Diary Entry
Best day of my life.
Mr. Yuri Simon Soule, manager to the world’s biggest pop stars, said he didn’t care about my dyslexia — that where others saw flaws, he saw opportunity.
Why argue? His office sat on the top floor of a black glass tower. His polished black desk held my reflection. Gold records covered the walls.
The job he offered was simple: I held the clipboard; his clients signed the papers.
No reading required.
Diary Entry
My boss brought in a young woman today.
Miruna Popescovich had the face of an angel. My boss said that nobody with that name sells out stadiums.
But MIROONA — one name, like a goddess — would soon be everywhere.
When she took my clipboard to sign the contract, her hand brushed mine.
She smiled.
I fell in love.
Diary Entry
Miroona’s voice was not godly.
My boss slid more papers for her to sign.
The more papers she signed, the better she sang.
The better she sang, the thinner she got.
Diary Entry
Miroona’s voice matched her angel face.
She sold out stadiums. She was everywhere. Girls copied her. Boys dreamed only of her.
When I asked her about her hometown, her family, or her friends, she stared at me with cloudy eyes.
Diary Entry
Miroona smashed all her mirrors.
A new girl with golden curls dropped a hit and all the reporters named her the voice of her generation.
Miroona signed one paper.
By morning, the golden-haired girl was gone.
Diary Entry
Miroona attacked a photographer with an umbrella today.
It was the white umbrella I gave her, the one I told her would keep her safe.
Our umbrella is no longer white.
Diary Entry
Miroona is a frail angel in a white tomb.
In the hospital room, I watch her sleep beneath white sheets, surrounded by white walls and white lilies.
Miroona opens her eyes.
I close my diary.
“Miroona,” I whisper, “there’s one last paper to sign.”
Her hand trembles as I guide the pen between her fingers.
“You have to sign your name,” I say.
She is confused.
“My name...?”
For the first time, I read the page on my clipboard.
Its title shimmers in gold letters:
END OF LIFE
I blink hard.
The letters slip back into place.
END OF FILE
Of course. Damn my dyslexia.
My boss’s signature is at the bottom:
YURI SIMON SOULE
The letters rearrange themselves:
YOUR SOUL IS MINE.
I blink again.
The words stay the same.
I see a dark silhouette standing outside Miroona’s room.
I should have known...
Who hires an assistant who cannot read?
Who gives the world to a woman who cannot sing?
I snatch the pen from Miroona’s hand.
The clipboard hits the floor.
Another page slips out — my signature at the bottom.
I remember my first day. The page he asked me to sign.
No reading required.
I look at the calendar on the wall.
Today is 6/6/2022.
Worst day of my life.