Amanda Filipacchi - Vapor

When I asked him for some explanation as to why he wanted to kill me, he said it was because he didn’t like his jobs. When I asked him since when had he not liked his jobs, he said since always. When I remarked that he had never told me this, and that I had gotten the impression he had liked them, he said: “How is that possible? You know me. Do I strike you as stupid or boring?”

“No.”

“Then how could you think I would enjoy being an etiquette expert, or a Weight Watchers’ counselor, or a stripper? How could you think that someone like me, with my mind, my character, would derive any satisfaction from those things?”

“Then why do you do them?”

“Because I’m not able to perform my true profession.”

“What is your true profession?”

“Plastic surgery. Please don’t look too surprised, or you’ll hurt my feelings.”

I was silent.

“You’re thinking about something,” remarked Nathaniel.

“Damon’s brother was a plastic surgeon.”

“I know him.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I’m Ben,” he said.

“It’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because you and I met by chance, in the park, when I was being attacked and you saved me. It would be too much of a coincidence if you turned out to be the enemy of the man I saved two weeks before you saved me.”

“Yes, it would be too much of a coincidence. That doesn’t mean I’m not Ben. It just means it’s not a coincidence. I wanted to meet you, so I arranged your attack.”

“Why?”

“Revenge. Against Damon. I have let this simmer, held back, until the perfect moment; the moment in your relationship with him when the feelings have had enough time to grow very strong, but not enough time to settle into boredom or mere contentment. It seems, however, that I may have waited too long. You tell me he tries to kill you? I mean, it sounds like he’s losing his mind. Or you are. I hope it’s you. But if it’s him, how is a man supposed to get revenge on an insane mind?”

I said, “So all this time, when you pretended to be my friend, and even to love me, you actually didn’t care at all.”

He kneeled next to the couch, on which I was lying with my hands tied behind my back, and hugged me. “Goodness, Anna, that’s not true! That’s why I prefaced all this by telling you how much I cared about you. Don’t you remember my preface? It was lengthy. I did love you and still do. More than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life.”

“And yet you want to kill me?” A tear rolled into my ear.

He wiped my eyes and nose with a tissue, and said, “Despite the strength of my love for you, my desire for revenge is stronger. My life has been destroyed by Damon, and yet his life has not been destroyed by me. I can’t let that rest.”

“But you have destroyed his life.”

“Not as much as he destroyed mine. Or at least not as directly, or as intentionally. I know he’s the one who wrote that anonymous letter. Not his brother.”

“How do you know?”

“From an article I read in Soap Opera magazine on Philip’s life. I’m sure Damon and Philip feared I might come across it. Damon has not only ruined my career, but also my chance at finding love. My plan was to find a beautiful woman and improve her face; alter it in certain ways that would enable me to love her. But then, thanks to Damon, I was no longer allowed to perform plastic surgery. I did try to fulfill my dream anyway, when I met Chriskate, by having another surgeon operate on her, following my specifications. But as you know, the results didn’t stir strong enough feelings in me. I had sent her to a doctor whose work I had followed and approved of. He and I didn’t know each other, but we had a similar style and technique. As I later discovered, he only lacked the vision, the imagination. The work he did on her was good. It was commercial. It was trashy, commercial surgery. It had mass appeal, as was proven by her stellar rise to fame. But it was a little too easy, a little too accessible and light for my taste. I needed more depth and layers within her beauty.”

When he had finished his story, Nathaniel asked me if there were any letters I wanted to write to anyone before I died. I tried the usual tactics to make him change his mind: threats, intimidation, begging, pleading, psychological tricks, lying, acting, wise arguments, reproaches, etc.

He said Damon would be notified of my location shortly before the event of my death.

Nathaniel expressed the hope that Damon would show up and witness my end. He then confessed, sheepishly and apologetically, that if this happened, he might decide to torture me (during my half hour of stress-free dying) to make the revenge be of superior quality. “If it does come to that,” he added, “let me say in advance that I am very sorry, but also very grateful that you went through the unpleasantness, thereby fulfilling my wildest fantasies of justice.”

Damon did show up. He had been warned not to bring the police, or I would be executed on the spot, regardless of the consequences to the executioner. So he came alone. He looked awful: pale, tired, ravaged.

My mouth was covered with masking tape. When Damon entered the room, Nathaniel pointed his gun at me, and with his free hand, pointed to a pair of handcuffs hanging from an iron bar attached to the wall. He told Damon to handcuff himself to the bar or he’d kill me.

“No,” said Damon.

“No, what?” said Nathaniel.

“I’m not handcuffing myself.”

“But I’ll kill her.”

“I understand.”

“And it will not be painless for her.”

“For me either.”

“You mean her death?”

Damon nodded.

Nathaniel said, “That’s right. That’s the whole point. You will suffer.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“You’re counting on it?”

“Why do you think I kept taking walks at night even after having been attacked regularly by men whom I assume were sent by you? Including that night in the subway when Anna saved me. It’s because for a while now I’ve been a masochist.”

Nathaniel turned his gun against Damon. “Handcuff yourself or I will kill you and her.”

Damon handcuffed himself.

“That’s better,” said Nathaniel. A moment later, he added, “I will kill her with a plastic bag.”

He took two rubber bands and slid them over my head. They fit snugly around my neck. He tore the masking tape off of my mouth. He slid the plastic bag over my head and tucked its edge under the rubber bands, making sure there were no leaks of air.

“It should take about half an hour for her to die,” said Nathaniel. “Maybe a little longer, since it’s a large bag.”

Through the transparent bag I could see Damon staring at me. He said, “I love you, Anna,” and did nothing.

“I love you too, Anna,” said Nathaniel. “It won’t be painful. I’ve decided not to use the torture, because this method of dying offers a subtle kind of horror, an exquisite kind of pain to the beholder. He’ll see your face and lips turning blue.”

Damon and Nathaniel began to talk.

“I’m finally getting what I deserve,” said Damon. “It’s such a relief, after all these years of torment and agony and guilt.”

“It was wrong of you to write that letter, to ruin my career,” said Nathaniel.

“No. It was wrong of me to have been the cause of my brother’s suffering. So now, finally, justice will be done.”

“You’re bluffing. It’s a ploy to get me to free her.”

“No and yes. I’m not bluffing, but it is a ploy. The truth is that my greatest deliverance would come if you killed her, and yet out of love and guilt, I feel I should make an attempt to save her, and the only attempt I can make is to tell you that my greatest deliverance would be if you killed her. That is what would truly put me at peace; I would then have suffered as much as my brother suffered.”