sessions, she and I entered a contract which states—”

 

    “But my daughter is dead!”

 

    The news startled him as it always did on the occasion one of his patients—current or former—passed on.  Perhaps it was fortunate he had not formed any sort of connection other than mildly professional with Charity, because he was able to keep a level state of mind.

 

    “Mrs. Birmingham,” he repeated gently.  “I am sorry for your loss, but even in the event of death, I am not at liberty to break that contract.  I can’t tell you what Charity and I discussed during our time together, professionally.”

 

    As though she hadn’t heard him, Charity’s mother thrust out her hands.  Clasped between her thumbs and forefingers was an envelope.  On the smooth white front was written, “Dear World:” and nothing else.  A strange sense of foreboding settled over the two of them as Willard slowly accepted the offered paper.  He turned it over, finding that it had been sealed but crudely torn open across the top, as though the finder had been desperate to learn of its contents.

 

    “I found it beneath her pillow,” Charity’s mother hiccupped, answering his unspoken question.  “I haven’t given it to the police . . . I don’t want my daughter being remembered as a suicide. . . .”  At the final word she choked up and began to sob.

 

    Feeling lightheaded and oddly detached, Willard reached inside and found a piece of blank sheet paper, folded three times over, neat, straight, and precise.  Unfolding it revealed looping handwriting that proved just as concise as the origami.

 

    If you’re reading this and I’ve disappeared, then it happened.
    I believed.
    - Charity

Reviews

[Susan S.]

Two things struck me about this story. The first is that the story telling is impeccable. I wasn't hooked by the first sentence, but damn near! I loved that you wove the actions of the characters and descriptions of the scenes throughout the telling, keeping it almost sublimated to the spoken word. I felt the fearful, hopeful, desperate quaver in her voice as she talked of her boyfriend. You have a colossal talent in your storytelling ability.

The second thing is that you really need to take some classes in grammar and sentence structure. Normally I'm not much of a stickler for staying in sync with the English department. Lord knows I don't always get it right! But this story almost felt dictated, such was the dichotomy between story and writing.

There is a great series of articles by Lawrence Watt-Evans that talks about being a writer. In Article #9 he explains the tools of writing much better than I can. http://www.watt-evans.com/soyouwanttobeawriter9.html take it to heart. "Elements of Grammar" by Strunk and White should become your best friend. If you can just learn the basic tools of writing a bit better, I predict you'll rock the SF world.

[Leah Elisabeth]

This was a well though out story and your imagery is great. I definitely think there is some work that needs to be done with your grammer and sentence structure. You have a great story to tell, but your framing is not as good. You had a good intro. I was hooked from the beginning, but some of your mistakes distracted me from what your story could have been.

[Ice Queen of the Vampir..]

Wow.....this is a very interesting and fascinating story. The writing is just amazing and I really liked it. Awesome job!!!

Heather

This was very intriguing, you've created quite an intrictae plot and managed to keep up suspense without dragging things out and being nostalgic, I particularly love the last part for the suspense factor, and the very last lines (the letter) were short and to the point and to be able to create a good impact with that is better than waffling on, good work here! well done! :) xx

[LRoneous]

great storytelling. (i peeked at the featured review before i started reading and) upon finishing this fascinating piece i am reminded of something that a person i consider a great writer once told me when i was younger; "there are no rules a great story should adhere to..." you're very talented. thank you...

[Roberta Weth]

Thank you taking the time to enter in my contest I came here to wish you luck and say that this is a lovely story.
~Bobbi

[Emily B]

Oh, my! It's just that kind of a day. I can't be surprised by the ending of this story at all. I enjoyed this read very much.