“James Burnham was shot and killed yesterday,” the reporter on the TV says as James pours himself coffee, smirking—“

Nellie raised her hand. “I’m sorry, can you clarify that sentence? I don’t understand the protagonist’s motivation.”

Charlotte felt her heart sink into her stomach, already quesy from too many snickerdoodles and eggnog. One of her manuscript pages slid out of her hand onto the floor.

“Well, the idea is, that James Burnham is still alive and thus his “faking death” plan seems to be working…” Charlotte replied.

“Huh,” Nellie said. “Interesting take on the prompt.”

Charlotte thought about this, later, when watching the police report about Nellie’s inexplicable death by an unknown gunman.

[Author’s note: I do not endorse violence of this type. 😬]

He laughed this must be a joke Fake news What the world remember never if I’m dead If nothing it does not matter I’m happy as I am If they think I’m dead I’ve finally got no more crazy fans no more news Thecwytjd cab finally think about more important

“James Burnham was shot and killed yesterday,” the reporter on the TV said as James poured himself a coffee, smirking, “the incident occurred on the 22nd Block of Peach and Jasmine—emergency personel arrived on scene where the man, 32, was pronounced dead.”

James relaxed in his chair, nodding to himself, smiling.  He had done it, after all these years, he had finally found a way to escape his debtors.  That heavy burden that had followed him most of his life—a product of his own poor decisions, perhaps, but James did not see it that way.  He was a victim to an unfair system that was made to keep him and him alone down.  His gambling debts, credit card debts, countless fines in his name—they were not his doing, just an unfair misfortune that the world had placed on him for being born poor.  He sipped from his coffee as the newscast continued onto the weather, moving quickly and unceremoniously past the mystery of his death.  

He would have the money wired to him, soon, he thought to himself.  Soon enough the insurance company would pay out to his wife who would in turn wire it to him through an off shore bank account—untraceable, he had assured her.  And she would pocket a pretty penny too and then the both of them would be able to move past their miserable lives and their miserable marriage.  He had often dreamt about where he might go when its all over.  Bali?  Maybe the Virgin Islands?  Somewhere warm, he had no doubt.  He supposed he would have all the time in the world now to think it through and choose somewhere nice to hide out the rest of his days.  

He pulled it off flawlessly.  Made it look like perhaps it was murder for hire, that he had not only been shot, but his body had been stolen away.  That it would be framed as his debtors coming to collect in the most gruesome way possible.  The newscast did not confirm that this was the suspicion of the officers—nor did they show the bloody scene of the crime, but James knew, in time, things would unfold as planned.

James took another sip of his coffee and flipped to the next channel on the TV.  Another newscast.  Wait, no, the same one.  James sat up a bit, leaning toward the TV slightly.  “James Burnham was shot and killed yesterday,” the reporter said, as before, “the incident occurred on the 22nd Block of Peach and Jasmine, discovered by a passerby who had heard a gunshot in the area.”

The scene turned to a lady being interviewed, in the background, James could see the flashing lights of patrol cars and the yellow “KEEP OUT” tape that quartered off the crime scene.  “I—I heard gun shots and I waited a little bit—god I was so afraid, I wasn’t sure what was happening, but when I got here, the man, he was dead.  His body…I’ll never get it out of my head—the body.”

James swallowed.  Body?  There wasn’t supposed to be a—

He took another sip of his drink and his face twisted in disgust at the taste.  He threw his cup down on the table in front of him.  It didn’t taste like coffee—no, it tasted of mildew with some trace of something earthy.  He stood from his recliner and picked up the cup, studying it, then turned back tot he TV, the program moved once more to the weather, unceremoniously, as if the macabre topic covered was nothing but commonplace.  James set his mug back down on the table and ran his fingers through his black hair, steadying his breath.  

“Get ahold of yourself.”  He said to himself.  “There was no body—is no body at the crime scene.  I’m here, after all.”

He chuckled and sat back down and flipped the channel on the TV.

He leaned forward with a start.  It was the same program.  The same lady.  “James Burnham was shot and killed yesterday,” she said, just as she had before, “the incident occurred on the 22nd Block of Peach and Jasmine where the body of the 32 year old was found with three gunshot wounds—one in the head, one in the stomach, and another in the leg.  The male was pronounced dead at the scene. Authorities are investigating…”

The TV droned on.  James was on his feet.  He could feel his heart racing.  Did they get the wrong guy?  No—everything had gone off without a hitch, exactly as planned.  It had happened on the 22nd Block at the intersection of Peach and Jasmine streets.  But why—why was the news…why were they reporting they found his body.  That the positively identified him.  James took up his mug once more and took a sip, desperate to calm his fraying nerves.  

He began choking.  He felt himself heaving, his lungs burning.  Tears burned at his eyes as he coughed and coughed.  He scratched as his throat, and, panicked, began to try to give himself the hiemlich.  At last, he felt himself heave.  He bent over and watched with wide eyes as dirt and mud left his mouth and splattered onto the carpet at his feet.  When the contents of his stomach were emptied onto the floor, he fell back onto his recliner taking deep, labored breaths.  His eyes raced, red and swollen.  He reached for his mug and found it empty—nothing remaining in the cup.  

He tried to get ahold of his breaths, looking back up at the TV which didn’t yet move on to the weather like before.  No, on the TV was just the photo of the victim.  His photo.  The lady on the program repeating “Three gunshot wounds—one in the head, the stomach, and in the back of the leg.  The male was pronounced dead at the scene…”

James shook his head.  “No, no.  I’m not—I’m…” James bolted to his feet.  “I need…I just need to clear my head.”

James stepped gingerly over the pile of dirt between the chair and the table and left his living room going left through a small hallway and into the bathroom.  He flicked the light on and took to the sink to wash his face, breathing deeply, trying to soothe himself.  He was alive.  He was here, after all, and soon, he would put all of this behind him.  It must have been his nerves, maybe some small part of him felt guilty for committing insurance fraud like this, by hiring someone to help him fake his death.  Yes, that must have been it.

But when he looked up, finishing washing his face, his heart dropped.  His face went flush—white as a ghost.  When he beheld his reflection, he saw his skin was pale and waxy.  And his forehead sat a red and swollen hole where something had burrowed itself deep.  Dried blood covered his head, running down the side of his face.  He looked down at his stomach and saw his shirt had a hole in it and the blue fabric was dyed red.   He lifted his shirt to see another hole.  Bullet holes.  

James limped over to the living room again, his body suddenly recalling the bullet lodged in the back of his left leg.  He stumbled to the TV where the lady said once more, “James Burnham was shot and killed yesterday on the 22nd Block of Peach and Jasmine.”

“It ain’t Bud Dwyer but it works.” Burnhams assistant and friend Ted awkwardly croaks out from behind him. “We’ll do a press briefing in the morning.”

James Burnham is, or rather was, a politician. A businessman. A father. A husband. James Burnham was many things, but not a fool. Mr. Burnham reveled at the thought of having the opportunity to be a Texas Senator, but he enjoyed the thought of his own death more.

He wasn’t suicidal but, like most politicians, celebrities and rich people of this day and age, he is a vampire.

It’s a tough break having to murder your fellow candidates, but it makes victory that much sweeter.

James Burnham is a name that you must know in this Society. Whether you are old or young. Rich, handsome, smart and kind. He’s the talk of the town.

A gentleman so fine that he must have been blessed by the goods. A gentle nose and caramel eyes. Poetic and well behaved. A desire evoking smile and wise hands. Full lips and strong arms. Respectfull and kind. He is a hero, they write about. A savior they paint. Oh what a man he is !

He is always wearing the newest attire. A modern man. His warm skin tone promises a swirl of sensation. A new fresh breeze in the old stuffy society. The enchanting scent of everyone’s dream. The warmth in every cold winter. James Burnhamn would never embarrass a lady, they say. He’d make the perfect son-in-law, they whisper. Oh what a treasure he is !

He’s exceptionally smart and cherishes strong women. Encourages silent ones to step up and let their voices be heard. He’s the heir to a unspeakable rich family. Raven black curling hair and a catching smile with little brightening dimples. White teeth and a clear skin. He’s a wise man they say, a modern fellow they laugh. He is perfection they scream ! Oh what a prodigie he is !

You would be a total fool if you didn’t know his name. You must know his name like you know hers. The Emperors bastardchild Amy Lancaster

So how come that this diamond of a man dies ? Everyone is baffled. Who is the murder of this man ? Who rubbed the society of the glorious prodigie ? Isn’t it that this man had no enemies ?

He caused the whole empire to be in uproar yet again. But what is it about that James ? Who is he in reality, besides all the genius and beauty ? No one ever cared to wonder. No one knew actually him. No friend that mourned him. No lover that would miss him. No mother that would shed a tear. Only a stranger that brought red roses to his grave after every ball.

—— -

The James Burnham I know was loved by everyone but lonelier than all of them together.

The man I knew hated attention and rushed out of the room to the balcony when the people where haunting him. The man I knew wanted nothing more than to rest. He wanted to rest and to find peace in the silence residing in his dreams. He wanted to calm the chaos in his head. To lay down the responsibility of being everyone’s desire and measurement for greatness. But the man I knew is dead now. The Hero, the savior, the perfect son-in-law, the wise man, the modern fellow, the perfection. They all perished into the slumps of reality. They disappeared into darkness and the silence residing in their dreams.

A simple life is all he ever wished for, is what he said that one time to me. “I did not ask to be the man they all want.” he sighed, I laughed “How ridiculous“. Gazing into the night he said “it really sounds ridiculous,… but I truly wish to tell them that they should search for their own happiness instead of trying to find it within me”. Dark gloomy eyes and an exhausted sigh. He seemed so broken.

That one time we stood on the balcony. Freezing our anxieties away. Looking into the nothingness of the night. A stranger that looked troubled even as if he would cry any minute. It was the first time that I had been alone with a gentleman on a balcony and the first time I witnessed somebody loose their societyforced composure. The man gapsed for air and clung onto the railing. Throwing his hands up and kicking the columns. Walking in circles like a wild beast. Holding his head that seemed to be too loud. Grabbing his hair full of pain. Sinking into the cold corner where he wished to be spared from life. One single tear and a silent scream …and then. Then he just looked at me with nothing in his eyes.

No life. No hope. No love.

I did not dare to utter a whim. He asked me if I would know his name. I gulped and said no. He relaxed in an instance.

I did not know the stranger that was staring at me, now full of surprise. Why should I, is what I thought to myself. It’s not like he is special isn’t he ? Sure he just broke into a million peace’s and it wouldn’t be very manly of him to do this infront of a lady. No matter how close they were. It would be inappropriate so no wonder that he asked. I would’ve stayed quiet. Especially because I kinda knew how he felt in that moment. However this did not explain why he was so surprised.

Silence. I drowned in silence and those gold brown eyes that stil stared at me. With a spark of sunshine in that cold night. The moonlight shone down on us. As if it was trying to force us into the spotlight we desperately ran away from. “Should I know you ?” Is what I asked. No Reaction. This man was still in total disbelief ! Who is he ? Is he the imperial crown prince himself or what ? Is what I thought to myself. But he only stared into my soul with those eyes that made my light skin blush. He laughed. He laughed unmannerly but he laughed real. Free and beautiful. I had never heard something like that before. Only laughter with ulterior motives and bashfulness is what I heard. Now I was the one that stared.

“No” he said as he jolted me out of my trance. His voice was sore from all his silent suffering. It escaped for a brief moment before it returned powerfully. “No you don’t need to know my name.” He stood up and leaned against the balconies extravagant railing. “So were just standing here without knowing why and with whom we do so ?” I asked smirking. He nodded.” You needn’t tell me yours and I will not tell you mine” he said. He was so happy about that, that I didn’t bother to ask why. I just stood there as well as he did. Crooked onto the railing. Silently being next to each others way to loud minds. I couldn’t hear his but I just knew that this man next to me has had enough to deal with through life. I could hear his mind scream through his wrinkled forehead and the soft eyes. I could see his wish for silence holding onto his bare rough hands. I could taste the desire that I was plagued with myself.

„It’s Amy“. I whispered so he could absorb the peace he dwelled in a little longer. His wandering eyes ordered me to elaborate. “My name is Amy” I said. He looked troubled. His lips twitched as if he was about to tell me something. I couldn’t bear it so I put my finger on his lips, asking him to not say anything. “Don’t tell me yours, I can tell that you need me to not know it right now”. That’s when he first looked at me in that way. With those eyes that flickered full of interest, gratefulness and care. “Amy…”.

A soft voice, a gentle tone, warm and comforting like a cup of hot tea during a cold winterday. His mouth treated my name so gently. No one had ever cared for my name so softly as he did. No one had ever spoke my name and meant something good with it. My heard sunk.

“That’s a lovely name.”. I could not believe him. I was thought to well that my name was an abomination that his sweet words turned into bitter regret. Telling him my name. Sharing myself and one of my ugliest parts with him who had no name felt wrong. All of the sudden I felt empty and cold. I realised who I was and why I was standing here. Out in the cold. On the balcony instead of inside where it was warm and where the laughters resided. He must have seen it. The lonely shadow that my Soul had become because suddenly I felt that his eyes attempted to warm me. As well as his hands on my shoulder. They desperately tried to heal me. “how come… “ my voice breaks. He gently shook his head. It was my turn to stay quiet and listen. Our eyes met and he whispered while he confronted my sad gaze “why did you tell me your name ?” He looked incredibly insecure and helpless but somehow he still worried about me. Me, the stranger that spilled her name to another complete stranger. Me, the person who showed a complete stranger how fragile her broken soul was. Me, the Lady that engaged with a gentleman in a vulnerable demeanour.

I knew that he was afraid that I wold demand his name for telling him mine. And I slowly felt that his insecurity cured mine. Comfort is what I felt. I joked confidently “I felt like you should know it, after all how else would you come to remember the importance of the beautiful evening star without knowing her name ?“ It was a lie that revealed the truth. Just after saying that I got startled by the nonsense that just came out of my mouth. I blushed and looked at him trying to maintain the image that I just build for myself by spoiling my true identity.

“I think I like you Amy” is what he said. Smirking. I was flabergasted. What a strange man…

After that night we had met so many times “accidentally”. I always looked were the quiet spot was. And I found him there claiming to be surprised to find him here. He then smiled at me saying ”seems like you finally found me Amy.”. We would stand next to each other. Listening to the sound of the Silence surrounding us. Dwelling in the space we created for our selves. Talking or sighing till the party was over. I looked up to him. He admired me. I loved him. He liked me.

Now I sit here at a cold wet stone, mourning the demise of that strange man that I somehow stayed a stranger with. Drowning in memories.

We could have been friends or lovers. Acquainted or soulmates ,but I never got to know his name out of his mouth. Maybe he was scared to tell me who he was. Scared of the consequences that would come with revealing himself. Maybe he liked what we had and was scared to ruin it. But I would have remained by his side. I would have loved him nonetheless. I would have loved that more than learning of his demise on our 5th strangerbeing anniversary.

—— -

I read the news and thought “poor guy”. Another man killed on the side of a road. With a proposal ring in his pocket and a bloody flower bouquet in his face. I read it before I even had my coffee and thought I was prepared to see who the unlucky man was. but when I turned the page and saw the picture I broke down.

Thats my stranger. He is dead. Shot in his back.
No chance to survival. James Burnham.
Head buried in a bouquet of red roses. Dead just like that.

—— -

The reporter on the TV speaks about his tragic death as James pours himself coffee, smirking.

No expectations can reach him. He is free No mothers can come to lull him into marriage. He is dead. No men will pester him with business. He is deaf. No father will come beat him. He is rigid. No Amy will look after him. He is sad. No Amy will care for him. He feels teary. No Amy will ever kiss him. He longs for her.

"What's so funny hon?" His wife, Elenor called from the bedroom.

"Nothing, baby." James leaned back, reading the paper. There it was, the story that nobody knew wasn't true. Nobody but-

"Hi." She kissed him once, leaving some lipstick on his face. "Now what's so funny?" He gestured to the television, where the news was playing the latest story. “James Burnham was shot and killed yesterday, by a man who seemed to be out of his mind. The killer has not been found. His family, including wife Elenor Burnham is currently grieving privately. This is the second crime this week, if you haven't heard about the string of robberies, we'll recap the story here."

Elenors mouth made a little O, which dissolved into giggles quickly. "Oh no, you did it again! Well, you know what that means." She took his plate and put it into the sink.

"I was thinking next time, I might call myself Marcus." He leaned back, stretching.

She washed their plates, sunlight hitting her box blonde hair. "Marcus, hm? I like that. I was thinking maybe Renee for me."

"You would make a nice Renee, although that hairstyle is going to have to go. Maybe a brunette for you."

She put her hands on her hips. "No silly, I did brunette when I was Maria in Belmont. I think I'll go with a red, I've always been told I'd look good as a ginger. Anyways I'll go find a black dress and make my mascara run while you go find an apartment. Where are we going next?"

He was back to reading the paper. "Oh. Virginia, there's some pretty nice neighborhoods we can hit up. Plus, I've heard the seaside is nice this time of year."

~A week later~

"Wow, this place is cute!" She stood there in a pink dress, which combined with her new ginger locks, made her blue eyes look amazing. She had on white gloves, and heels to match.

"More like cramped." He had just shaved and changed up his style, slicking back his hair and wearing a suit instead of his flannels from the other town. "We'll make it work darling. With all this money I'll decorate it nicely!" She clapped her hands, looking around. "Don't go spending all my money, we're supposed to save some of that. Although I do have some houses planned for tomorrow night." She stopped. Ran a hand through her hair. "I actually feel a bit under the weather, can we put off this heist for a bit?"

They started working on the apartment, buying some furniture and decorations, and painting the place. Even though they would leave after committing another heist, they enjoyed dressing a place up, and making it feel like home, if only a temporary one. Renee kept putting off the robbery, and it had been a whole two weeks before the two actually talked about it.

"Alright, heres dinner!" She set the plate onto the table before sitting down and putting her head in her hands.

He came into the kitchen they were using as a dining room, sitting down and looking over at her. Something had been off about her, ever since they left Blueville, three weeks ago now. "Are you alright?"

She sat up, looking at him with glassy eyes. "Fine, why?"

"You're acting strange. You don't want to do anything besides cook and clean and you refuse to even talk about this upcoming heist. You're pale and sick and you don't eat as much. I'm worried about you."

She wrung her hands, sighing once, then again. "Maybe I just don't want to be in this business anymore. I mean, we haven't really lived at all, it's always just on to the next heist. We don't have any friends, or anyone who knows who we are for that matter."

"This hasn't bothered you before, you were fine a month ago, what changed?"

"Well," she glanced away, face becoming a bit red, "for one thing, I'm pregnant."

“Breaking news, a local man’s body was recovered from the Titian aqueduct. Reporter Powell Lyndon is on the scene with additional information, Powell?”

“Thank you, Rose, this is Powell Lyndon at the Titian Aqueduct the site of yet another suicide. This marks the seventh person to access the facility in two years. I have a spokesperson from AquaPURE Marasol Clark on vid to answer a few questions.

"Ms. Clark, How do you response to critics are calling for your company to lose its license to provide potable water to Ring City and its surrounding suburbs because of your failure to maintain a secure facility?

“The staff of AquaPURE is deeply concerned by this tragic event and our thoughts and prayers go out to the friends and family of the dearly departed,” Clark said.

“Yes, Ms. Clark, but how can consumer be confident in the water entering their homes and schools and businesses if your lacking in basic security measures?”

“As a company we value health lifestyles and are donating generously to several local community outreach programs to prevent self-harm. For a limited time our newest product, Unwater, will be available for a nominal fee at select counselling centers,” Clark said.

“Madonna Dane, Margaret Woods, Jamie Stewart, Seven people have accessed your high security water generation plant unimpeded. Benedict McFrye, Harry Sholto, John Martin. Despite your assurances of increased secuity, time after time. And now James Burnham. Which leaves one vital question is why doesn’t this happen at Waterworks?”

Clark’s left eye twitched.

“This is Powell Lyndon, reporting from Titian Aquaduct, Active News, back to you, Rose.”

Chuckling, James Burnham poured himself another cup of coffee. His bags were packed and his personal items were already plasticubed and shipped to Ring City. His Identibracelet beeped displaying his old face with its new name. Burnham added a lump of turbindo sugar and a splash of whiskey. Sipping his breakfast, James checked his bank balance aon his bracelet and smiled. Waste not want not, he like his new name and the dead man wasn’t using it anymore. Burnham texted his next assignment. A little wet work in the suburbs, practically a beach vacation.

“French referred you to my professional services Looking forward to doing business with you, Devereaux.".

Sucess he thought as he stirred in a splash of cream. His coffee was a bit to bitter. He had perfectly staged his death. And now he would live peacefully in the middle of nowhere. The woods of Alaska now guarded James Burnham, a supposedly dead man. And he couldn’t be more happy. Well he could, because he had just spilled coffee on his white shirt. But nonetheless, he thought himself a very smart man.

As James continues to pour his coffee he notices something strange on the counter in his kitchen. It was a sticky note and him not being aware that it had something that could change his life on it he tossed it in the garbage. His wife gets home but doesn’t notice him, but that was normal because she came home from work and she would go take a shower not know the ghost of her now deceased husband was on the couch watching Tv and drinking coffee. One thing about James is he did not realize that he was actually dead he thought that this was some sort of prank that people pulled on him because after all the day was April 1st of 2015. So as he sat casually drinking coffee and sitting on the couch, he did not know what was about to happen to his wife…

It was much easier to fake my own death and frame my husband for the murder, than to kill my husband myself. It would ruin his life and he’d suffer much more spending his life in jail. Greg shouldn’t have messed with me. sips coffee You know? You offer a small nod I think so-? Well I mean, he deserved this sort of criticism. He’s been living a carefree life too long.