She stood up. Smoothed her shirt. Walked to the bedroom door.
And more like a countdown.
“Starling?” he called. “I got that ginger beer you like.”
His gaze flicked, just for a second, to the desk. To the drawer she had left slightly ajar. Girlfriend Tapes
“I’m afraid of being alone,” Marcus said.
“You’re going to tape over me like the others, aren’t you?” she said to the lens. “That’s your sickness, Marcus. You don’t kill us. You just… stop recording.”
She looked at the drawer. The remaining tapes. Four, five, six. Each one a woman who had loved him. Each one a woman who had tried to leave. She stood up
GIRLFRIEND TAPES.
It started, as most bad ideas do, with a locked drawer in a shared apartment.
Not a number. Not a name. Just that.
The tape ended. There was no resolution. No confession. Just a blank, screaming silence.
“Tell me something true,” his voice said from off-screen. Young, hopeful.
The first tape was dated seven years ago. She slid it into the vintage player he kept under the TV. Static hissed, then resolved into a grainy image of a living room she didn’t recognize. A young woman with auburn hair sat on a floral couch, reading a book. She looked up, smiled at the camera—at Marcus, behind it. And more like a countdown
His smile didn’t change. But his eyes did. They went flat. Like a camera that had just stopped recording.
Lena’s hands were cold. She ejected the tape. No. This is a movie. He makes short films. This is fiction.