Back to Black

By Harlie Hinch

Escaped from Ukraine during the military conflict with Russia, twenty-seven-year-old Missy is trying to survive in Asia, but PTSD and compelling circumstances push her to kill. She becomes a murderer, a bad girl, but the book's central question is the victim. Who is it? Missy has a lot of enemies, but who is the skeleton in her closet?
The girl regularly visits a psychologist to get rid of the post-stress syndrome but in vain. Instead, terrible memories attack her more and more. She, forced to abandon her sports career, works as a dancer in a cabaret in a small Asian town. Constant psychological pressure from the new boss and despair caused by breaking up with a family exacerbates her psychological problems.
She visits a psychologist, eventually finding the doctor as the only person she can trust. But, more than a doctor, she trusts only her diary, which she carries with her everywhere, carefully guarding her terrible secrets against the eyes of her husband, friend, and even her therapist.
The everyday life of a cabaret dancer drives her deeper into depression, but one day she meets an enthusiastic visitor and falls in love. Her relationship with her husband, which is already doomed, completely breaks down. She's getting a divorce, and her new love makes her feel better. The family gets in touch. Missy comes to life, but her diary ends up in the wrong hands on the divorce day. Terrified, she kills this person.
Ready for punishment, she heads to the police station to confess but first wants to say a couple of words to her therapist. But here, she will not get an answer, but another question that will change everything.

True story-based.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harlie Hinch
• Release date: Feb 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463087619

Harlie Hinch

Harlie the talking cobra.

Book preview

H.J. Hinch

Back to black

And I became the one

Whose name isn't called,

Whose skin is cold,

Whose eyes are dry

like dried moss,

Who'll catch your curse

before you toss.

…

Well, true or false?

Darkness depths

It's time.

[South Korea]

The deadly silence pumps oxygen out hungrily, filling its cheeks with it. The night stares at the girl with its curious eyes. The darkness takes the coffin lid, and holds it above, threatening to take the last air from her lungs; to place her in a vacuum; to adjudicate her, clicking its smelly jaws right by the carotid artery.

The muffled pulse sounds recede with each beat, moving away from her; the body approaches the ground with each damn beat. She went numb again. The mental copy of her has died,  melted into denial of reality.

She was detached, deaf to everything except the voice screaming from her heart, from its darkest depths. The lost husky voice, suddenly resurrected which stab her psyche like a knife:

You killed him. You killed him. You killed.

The scream beat the drum of her pulse rhythmically squeezed her temples: YOU KILLED HIM. A scream flowed through her veins like red-hot iron, leaving burnt cavities, voids in which her poisoned tears accumulated, rushing inward like moisture in the cold, rotten narrow burrows of the subway, flowing with indifferent rivulets over the dirty tiles.

She was looking into the abyss; as if she was made of stone, her pupils did not move, as did her eyelids and lifeless face; the darkness swallowed her gaze and left a cold glass of her eyes cracked.

The wind gusts whipped at her pale skin. The wind tore at her hair in an attempt to possess the peony and dew smell, but the girl had stuck to the concrete roof edge.

She stood rooted at the crime scene. Fear got her drunk; her palms were sweating, her body cramped in convulsions, there, below, a corpse, his corpse, a pile of dead meat.

They will find him now; they will find him. She will be caught, punished, and everything will be over. It all will be over. Finally.

Missy

Like I care.

1.1

[April, South Korea]

People are afraid of pain, see it as the monster, dark jail filled with tear gas. So they avoid pain; they try to take a detour, buy a plane ticket, overtake on the way they've been destined to get. People hate to be miserable. People despise the pain. But without pain, they turn into a scarecrow stuffed with rotten guts. Wax figures squeezed into the windows of their museum. They want me to tell them it's okay. It's sort of my job. They pay for that. They want me to tell them they're good. But it's not okay. It is not good. You're not good. After that job that you pay for, I need a shrink. The shrink needs a shrink, Missy. It's perfect goddamn. Excuse me.

None taken, the girl was sitting opposite me, lounging in a chair. She tapped her thin little fingers on the armrest and looked at me like I was an idiot.

I think I am okay, just fine, she said and turned her head towards the window. So beautiful bird, so short life, she said. It might crash into the glass. We will be the witnesses of suicide, don't you mind? she smirked, what do you think, Ms. Oda? Why have I never heard a nightingale here?

Missy, is that all you care about today? I asked, but, uh, she was unbearably balanced, unbelievably. Not a centimeter of skin on her chalk-white face wrinkled, she stared at me with her green eyes and said with a calm air: Do you want to talk about this, Ms. Oda?

Missy, I'm your actual therapist. I'm asking questions here. You kind of have to share."

Okay, she continued tapping her fingers on the armrest.

Okay, I said. So, what stage of grief are you in now?

I am not in grief.

So, you are in denial.

I am not in denial.

So, you deny that you in denial?

I feel good, excellent.  She looked at me with her wet, sad eyes, and a partial smile slipped on her face.

That is the point, Missy; you shouldn't feel good.

I thought I was paying you for you to say that I should. You contradict yourself, Ms. Oda.

Do you not believe me?

I do believe, so I am here. The girl stopped tapping for a while and tilted her head to the left shoulder, still looking at me.

What is the date today, Missy? I asked.

April 17th.

What is your name?

Missy, Missy Chance. You don't need to talk to me like I am a freaking schizophrenic.

Uh, it is just for my notes, I turned my head towards the picture hanging on the wall. These badly drawn chrysanthemums always calm me down when one of my patients takes my brain out as she does. She always took it and chewed it like gum, sometimes blowing bubbles. Missy, I said, I always ask you the same question because it is the way it has to be, okay?

Okay, did I satisfy you with my answers?

Yes. I put my pen on the table and leaned in my chair.

So, have you ever seen the nightingales here? Ever listen to them? She continued.

No, I didn't! But, Missy, are you sure this thing is only the one that bothers you right now?

Me neither, it's a pity... The girl's movements changed to smooth; her fingers started to stroke the armrest's leather.

Yeah, it's a pity, Missy.

Their singing is like an invisible violin bow that appears in the air and sneaks into your ears, playing on the strings of your nerves, relaxing them. You feel how all the tension from your face disappears, and the frowning eyebrows are crawling into place, The girl looked sincerely dreamy telling me that.

Do you love birds, Missy?

No. Although, I'm a nightingale myself.

Excuse me?

She laughed shortly.

I'm not a schizophrenic, Ms. Oda, just kidding; and I am sensing your tension.

Then she fell silent; I waited for her to speak. But she kept tapping the armrest in time with the ticking clock.

Life always takes its toll, Ms. Oda, she suddenly started to talk. It will take everything from all the people who have ever lived, died, was killed, wasn't born on this planet. Life thinks they have to face their fear and go through it to understand what they have ever had is worth. I am not in grief; I live my life. I have this freaking script; someone has a much more merciful one. Honestly, I feel jealous of them, but I am not in grief.

Okay, what about Nick? I asked. Missy turned her head abruptly and stared at my empty chair. Don't you miss him, Missy?

I do.

And that is all?

No.

So, what about him?

I don't know. The tonality of the girl's voice slipped into the minor row, the sounds in her throat vibrated, resisting going out. He wasn't prepared, and I barely knew him. Nick couldn't beat it. No single one is available to leave the game till his time comes. But when it comes, sometimes it turns out that no happy ending available."

What do you feel about that?

I am not willing to feel anything.

Are you sure?

I don't know. My life needs me to stand under pressure and at the sight of judges. Million of judgment are ready to bring down on me if I make a wrong step. They are craving for me to lose equilibrium. The tendons are cracking, and my legs are drowning in the loose ground; my palms are sweating. I have no right to make a mistake. Life watches me a telescope and laughs; it laughs, saying: If you stop, you lose, sweetcheeks. My weak eyes become fiercer; the guns of the judges click like the jaws of hellhounds. Every single day. If I let myself feel everything that happened—I will die, Ms. Oda, she hardly moved; it seemed to me that she was mentally present elsewhere. She was detached. Her bloodless, almost transparent face, dark green eyes, and blond hair made her look like an alien.

So, you choose to put yourself in a box and deny everything you feel?

I have no other options.

We always have the options.

I don't.

Why?

I have responsibilities; I can't quit.

When did you have your last day off, Missy?

Year ago.

Do you think it's normal?

Yes, relatively to a particular situation.

Do you feel tired often?

Yes.

Don't you think you have to stop and take the minute to be with yourself?

No.

Why?

Why?! She looked at me angrily, Don't you think the self-digging, or what else you call to be with yourself is akin a suicide to me?

Um...Okay. I'm sorry, Missy. So can we go back to Nick?

Missy glanced at the clock hanging right above my head and took her wrist from the armrest.

Time is up, Ms. Oda.

We can stay for some time and finish the conversation.

No, I have the show at 4 pm; I'll better go.

The girl got up and straightened her hoodie; life-sized, she seemed taller than she really was; she looked like a trained, graceful predator focused on prey. Then, after a couple of steps to the door, she turned around.

Field.

What, Missy? I asked.

You need to be above the field and see the difference between the players, their strategies, and possible actions. To say easier, if you stop your trying to be us, then you don't need a shrink.

Really?

Try so.

I was surprised. Missy held on to the doorknob for a couple of seconds and thought about something. Then she opened the door abruptly and turned into the muffled sounds of receding footsteps.

Say Hi

You are hissing in me like a soda.

2.1

[April ,South Korea]

The Asian silence sometimes plays on the invisible keys of air, like on a piano, and creates anxiety. It sprays it everywhere, icing a city. It infects every movement of life. And in a moment, this anxiety increases, filling the air more and more densely. Flows of air filled with fear play among themselves like people do. Some streams are more substantial and rush forward, forming a force that can become a storm.

Missy stood in the middle of this silence, watched as the rays of the sun, hiding behind a black thundercloud, played with particles of this anxiety. Each beam is a stair. Will she hold this time? On what level? What will happen there, outside the door of this cozy room?

Now everything faded, run out like water through fingers. When Missy entered, the room was squeaky clean; it lost its dusty charm and cracking silence, pure emptiness. A guy who was standing there, on her favorite spot, curiously looked at Missy.

She lost her little bunker. Due to this fact, she stiffened, and tension pinched her back, twisting each muscle fiber.

The sun is like gold, and the sky is pretty much like silver. Like ice and flame, don’t you think so? Gold or silver? What is closer to your mysterious soul, beauty? A man leaned on a table in the corner of a room. He was looking at the view outside the window, amazed.

Mercury, Missy said.

What?

You asked what the closest to my soul is; I answered: mercury. It is soft, flowing, poisonous, split, toxic, elusive. This black cloud is black magic. It can swallow a light of a gold sun, like mercury. Do you know that if you add mercury to another metal, it will immediately soften it? It will melt like butter in a frying pan turning into a poisoned version of itself. Incredible, isn't it?

Are you alright, girl? The man raised his brow.

I am sorry, I don't like any gold or silver, or any flash and cash, I meant just that. I hate jewel metal, the girl turned and looked deep into his blue eyes. Actually, I think I'll better go. It's a weird question, but what are you doing in this room? It was empty for two years, so?

They let me rent it; I loved the view.

Okay,  so welcome to your new cage. The girl weirdly smiled.

What? A cage? I am a tourist, came here for some time, not sure yet for how long.

You are not sure, but they are, she pointed to the roof.

What?

What? Missy hold her look on him for a second. Anyway, she said. Clear. Thank you for the information. So..

Jimmy, it's my name.

Jimmy. Okay, I am Missy. And I go away.

He stood without movements, watching how she went and closed the door.

Missy ran down the stairs and then went straight up the street, trying to understand what had just happened. Got it, Missy? So now you got to find another place, she mumbled to herself.

The girl was going and listening to the sound of her footsteps on the wet grass. The picture looks like the thin girl was walking to the twilights dragging a huge heavy shadow of her mental luggage.

Summer sticky Korean evening covered the land and put the armor on her shoulders. She found a bench and had a seat. The air was so slippery as an earthworm; it was challenging to inhale; it left an adhesive trace in the lungs making a deficiency of space in them.

And it seemed to her that there was nothing ordinary in this hell on Earth. No air, no grass, no people, nothing! And now, she lost her tiny spot of silence. She was upset.

Missy wanted to take a breath, just sit and take a breath. The rain was pounding on the hood, drenching the pages of something she held. It was a textbook or a notebook, with a red leather cover.

She was tipping pages, selflessly trying to recognize letters in the twilights. The attempts were failing and turning them into lifeless lumps of untold words. Time was melting. On the fifteenth page, She stopped.

After three hours sitting there, she suddenly heard the doorbell ring in a building nearby.

The sound means that it’s already too late to stay any longer. It was around 10 pm, and if she checked it up, she would be sure in it; this doorbell never mistakes. It says: the shop is closed—10 pm.

She stood up, removed the hood, and put her face in the rain.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, she counted the drops, trying to keep her brain relaxed in the end for a few seconds.

Wow, she suddenly heard a male voice very close to her. You need to be in shape tomorrow; why are you not at home?  Curdling, she tried to listen if she really heard something. Her eyebrows tightened, moving to one point, simply touching each other. The black figure made a step from the twilight.

Uh, it is you, Walt! Missy saw her ex standing on the opposite side of the road. Damn you; you scared me.

Baby, you have trouble with a sense of humor, she heard the smile in his voice, and it was more than disgusting.

What are you doing here?

Such a brave girl. It's a dark evening, and you are walking alone... Where are your lifeguards, hot stuff? The gray streaks of rain still blur them in each other's eyes. Every single girl, Missy, would run away now, meeting a guy at night. Every single! But you didn't. Hm. That is what I love about you.

Like I care what do you love about me. Missy's face was slowly becoming pale. And now I need to go, she put on a hood and turned away.

You know what?? I always wondered if you such as all stupid bitches who always run away slamming a door? He kept talking. So, I see you are!

You had the chance to get to know who I am, Walt, bitch I am or an angel! I am sorry you didn't use that chance. No, I really am, the girl said and went away. She did not turn around but could hear the water squelching under his footsteps behind her. She quickened her pace, soon turning a corner.

She walked along a narrow concrete path, flooded with tropical rain, and muttered something to herself. A way through the rice terrace led to the building where she lived, so it was less taken but well known. Rain splashed out all the truth to her face. She felt like that.

This tropical rain usually began in March and ended closer to June. So, April was just the start of the great flood that usually overtook Asia during tropical rains. She liked it. This gray, muddy rain hit her with water rods, and Missy felt that as a blessing. She felt: this slightly pricking is much better than concentrating on what bothers her for real.

For real, she thought about home—that little spot on a map. The borders on this map in her imagination signified that her native land was somewhere over fifteen thousand kilometers far from her. Or 13 hours by plane, or over a billion thin needles that stab her heart every time she remembered why she had fled here. Missy was smiling when she imagined it would be almost a bridge to home in nowhere if she added these needles up.

She would like to come back there once. She would do that even if these billion needles were destined to dig into her feet.

At the moment when she, caught in the heavy rain, thought about it, the wrecks of this ripped map evolved into a picture of a winter dawn. Half-beautiful, half-terrible. This cold dawn, the snow visually solid as the glass, the rays, gliding according to the route, amazed her in a terrible way. Who does control them? Huh? God?

This city stands in a shadow. The twilights inhale the thick fog while skyscrapers pierce the clouds with such force that, it would seem, the sky should scream from pain. But the atmosphere is only parting by cracks. Light falls into gaps like a laser beam in a computer game; the sun is creeping up closer to her window.

When she tried to focus on a current moment, it looked like she was trying to catch a mosquito's nose in the dark. It was impossible. If you only could see those weird pictures that her green-eyed imagination created! This portrait flickered in the wall of rain in front of her. It hissed like a soda, somewhere deep inside her heart.

Missy was utterly wet, cold, and tired. Too tired to focus on what is happening around. In a blink of an eye, she stopped scared in front of someone's car.

You? Missy's eyebrows rose, Are you chasing me, Jackie??

Jimmy, Missy, I'm Jimmy.

Sorry.

I was smoking outside, and I saw that guy, and it didn't look like friendly talk, so I decided to go after you and check if you are alright.

Uh, thank you, so that is why you appeared in front of me? How could you appear in front of me if you were behind? I mean, if you went after? Sorry. Um..anyway, so kind of you. It was just a drunk guy. I live here with roommates, She pointed to the building. So, thank you for your care, and I am feeling awkward that I cannot invite you to come in, but I would like to ask you for a cup of tea next time; I mean to suggest you a cup of tea, fucking language...

To offer, Jimmy smiled, To offer a cup of tea.

To offer, She rubbed her nose, getting shy, To offer, I am not stupid, I am Ukrainian, my English is, you know, fluent but not perfect. Missy was looking like a teen. Maybe tomorrow?

Okay, I will pick you up tomorrow from the theater; you are from the theater, right? Are you working there?

Uh, yeah..., yeah..., tomorrow after the shift, okay.

O-kay. Bye??

See you, Jimmy!

His voice had sweet and velvet hoarseness, which lay down softly, enveloping all her auditory receptors. And she could not resist his voice. He amazed her, and she was kind of drunk of it; for some minutes, she lost control and was just standing on stairs staring through the tiny window at his car moving away.

She got home much later than she was supposed to come.

But lucky she flat was empty. Climbing quietly to the balcony, which window looked directly at her room, she, soggy, gaped at the sky. In those places where the clouds split up, generously covered with stars, pieces of the sky looked mysterious. The stars seemed obviously bigger and closer here.

It depends on the uplands, or because this is Asia, who knows.

She watched the sky insatiably; this is the only thing that made her stay as steadfast as she could. But, then, when the devilish fatigue and fear pressed her too hard, she thought about the sky, about the fact that it was endless. It lasts from here to her home in nowhere. And further. One sky. Under this sky, everything happened to her, and under this sky, everything will be continued if she survives.

She was sure there was no heaven there. But she knew that God was real. So, paradise might be situated somewhere else. Not in the sky.

She believed that there was something like God's surveillance room.

He comes, sits, and watches all the people: Missy, her mom, brothers, her home, enveloped in flames.

He watches and counts how much shit she passed through. Then, after getting tired, he listens to rap when the cameras are off.

Missy's God is single and has an unbearable character. He has the wings black swan's-like or a wild eagle's.

He stands in his surveillance room, crossing his wings on his chest, lazy watching the cameras. And waiting for the end of his shift for getting out and fly somewhere far, for example, for sitting on the roof of Fisher building in Detroit, beating unruly passers-by with lightning strikes; to squinting to the most vibrant star on the sky; to listen to new beats, tapping wings.

And his apostles wait for the writ to pull the bow. The tips of their arrows are abundantly smeared with poison, trials, and vices. And he thinks: whether to fire all the twelve arrows to Missy's back at once? Hmm...?

He thinks, pouring his music into deep puddles that Missy can't cross. Her God has a unique voice as if he had got cold. He teaches her not to walk on the surface of the water, as Jesus did, but to wander, having dipped her feet ankle-deep, without fear of pitfalls.

Her God has a beard and tattoos and a unique charisma, but she is still afraid of him; the lump of panic and adoration blocks her throat every time she has to face him. He comes to her once in a couple of months, whispers something to her ears, and isn't under Missy's control. He wakes up, wriggles like a poisonous snake, and erects his walls inside her heart, creating extraordinary landscapes with the lakes and falls. The lakes of feelings, which she is diligently trying to avoid.

Due to that, Missy never prays to him.

She prays to Virgin Mary.

2.2

At four in the morning, the sun is so gentle that this place does not seem such a black hole. It pulls out the rays one by one, drawing them across the water in green terraces, making this hour peaceful. Peace gets ahold of Missy, turns her into a clock; on one side, her heart's timer, another—her body's watch.

This morning, the girl prayed, holding her red book, then crossed out days on the chip paper calendar, hid it back under the red cover, and closed it.

She put on her sneakers, imagining that nothing has changed, that she will now go to the central stadium and make her 10 miles. Like every single morning during the last 20 years in the previous episode of her life. And Missy didn't really care that she had a dirt track up the mountain's slope instead of it.

Well, Susie, are you ready to go with me? She asked her roommate, knocking on her door. I know you are in, c'mon, say good morning!

Speed up, bitch. You go alone. I am staying home. Susie's asleep angry voice made the girl laugh.

Hah, Okay, she said, laughing. Lucky you, nobody hears you now. Gosh. When will you grow up?

Missy laced up the sneakers and went outside. 

Their door opened onto a platform with a balcony. The sixteenth floor allows them to see the wild Korean forest and mountains covered with rice fields. A billion shades of green sadness, Missy thought, holding her gaze on this emerald space.

She loved sports. She got up at 4 am and ran every day when all the people were sleeping—her holy 10 miles.

She was cleaning up her thoughts, which were too chaotic doing that.

She was dissolving in flickering greenery; she was becoming music screaming in her headphones; she took off the masks and came to her wild self. During the 10 miles, she wanted to die twice but always chose to fight. Missy could be those of who she wanted to. Be an unbreakable warrior, an unstoppable force. Nobody knows a lot about her broken heart, even me, her therapist, because she would like to forget that herself. But it was impossible. She was smart enough to understand that shit happens, but...5 years long shit challenge? Seriously? Iron fucking woman? Sometimes she wanted to train to death and feel that she was physically exhausted equally to her mental state, to feel like she is one and whole again.

After, she came back home and felt like she was finally alone, and it was fantastic; Susie took a taxi and went to the city. And Missy felt free; the water in the shower seemed warm, gentle, almost life-giving. She loved the water a bit less than to run, but still much, for it could wash away everything, give her this feeling of squeaky clean, what lasted only a couple of minutes,