NOTE: This post originally appeared on the blog I maintained under my now defunct pen name.
She’s cute, and quirky, and enthusiastically malicious. When you meet her, she’s quick to let you know that she’s sexually available in a mild, nonthreatening kind of way. It’s a dark and terrible lie. She has no visible means of support, but does not appear to live in poverty. (Her victims fund her well.) This gives her plenty of time to enjoy visiting funky local shops, eating street cart food, and torturing cats with hacksaws.
Bump into her on the train, as if by chance. No chance about it. Her perspective on the world is so unique and free spirited. She’ll show you the joy of giving up on society’s stodgy rules and marching to the beat of your own drum, and also of arson.
Her room is filled with salvaged antiques and hand-drawn posters. A mobile hangs above the bed; bones and feathers and squirrel pelts. She says she’s into taxidermy. The walls are a familiar reddish brown, a color you recognize but can’t quite place. The paint is strange, and kind of crumbly.
One night when you’re sleeping over at her place, you hear loud thumping and wailing from beneath the floor. Just the downstairs neighbors having noisy sex she says. She disappears to ask them to be quiet. For some reason she takes a hammer with her. Later, you can’t recall ever seeing the entrance to a basement apartment in her building.
One night you start to wonder if she’s right for you. You thought you saw her across the street from your apartment, standing in the shadows under a tree, but when you went out to look, you found nothing. Now you’re wondering what that sudden bolt of fear was about. And why’d you bring a knife?
Picnics in the park, running around with your arms spread out making airplane noises. This hamburger tastes interesting, is it pork?
She says you spend too much time at work. You joke that she should take it up with your boss. The next day she’s in there screaming at him. The day after that, the building you work in burns down. Now you can spend all your time with her! Isn’t that great? Yeah, just…just great.
It’s not working out. The chemistry is gone. You’re afraid to sleep without locking the door. She takes the news well. Where’d your dog go?
Your new job has an anthrax scare, the letter billowing with white powder. They find your fingerprints on the envelope. The door to your holding cell opens, and in she walks. You tell her to leave, she says something kooky and sweet. You scream for the guard, but they don’t hear you. She won’t explain how she got in. She won’t explain how she got your fingerprints on the envelope, or your saliva on the stamp. She explains, with great disappointment, how you just weren’t good enough, and now she’s got to stand up for herself. She’s shows you a small wad of cash, says it’s all that remains of your accounts, but don’t worry; some public defenders are actually pretty good. Somehow, at trial, the prosecution produces video of you packing the envelope. She sits alone in the audience and stares at you with a quiet smile on her face. You try to ask your lawyer to call her to the stand, but when you point at her, he can’t see who you mean. Her smile grows wider.
No actual anthrax involved; you only get 8 months. When you get to the halfway house, there’s a laptop waiting on your bed. It boots up when you enter the room, and there she is, welcoming you back. She’s the Manic Pixie Nightmare Girl. She’ll ruin your life, and then send you cutesy videos where she uses your dog’s severed head as a puppet.