Author: Joann Evan
One morning, I received a suspicious email. The subject line said “King Crimson.” The sender was “No One,” and when I rolled over the name it showed only random letters and numbers. I knew I shouldn’t open it. It was probably a scam. I clicked delete.
I worked through the morning, thinking about the email. How did No One know me? I sometimes used King Crimson’s “Larks’ Tongues in Aspic” as a litmus test for friends and lovers. As a result, I had few of either.
At one o’clock, I went downstairs and turned on the kettle for my afternoon tea. I opened the cupboard to get my mug and saw an unfamiliar jar of aspic on a sparsely populated shelf. My throat tightened.
I opened the door to get some air, and I saw a dead bird on the welcome mat. It was a lark. Maybe it was a gift from the neighborhood stray. But it hadn’t been in a cat’s mouth. It was intact.
I shuddered. No One had been in my yard and my home. The kettle whistled. I poured my tea and went back upstairs. What would I do if No One were here?
I looked at my email again. I opened the trash folder and searched for the message. It was gone. I scrolled through my inbox and saw another message, but this time it read, “King Crimson. Open Me.” I clicked. The screen flashed bright red. I sat stunned and breathless. Then, “Larks’ Tongues in Aspic” began to play. No One was serenading me.
I panicked and turned around. I saw No One. I let out a bloodcurdling scream as the music slowly approached its crescendo.
“Hello,” said No One.
I sat and stared.
“I said ‘Hello,’” No One repeated.
Trembling, I said, “Hello?”
No One picked me up and lifted me over his shoulder. He set me gently on the bed.
“I love you,” whispered No One.
“Who are you?”
“I’m No One. I’ve come to tell you that No One loves you.”
I reached out and touched No One’s face. It was smooth and pale, almost translucent. I began to weep. I rubbed my eyes and looked at my hands. They were covered in red glitter. I sobbed and glitter slid down my cheeks and into my long hair. Glitter trickled down my shirt and into my lap. Soon glitter was everywhere.
“No One cares for you,” he said as he leaned in and kissed me. We rolled in the glitter. It stuck to my skin, and began to burn. The more it burned, the more I cried. Molten glitter poured from my dark and frightened eyes.
“You did this to me!” I screamed.
“You’re right. No One did this to you.”
The music ceased. I stopped crying. No One did this to me.
I looked in the mirror, and the glitter had begun to harden. It still stung. I turned around, and no one was there.