Sometimes I lie in my articles but why would that make someone so angry? Someone scary.
I was writing an article for my column. I was telling about my journey to India where I had managed to accidentally get engaged to someone who was madly in love. The only way I had managed to escape a new life in India with a man I didn’t love (or really know) was by running to the airport under the pretence of going to the shop for some bread. Now I’m not being exactly truthful here, when I say my journey to India I actually mean my friend's journey to India and engagement to someone she didn’t know. Not that anyone will notice, no one ever does.
I write for a newspaper, a nationwide newspaper and I also have begun to sell my column to a newspaper in LA. They love reading about the life of a ‘normal’ person in Beverly Hills. That’s one of the things that makes me laugh about my readers, they actually think I do everything I write about. Or at least they give the impression they do. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful that they read my column, but it is mind-boggling. Just last week I wrote about my mother dying (actually the mother of my brother's wife) and this week I wrote about being in India. They must realize I can’t do it all, one week sky diving (I had a dentist appointment and my dentist had been on an Extreme Adventure Holiday), next week talking about a going on holiday to a little village in Scotland (I actually did that one, which ironically was the one my editor told me was a bit boring).
I reckon they know. They must. And if they don’t they can never find out. People know me, not by face or name, but by my column. Everyone calls me the Wandering Woman and if anyone find out I didn’t actually do as much wondering or had as much life experience as my column claims I think the Daily Mail would have a field day. I can see the headlines now: WANDERING WOMAN? MORE LIKE LYING WOMAN. Or something similar. It’s not like I’m using my alias to fund a life of crime and drugs or child slavery but lying is lying and I would be butchered alive if any one found out. That’s if they don’t already know.
Suddenly inspiration has joined me and my ponderings and I find myself scribbling down the rest of my article. I sit back as soon as it’s done and take a gulp from my now lukewarm coffee. I love the feeling of finishing an column, it's like a high. I have completed something and people will be reading it over their cornflakes next week. Yet another insight into my mind for everyone to enjoy. I deicided to go shopping to celebrate completing my work and as I stood up and grabbed my handbag a bullet whizzes by my head. I turn, shocked, to look at the origin of the bullet but I couldn't see the origin. Chaos is breaking out all around me, no one had become the unlucky new home of the bullet.
I manage to push myself through the fleeing crowd and fall against a wall around the corner. As I stand there, panting, realisation hits me: someone just tried to kill me. Questions immediately follow this fact. Why? Who? I reach into my handbag to grab my phone; I need to talk to someone. My fingers touch something smooth. I pull out a black stone with a piece of paper attached to it. I unwrap the paper to find myself looking at a message written in black, large handwriting.
“I know. I know who you are. And I know about your deception. Don’t worry I won’t tell. I have other ideas. Next time I won’t miss.”
A shiver ran down my spine like fingers playing the piano and I involuntarily glanced around even though I knew I was alone. Some one was after me. What did they know? It could be the fact that I don’t do everything in my column, why would someone want to kill over something as unimportant as that? The answers stayed out of reach for me but that was pretty irrelevant. Someone wanted me dead. That was really the only thing I should be thinking about. Someone knew about my deception. Whatever that deception might be.