HEATHER
She Ghosted the Wrong Guy. A Tale of Online Dating Gone Horribly Wrong.
I
Scroll drunk.
This is what Rich felt after endless hours of thumbing through dating bios, a sea of potential romance quickly becoming a cesspool of pick-me-girls.
He couldn't swipe left fast enough whenever he saw profile pics that screamed, 'I'm thirsty. Give me your undivided attention.'
Wearing makeup like spackle. Clothes like a prostitute. Filters like a fucking AI queen.
And then there were the time warpers. Those who put up a younger version of themselves ss there primary photo, only to show you as you scroll down how much older and more rounded they've become.
As addictive as this suck scroll was Rich was about to throw in the towel, but before his thumb could catch up to his brain his digit for digital lead him to Heather.
Her eyes met his, absorbing him in despite being made up of pixels.
Her lips causing him to physically react, an impulsive swipe of the tongue upon his own.
A rose in a field of weeds.
Hell, a geyser in a barren land which hasn't seen water in one thousand millennia.
Rich slowed his scroll to snail speed so as not to miss a single word.
Her words.
Describing herself.
Describing her ideal match.
Describing their future together.
With a sense of completion, Rich tapped the heart icon on Heather's profile.
II
Rich didn't know if it was the overpriced digital rose he had sent her, his profile pic, or his descriptive bio. Whatever it was that had lured Heather in and caused her to reciprocate the heart was now responsible for Rich soaring high on cloud 9.
Those damn digital roses came in a minimum of a five pack, the money-sucking dating app getting another $15 out of him.
But hell, if they worked, he was ready to finance a whole garden of 'em.
Now that he had the interest established, Rich needed to compose the all-important first message.
Laying it on too thick and he might scare her away. Not saying enough, and she might lose interest.
Damn these fucking games of courtship.
Dear Heather,
It's nice to see our aligned stars led to our paths crossing, despite the infinite vastness of this thing we call cyberspace.
My day was pretty good. Productive. Fun. And nice weather to top it off.
Hope yours was even better.
~Rich
III
Rich,
I had a great day. Thank you for the kind words.
I have to ask, are you a poet?
You seem to be artful in the way you write, and I like it.
IV
Rich fell asleep with thoughts of Heather cushioning his mind, having spent his last five minutes of screen time gazing over her profile pics, his favorite of which had her hair pinned high, a few twirling strands flowing down on either side of her face, like ribbons to the gift he saw her as.
An image that now served as his phone's wallpaper.
V
New profiles.
New Likes.
New messages.
These new notifications had zero appeal to Rich, his heart, his mind, now fixated on Heather.
And the vibe she was giving back felt just as strong.
This first week of connecting had went by in a flash, the text messages between the two soon becoming countless. The occasional new photos she would send, priceless treasures.
It was all he could do to hold back on asking her to enter the next level, but Rich managed to stay patient until the calendar hit the seventh-day mark.
It was then that he asked to hear her voice. To jump on a call with him.
VI
Two hours, twenty-two minutes and thirty-one seconds.
Their first phone conversation had turned out to flow, to glide. As smooth as a rose petal. A real one. Not one of those overpriced digital frauds.
It had been so nice. Her voice. Their playful banter. Their hint of vulnerability. Their touch of flirtiness.
He knew it would take them to a more intimate level, and indeed it had.
Heather was now on his mind 24/7.
VII
Heather and Rich were now off the dating app, their playground for continuing to build their relationship now on Whatsapp.
The phone calls, voice messages, photos, and texts kept flowing, and by the end of week two Rich was ready to up his game.
He really wanted to ask Heather to start video chatting with him, for this would take the level of virtual intimacy to its highest before finally meeting in person.
But like with the digital roses, he wanted to do a little something special to keep her intoxication with him strong.
Paying special attention to every detail she had shared so far, Rich remembered Heather saying how much she had enjoyed the 90's R&B group, Color Me Badd, back in the day.
So he hopped on Cameo. A website that allows users to hire celebrities to make personalized video greetings for someone special.
Sure enough, the lead singer of C.M.B was on the site, and Rich put in his order.
VIII
A couple of days before Heather's personal greeting was delivered to Rich, his stomach sank when he woke up to find a somewhat unsettling message from her.
Rich,
It's been amazing getting to know you, but sometimes I feel you're not real.
I mean, you say just the right things at just the right times. You're very attentive. Attractive. Sweet.
But sometimes I feel it's too good to be true. What if it's just infatuation on both our parts?
Please tell me I'm wrong. But what if this isn't what we think it is?
IX
No.
He couldn't let her go.
He was all in. And she had said she was too when he had convinced her to go off the dating app and move their correspondence over to Whatsapp.
No.
He wasn't going to lose her.
X
Dear Heather,
Doubt is normal. It's part of being human. And in many cases, including this one, it's good to step back and look at things objectively.
We both long for a serious relationship.
We share interest in the same things.
We get lost in one another's company, our conversations flowing so naturally they could easily become timeless.
Timeless, which is what our companionship is headed for, as long as we keep that trust in one another strong.
Listen to your heart, Heather. Believe it when it says your search for completion is over.
Our paths crossed for a reason.
We've found one another.
XI
‘Holy shit!’
These were the first two words to come out of Heather's mouth when she put voice to recorder in response to her personal video greeting from Color Me Badd's leed singer.
She then went on to express how thoughtful it had been for Rich to do such a thing for her.
How it had brought her to her knees.
How no one had ever done anything like this for her before.
Everything up to this point had put an indelible smile on Rich's lips. And this latest declaration from Heather had now secured such a blessing upon his heart.
So much so that he had started singing a melody to himself throughout the day, and to Heather as an enduring whisper to end their conversations.
The classic song, 'Heavan', by Bryan Adams. Only modifying it to be for his beloved.
Love is all that I need
And I found it here in your heart
It isn't too hard to see
You're my Heather.
But just when everything seemed so perfect...
XII
The dating app Rich and Heather and met on had time stamps, so one could see when a certain member was last active, or even if they were currently online browsing the site.
Rich hadn’t been on since the migration to Whatsapp, feeling no desire to look at other women now that he had Heather in his heart.
She had essentially said the same thing, revealing in one of their phone conversations that she had spoken to her mother about him.
How she had told her mother she had no interest in talking with anyone else.
"Tell him that. Tell him how you feel," her mom had urged.
I already like her, Rich thought. What a great future mother-in-law.
But something was itching at Rich, telling him to hop on the app long enough to see when Heather was last active.
An irritating itch, giving him a wave of anxiety.
Things were going so well. Why ruin it? Ignorance is bliss, is it not?
But if he did try to ignore it, it would continue to eat away at him.
And so the logical conclusion was just to jump on the app long enough to confirm she had been inactive for as long as she claimed, then he'd be able to put it to bed once and for all. With he and Heather sharing a bed in the not-so-distant future.
Such a happy thought propelled him to have a quick look.
Her profile revealed she had last been active not even two hours ago.
Rich's heart sank straight down to the pit of a stomach.
XIII
Heather,
Did you wanna go back to chatting on the app?
I hopped on to delete my account, and saw you were active today.
Were you on to do the
same?
😘
~Rich
He hoped to hell that was the case, but knew in his heart it wasn't. For if she had deleted her account it wouldn't have been up there to see.
The anxiety was starting to give Rich compulsive behavior.
There has to be a logical reason.
There has to be a logical reason.
There has to be a logical reason.
He'd order another Cameo.
He'd spend his whole fucking paycheck on those damn digital roses.
No, he'd send her real ones. A whole fucking truck of 'em.
Waiting for her reply, Rich was a complete mess.
XIV
Rich,
Sorry it has to be so sudden, but I can't talk to you anymore.
Have a wonderful life.
-H
XV
Rich's heart went from boiling in the pit of his stomach to being obliterated in a garbage disposal.
The message had come through the dating app, her betraying words followed by the system's cold words...
Heather has said goodbye.
This basically met she had blocked him, which he confirmed by checking her profile and finding the one simple word, Unavailable.
He went to Whatsapp.
Blocked.
Email.
Blocked.
Cell phone.
Blocked.
Facebook.
She had forgotten this line of communication.
With trembling fingers, Rich began to compose.
XVI
Heather,
I don't know what I did wrong. I was an open book from the start. I was all in, and you declared the same.
All those countless hours together didn't mean anything to you?!
How can you flip it off as if it were just a simple light switch?
I thought we really had something.
I know we really have something.
You were on the dating app all this time? Continuing your search while playing me?
What kind of person does this?!
You were just keeping me in your back pocket until someone you perceived as better came along, huh?
Is it not exhausting?
To be engaged in such a soul-sucking act?
It's not too late, Heather.
I understand these dating apps can be overwhelming. Confusing.
But I'm a real person, Heather.
The person who cared for your every word.
The person who gave you his heart.
His soul.
My looks might not be GQ. My bank account might not be overflowing. But whoever you're talking to now is not going to be totally committed to you like I am.
They're just gonna fuck you, then hop right back on that dating app.
What we have is real.
I'm real.
Love is all that I need
And I feel it here in your heart
It isn't too hard to see
You're my Heather
~Rich
XVII
The bitch didn't reply.
She blocked him.
It was really over.
Scrolling her account on his backup phone, on his fb account she didn't know existed, he stared at her photos with new eyes.
Heather Stones.
A cold blooded evil bitch.
A dark twisted heart that obviously had deep mental issues.
Something had to be done.
She couldn't just get away with this.
It was illegal for someone to steal something from you.
It was illegal for someone to hit you.
Why wasn't it illegal for someone to damage your heart?
After all, it was more traumatizing.
Traumatizing. That's what she needed to feel.
That's the lesson she needed to learn.
By stoning, Heather Stones?
No, something more fitting.
She had said in her profile, she would never cut and run, had she not?
XVIII
One did not have to be a techie to follow the breadcrumbs leading to Heather Stones.
Most people put too much information about themselves online, and Rich's scum sweetheart was no different.
She was a property manager at an apartment complex. A single woman who enjoyed hiking, traveling, and spicy food.
Oh, I've got something that'll burn nice and deep, Heather love, Rich thought as he took in the Colorado Rockies from the town of Littleton.
So this is where lil' Ms. Cut-and-Run lived, huh?
Where she chewed up and spit out online matches.
Not this time, bitch.
You're going to swallow and swallow hard.
My human stain.
And there she was, exiting a Latin restaurant after eating lunch for one.
Alone.
In other words, an invitation for Rich to make his move.
He allowed her to get a few yards ahead before starting the pursuit, letting her unknowingly lead him on the path of routine as she took her five block journey back to work.
But today she would not complete it, for on block three, the most quiet and unused of them all, Rich began to increase the speed of his steps, his grandfather's straight razor in hand, Heather's betrayal in mind.
"Cut and run," Rich whispered into her ear before she realized he was at her back.
The look of surprise, of processing, of shock, one right on top of the other, was priceless.
It couldn't have been more than a couple of seconds, but indeed long enough for Heather to connect words with Rich's face to understand.
And as soon as that realization came he shot out with lightning speed.
From the window of her betraying soul to her lying lips, he sliced.
Feel the burn he thought while walking away, her screams of horrific shock and anguish at his back like orgasm of the highest order to his ears.
XIX
Rich had done the equivalent of putting a flame to his fingertips, his digital footprint nearly nonexistent.
This was evident when news of lesson one with Heather had made it onto the Denver newscasts.
All authorities had to go on was a sketch, which hardly resembled him, a dye job and some facial hair pretty much eliminating him as a suspect.
But just to be certain, Rich would now be putting into use the silicone belly he had ordered from Amazon before coming out to Colorado.
Completing his dad-bod look in preparation to move on to lesson two with his sweet cheeks, Heather.
XX
A week had passed since Rich had cut open Heather's cheek, the stitches already removed and a nice scar beginning to form.
He couldn't wait to get a closer look, withdrawing the binoculars from his eyes and placing them in the glove box of his new rental.
"Alright, Lulu. You ready to go meet Heathy wheathy?"
Rich watched through the rearview mirror as his long-haired chihuahua dog-for-a-day wagged her tail and jumped around the back seat.
She was on loan from a local animal shelter, and was the finishing touch in his hiding-in-plain-sight disguise.
Heather was somewhat in a daze as her own pooch pulled the leash he was attached to through the dog park, the anxiety meds her doctor had her on allowing her to slowly return to normal life.
Rich noticed she still slightly tensed when someone resembling him walked past, while fellow middle-aged beer bellies were hardly given attention to.
He also took notice of her free hand, her shoulders, her waist, all of which would have been lovingly embraced if only...
Our hands could have been palm-to-palm, lifelines intersecting, fingers interlacing.
Heaven on Earth, two souls united.
Isn't too hard to see
you're my Heather
But she had abandoned such would-be bliss, using those long beautiful fingers for the dirty deed of swiping away.
Deleting forever.
Yet they were now on course to come together, Heather coming from one direction, Rich, the other, his hope their dogs would stop and greet one another fulfilled as noses touched.
Just as Heather's hound took his sniffing to the little bitch's ass Rich took the butcher knife from the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and brought it up above his bitch's hand.
The next moment was Matrix-style, in slo-mo with fine details.
Her eyes opening wide.
Her pulsating pink scar-to-be.
Her body going as stiff as a statue.
His line being delivered with such malice, such glee.
"Cut and run."
Like a guillotine blade, the butcher knife came down with search force it cut right through whatever was in its way.
In this case, Heather's thumb, index finger, and middle finger, all three giving off a wet PLOP as they hit pavement.
Leash falling as well, Lulu beginning to lick one of the bloody digits, Heather's hound scarfing down the severed thumb.
Once again music to his ears, Rich left Heather wailing away.
XXI
The Ghostwriter.
The Spyderco Killer.
Maybe they'd give Rich a cool life liquidator name like those who had come before him.
No, he thought to himself as he turned off the latest news broadcast covering his latest lesson with Heather.
I'm a one woman man. It begins and ends with my Heather.
That grand excitement, which was beginning to demand more and more of him, was once again bubbling below the surface.
Still so many parts of Heather's body to open.
Rich had thought of abducting her. Just taking her to an abandoned warehouse and feeding his insatiable appetite for revenge in one fell swoop.
Carving her like a turkey until she was nothing more than a gizzard.
Seems you don't have a wishbone, Heather dear.
Looks like these ribs will have to do.
Laughing to himself, knowing it was far better to draw things out. To slow bleed her, so she had adequate time to think on her sins against him.
Enlightening thoughts as he strolled the grounds of The Stanley Hotel.
Made famous by the 1980 film, The Shining, it was only two hours from Littleton.
Rich wasn't much of a believer of the supernatural, but wouldn't it make since if this is what had taken over Heather?
A dark energy that had invaded her mind. and compelled her to cut all ties and cut and run?
Naw. Pure fantasy. The bitch is just rotten to the core. A bad seed, which must be dealt with accordingly.
And there went the insatiable appetite again.
Soon to be ravenous.
Threatening to take over Rich's entire being.
Well, he had managed to suppress it for the past few days.
Time enough to restrategize.
Time enough to choose another blade.
Isn't too hard to see
you're my Heather.
XXII
Heather was never to be left alone.
A friend.
A family member.
Someone was to be at her side, 24/7.
A complication, Rich admitted, but not an impossibility.
What would his disguise be for their next lesson?
A waiter?
An Amazon delivery driver?
A Walmart stocker?
Stalker.
He had to laugh at that one.
Maybe it was time to upgrade to a gun? Not for Heather, as her fate was already sealed with a blade.
No, he needed something quick and easy for whomever would be guarding her at any given time.
And then the two answers came to him.
Orderly.
Pepper spray.
XXIII
Heather's rehab was scheduled on a warm, pre-summer late morning, summer dress lightly blowing in the breeze, her arm interlocked with her mother's as the two entered the outpatient rehabilitation facility of a local hospital.
With very little security set up the place proved to be no obstacle at all for Rich, swiping an orderly uniform as easy as stealing from a Dollar Tree and putting together an employee badge as easy as a first grade art project.
This time around he had applied no hair dye, for he now had no hair at all.
He did have chemicals on his skin, though. A spray tan.
Rich had put a significant amount of time practicing the body movements for this now two-person attack, keeping in mind the famous words of an old football coach.
'Practice doesn't make perfect. Perfect practice makes perfect.'
And just like a game-winning play in a championship football game, Rich went on the offensive, ramming his utility cart into the one guy who was standing nearby and possibly a threat, immediately following it up by taking aim and pulling the trigger to his pepper spray, Heather's mommy dearest grabbing at her burning eyes while Rich slipped past her and to his seated Heathy weathy.
Heather's fight-or-flight response took the latter, but before she could even rise to her feet Rich came down with all his weight upon her left bare leg, knelt down as if fitting her for a shoe, one hand securely around her shin, the other...
Taking the razor-sharp pocketknife he was brandishing and slicing open Heather's Achilles heel.
With no time to waste, he left both mother and daughter in agonizing pain, the few bystanders too shocked to do anything but stare.
Heather fell down onto all fours, repeatedly pounding her fist onto the floor in exasperated hysteria.
My Helen of Troy, my Heather of betrayal, the launch of a thousand ships becomes death by a thousand cuts.
XXIV
Rich watched from a distance as Heather, seated in a wheelchair, was wheeled out to the gardens of a convent, the attending nun then kneeling down to pray with her.
If they thought cushioning her with a soft pillow of religion would keep him away, they were dead wrong.
Heather was indeed a sacrificial lamb, being used to open the eyes of all who raped the souls of the innocent via online dating apps.
And this time, her blood would be spilt forth from the breast, another blade in Rich's hand to serve as the instrumental tool in this continual sacrifice.
The only other visible soul on the grounds was another nun, her back to what was about to unfold as she tended to a bed of roses some ten yards away.
Zeroing in on Heather and her attendant, Rich paid no attention to the holy gardner, letting her fall back into his peripheral vision as he closed in.
He didn't bother arming himself with anything but the pocketknife this time, deciding he would draw virginal blood from God's bride if need be.
With only about three feet to go Rich readied the weapon, bringing it out and slightly up for the slash.
But as if being overtaken by a magnetic pull, Rich's attacking hand was now in the possession of a far greater power.
The hand of God?
The force, smooth yet strong, effortless yet in full control, wrapped around his hand, which in turn kept the knife secured within his grip.
This movement was fluid, and refused to stop despite reaching the breaking point of Rich's wrist.
The snap was quick and excruciating, Rich having no choice but to turn and follow it, where he discovered the face of this godly force.
He knew it. Knew of it.
It wasn't Christ.
Through his agony, the milliseconds felt like minutes, Rich scrambling to put a name to the face.
The Ghostwriter.
The Spyderco Killer.
The one who had put an end to them.
The one who was now putting an end to him.
Dressed like a nun.
Within one of those milliseconds, Rich uttered the name just as a hammer fist, a sledgehammer fist, struck his temple and sent him into darkness.
"Riker."
XXV
With no one else to turn to, Heather's father had reached out to the man he had remembered seeing on the national news.
A private investigator based out of Los Angeles who seemed to make the headlines with every case he took on.
High profile cases. The kind involving mad men. Serial killers who would not stop until being stopped.
The papa bear, at his wit's end, had flown out to Los Angeles to meet with Riker.
To beg, to plead, to offer anything in exchange for his daughter's well-being.
Well, as well as it could be, now that irreparable damage had been done.
The task had been accepted, the two men flying back to Colorado and the P.I. hatching a plan.
Now that it was over, everyone involved could breathe a big sigh of relief, truly able to release their anxiety and fear.
Everyone that is except for the one who had felt it the most.
Heather.
Now a resident within the stable walls of a facility to house her instability.
A cuckoo's nest. A loony bin. A mental hospital. All names for the same thing. All names omitted by those around Heather.
In a daze from both a fragmented mind and drugs to help her cope, the girl who liked to ghost was now as haunted as one, curled up on her hospital bed hugging a pillow while softly humming the melody Rich would end each and every call with back when they used to have phone conversations.
The Bryan Adams song, Heaven, personalized for her by the one who had fallen for her.
Heather's melodic hum rose up towards the ceiling and into a vent, now traveling through air ducts, reaching out…
On the other side of the facility, in a ward designated for men, Rich lay over on his side, arms wrapped around him in a straightjacket, his gruff voice reaching out through his daze and ascending to the vent of his cushioned room, the off key notes making their way through air ducts until Heather's melody found Rich's lyrics.
The two met, tune and verse whirling around one another like the figure of infinity.
Ribbon of forever.
And love is all that I need
And I found it here in your heart
It isn't too hard to see
you're my Heather.
~
We're taking HEATHER from the written word to the world of graphic panels!
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