A Dead Message
Daria Deptula
Quincy had always known the comic spoke to them—but never literally.
They look forward to every other Tuesday evening. Quincy comes home from their dreary nine-to-five, fires up their laptop, and refreshes the webcomic homepage until a new issue of Bullet Heart appears. They read it, savoring every splash of digital ink decorating the screen. Something about the fantastical adventures peppered with lesbian romances fills a void in Quincy’s life. And then, it’s over. The spark fizzles and pops as they pull away from the science fiction and face reality.
They’d had a rough day at work on this particular Tuesday. Quincy’s boss had reprimanded them for an honest mistake in the copy room. Needless to say, they almost forgot that it was one of those Tuesdays; anything that brought joy had slipped their mind for some moments. But as soon as they locked their front door from the inside, they remembered what they needed to do.
Quincy loaded the latest Bullet Heart installment. Happiness returned to them with every panel they read. Towards its end, the plot took a strange turn. Without the context of a voyage beyond Earth, the image of a black hole in outer space filled an entire page. The next several screens displayed nothing but uniform black ink. Quincy kept clicking through, thinking it must have been a misprint. They reached the final page.
All black ink—except for one word.
QUINCY.
They reloaded the page. Nothing changed. It had to be a coincidence. The writers didn’t know that Quincy existed. It wasn’t such an uncommon name, after all. This issue must be introducing a new character with the same name. Yes! There is always an explanation.
Quincy thought of the strange installment over the next two weeks. Curiosity ate away at them. Bullet Heart had not taken on a new character in months. Why now? And how would this other Quincy fit into an already concise story?
When the next issue arrived online, Quincy had a few theories bouncing around in their head. Each one of those theories floated away when another page of black ink greeted them.
Another such page preceded the words.
QUINCY KADE OLSON, I KNOW YOU ARE READING THIS.
They nearly slammed their laptop shut before they recalled how much the equipment had cost.
Maybe another Quincy Kade Olson lived in this world—and read Bullet Heart. Regardless, this Quincy Kade Olson’s gut instinct told them otherwise. The comic didn’t have a widespread audience. Their full name...was someone trying to doxx them? No. Anyone who wanted such a thing would have used their legal name. With that fear vanquished, something compelled Quincy to keep reading.
They clicked on the next page.
I KNOW HOW LONELY YOU ARE. NOTHING FEELS LONELINESS LIKE A DEAD STAR. WE ARE KINDRED SPIRITS.
Okay. The new character had to be the personification of a black hole. An interesting twist. But nothing that could explain how the webcomic writers knew Quincy’s full name.
They clicked on the next page. The issue ended. Fewer than five pages, and the plot of Bullet Heart had not progressed at all.
Quincy circled back to the misprint theory. They emailed the comic’s head writer, explaining that the web page had loaded a mostly blank issue, half the length of regular installments. The writer responded promptly. She explained that she had uploaded a ten-page issue as usual, and had not received any other problem reports. She suggested trying a different web browser. That method loaded the same short, ominous panels bearing Quincy’s full name. They thanked the writer for her time and decided not to pursue the question further.
Without the content that Quincy liked to believe produced happy brain chemicals, they felt lifeless in the following weeks. More lifeless than usual, at any rate. They wanted to look forward to Bullet Heart, despite its new form, but what was there to look forward to? Blank pages and semi-threatening personal information? Quincy wanted to read about antics and romance in a near future, not the feeling that someone kept watch over them.
Still, two Tuesdays later, they opened their laptop and went to the Bullet Heart homepage.
No blank pages foreshadowed the message this time.
MY DEATH LASTED FIVE MILLION YEARS. YOURS WILL TAKE AN INSTANT.
Dread settled deep in Quincy’s stomach. They clicked on the next page.
BEFORE THAT INSTANT ARRIVES, YOU MUST CREATE JOY. HUMANS CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT IT. YOU WILL NOT FIND JOY IN THE ISOLATION YOU HAVE BUILT AROUND YOURSELF.
Someone could have appeared out of thin air to sucker-punch Quincy, and they would have felt less surprised.
They jumped to self-defense. How dare these words on a web page insinuate...they tried to remember the most recent conversation they’d had outside of work. They tried to remember the last time they’d texted a friend with news other than a social media post. They tried to remember how long it had been since they’d called their mom.
Quincy did not realize they’d started crying until they couldn’t stop.
They left their laptop open on their bed and curled into the pillows. Whoever wrote those words clearly didn’t understand how difficult it was to talk to people. Correction: how difficult it was to talk to people who cared. Strangers were easy. Quincy would prefer to talk about the weather with their coffee barista before asking their best friends how they were doing. People who knew everything were the most trying task. Quincy didn’t want to give anyone a reason to push them away, so they pushed everyone away first.
Maybe they were isolated. Damn. It was lonely.
Quincy thought of calling their mom right then, but the still-flowing tears had other plans for them. They cried themself to sleep early, still wearing their office clothes. The next morning, Quincy asked a friend to grab lunch that weekend. The friend agreed nearly instantly. The two of them talked over the noise of a crowded cafe for three hours.
As the next issue of Bullet Heart arrived online, ten colorful pages accompanied Quincy’s new normal.
© 2020 Daria Deptula
About the Author
Daria Deptuła is a writer of poetry and prose. They study undergraduate History and Creative Writing at The University of Texas at Austin. In March 2019, their short story "Final Memory" was published in the ebook anthology COURAGE IS A GIFT. Daria periodically performs spoken word poetry; their chapbook is shelved at an Austin-based zine store. When they're not writing or studying, Daria enjoys reading novels and historical nonfiction, playing the piano, and taking on roles through student theatre. They occasionally tweet from @DeptulaDaria.