Night Dynamics

This is the last story I will ever write. I lie in bed, dressed in the blue gown reserved for those on their way out. This time, I am the protagonist. Will I be torn apart by my editor’s all-consuming ambition, just like every character in my stories?

I pull the notebook closer, trying to escape his gaze. But it’s a pointless gesture—there’s no one else in this hospital room. Just me, the machine humming at my bedside, and the relentless drip of an IV that will do little to save me.

Not that I can really blame Gordon. When I signed that Faustian contract, I was sober. It must have been one of the rare moments of clarity that year because I still remember the fresh ink, the pressure of the pen against the paper, and the knot tightening in my stomach. And I remember, with absolute clarity, celebrating the signing with a stiff pour of whiskey.

Thanks to that deal, I paid off my debts and indulged in lowly pleasures. You know, the kind of things a guy like me does—where women, drugs, and alcohol are just words. Back then, I thought I had it all. Now, I have nothing. No dimly lit bars, no easy laughter from women, no bartenders who knew my drink by heart. Only my writing remains—if it even still belongs to me.

Rereading Night Dynamics or The Elevator for the last time, doubt seeps in. Gordon had stripped away every excess, every hesitation, rewrote the endings, and left behind a clean, sterile corpse. The worst part? They worked better that way.

Are those stories mine? Are they Gordon’s? Or are they nothing more than a tepid mathematical overlap of both?

Most of my (or should I say our) readers don’t care. I’ve become a symbol of dirty realism. They quote my lines, dissect my stories, debate my endings in writing groups—but none of them were there when Gordon gutted my work.

A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.

A young nurse steps in. Her green uniform outlines curves that, in another life, I wouldn’t have hesitated to claim as mine. Now, I can barely lift my eyes to meet hers. She recognizes me and smiles despite my jaundiced skin and swollen face. And without asking permission, she starts talking about how much my stories have meant to her—especially Alex’s final decision in Night Dynamics.

She asks me how I came up with it.

I close my eyes.

Somewhere in the background, the IV drip keeps marking the rhythm. Like a ruthless editor.

Damn you, Gordon!