Like, Follow, Kill

She had the confidence that I lacked, which is why I wanted to be her friend.

That smile … I wanted to be on the receiving end of it.

But her eyes floated over me; I might as well have been a ghost, stalking the airless halls of Harmony …

I would have preferred being hated or mocked … anything besides ignored.

I watched the others who followed her around—Luke and some of the other nerdy boys. Valerie was too nice to turn them away, too cool to give them a real chance. I wouldn’t stoop to their level; I wouldn’t grovel for her attention.

Shortly after my accident, memories of Valerie came floating back like they’d never left in the first place. It wasn’t until I had managed to get out of bed and venture back online that I thought about the girl from high school. Her perfect face consumed me. I don’t know what triggered it—I just woke up one day and wondered if she was on Facebook. Like so many of my other classmates and former friends, I expected her to have a profile where she doted on her husband and kids; maybe occasionally bragged about her Etsy business … but Valerie didn’t have a Facebook profile, much to my surprise.

Apparently, Facebook isn’t really that cool anymore among young people. Who knew? I certainly never got the damn memo. But Valerie did. Of course she did.

A few weeks later, I tried searching again. Only this time, I used Google to find her. She hated Facebook, but she was active on Instagram and Snapchat. In fact, she spent more time posting than she did living, or so it appeared at first.

Since finding her profiles, I’d become absorbed in all things Valerie Hutchens.

When Valerie goes to the beach, so do I. I can almost taste the salt of the ocean, hear the whisper of waves in Panama City …

Valerie was a pharmaceutical rep, which meant she traveled for her job—a lot, apparently. How ironic, that I was the one choking down the pills while she was the one peddling them.

But that wasn’t her only job. She was also an aspiring writer, like me.

Almost done with my first novel. Will you guys read it someday? Please say yes! #amwriting #writerforlife.

It was a black-and-white photo of her sitting on the edge of a pier in Ocean City, Maryland, dangling her toes over the edge, all the while balancing a notebook full of tiny, neat words on her lap. Hell, it could have been the cover of her very own book—that’s how good the picture was.

But the photo itself made me nervous—What if a sudden breeze came rushing by, and her pretty little words floated out to sea? But, of course, Valerie didn’t worry about things like that. Because bad things didn’t happen to people like Valerie.

Bad things happened to me.

Look on the bright side, every once in a while, Kid, Chris’s words and cheesy smile ripped like blades through my cerebrum.

He was the optimist; I was the realist—and together, we kept each other in check.

But not anymore.

There’s no one left to lean on.

I pushed aside thoughts of Chris, focusing only on Valerie.

Maximizing the old picture of her on the pier, I tried to catch a few of her words. But I couldn’t make them out. Even now, nearly fifteen years later, I couldn’t sneak a peek into Valerie’s inner world, no matter how hard I tried …

My favorite post of Valerie’s was one from about a month ago. She was standing outside our old middle school. Passing through town again, thought I’d stop and see Aunt Janet! Look where I am! I don’t remember much about Harmony, but it feels right being back in Wisconsin. Only back for one day. What should I do? #Imbaaaack #homesweethome #instawisconsin

She couldn’t remember much about Harmony, but one thing was certain: Harmony hadn’t forgotten about her. Dozens of people commented on her post, including her old pal Luke, and I recognized some of my other classmates by either their usernames or profile pics. I even recognized our old high-school algebra professor in the comments—young and old alike, everyone worshipped Valerie.

Apparently, I’m not the only one still watching Valerie from a distance.

I felt embarrassed for all the commenters. But most of all, I felt embarrassed for me.

Back pressed to the brick under the Harmony Middle School sign, she had one leg bent, her foot pressed to the wall, both hands casually tucked in her torn jean pockets. I imagined myself sending her a private message—Just saw that you’re in town! This is Camilla Brown. Do you remember me from school? I thought if you weren’t busy, we could meet for coffee or drinks. Catch up?

But of course, I didn’t send it. I’m ashamed to even admit that I practiced writing it. Even if my fucking face and body weren’t twisted and lame, I still didn’t think I could face her. I liked her post—the way I always did—then erased the message.

Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine what a meet-up with Valerie would look like.

Do I think she would meet up with me if I asked real nicely? Yes, I do. Because Valerie is polite like that. Valerie is … well, Valerie. Always charming, always kind, always out of my league …

When I imagined us sitting across from each other in a local café, chatting away like old friends, I couldn’t help picturing my real face—correction: my old face—the one I had before the accident.

It wasn’t until weeks later, when she was back out on the road, far enough away that it felt safe, that I sent my first message.

She’d responded—it had taken a few days, but still—and since then, we’d chatted briefly. She remembered me from school. She asked me how I was doing. She didn’t mention the accident or Chris, so one could only hope she hadn’t heard …

In my messages, I complimented her pictures. I tried to keep it short and sweet, un-desperate.

We talked a little bit about writing, although she still hadn’t told me—or any of her other followers—what she was writing, exactly. I didn’t mention my face, and I never suggested that we hang out in person. She didn’t either … perhaps she is waiting for me to suggest it?

There was no point in trying to see her in person. There weren’t going to be any chatty meet-ups.

Because I didn’t want to be her friend—I don’t think I ever really wanted to be her friend.

No, that wasn’t it at all.

I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Valerie’s smiles, I wanted to wipe them off her pretty face.

Chapter 2

My house smelled of decay. Everything had that dirty-dishrag aroma clinging to it, even me. No matter how much I cleaned or sprayed, the apartment stank.

Maybe it’s not the house that’s rotten and falling apart. Maybe it’s me.

A walking corpse—that’s me.

The house was small; so small, I often caught myself calling it my “apartment.” Eight hundred rented square feet of mildew-laden carpet; dingy walls the dull color of Cheerios. And not a decoration to speak of.

But I had what I needed to survive—a kitchen, one bathroom, a cramped living room, and a bedroom that could easily be mistaken for a walk-in closet. It was the cheapest thing my sister and I could find for me after the accident. She offered to let me stay in her nice, two-story, brick home in town. But she and I both knew that wasn’t an option. Her house was only a few blocks from my old one … the house I used to share with Chris. And she had her own life, her own family to tend to …

The drab walls, the isolation … it was less like an apartment, and more like a prison. And maybe that’s how I want it to be … a form of self-punishment, I suppose.

I didn’t want to be around anyone after the accident … do I now?

No, not really, I realized.

It helped talking to Valerie online—she was my window to the world. And sure, I was lonely, but the alternative … being surrounded by people, them judging my face, my mistakes … loneliness seemed like the better option.

My rental home was on the outskirts of town, with only one neighbor beside me. She was an elderly woman … Karen … or Carol, maybe? I couldn’t remember. Karen/Carol’s house was barely visible in the warmer months, a thick tangle of trees forming a wall between us.

My place was cramped, but it was also the most secluded and affordable place for rent in Oshkosh.

When you never leave your 800-square-foot apartment, it actually feels more like 400 square feet.

The walls closing in on me, the distance between the ceiling and floor was shortening by the day, threatening to crush the breath from my chest like one of those X-ray machines they use while performing mammograms …

My old place with Chris had been nothing like this. I could barely remember the sunny walls of our townhouse or the neat parquet floors throughout. I could barely remember Chris for that matter … the way he was before …

But that’s a lie.

I could still remember everything, if I allowed myself to. That old version of me trapped inside my head—she wouldn’t let me forget. I could silence her voice, but not her memories. No, some memories never die, no matter how much we want them to.

I want to forget … it’s easier to forget a life that I destroyed.

We had a great relationship, Chris and me. Not good, great.

I imagined the weight of him, thick hairy arms draped around my neck while I typed at my desk. Chris massaging my shoulders, twisting his fingers through my hair, tugging at the knots … hands squeezing my neck, not so hard I couldn’t breathe, but enough to give me pause …

But my life was different now. For the most part, I spent my days reading books and watching TV to keep myself sane. I bathed and exercised (a bit) and cooked food. But the moments between those activities and sleeping, those moments belonged to the internet. Searching and looking … trying to find myself somewhere, I guess. Lately, I’d been consumed by Valerie.

It wasn’t her video on Instagram at 2am that woke me, because I was already awake. In the wee morning hours … that was when I often ventured outside, but never beyond the concrete slab I used as a porch.

Perched in a rusty lawn chair, a shapeless cloud of smoke formed around my head like a bubble. Pall Malls—another addiction I couldn’t quite master or shake.

Karen/Carol couldn’t see me from here, even if she was looking. But still, I’d left the back porch light off just in case. I didn’t want to be seen. Looking at my own scars was hard enough; I didn’t need others staring at them, too.

The 2am notification shook me out of my dream-like, smoking state. I stubbed my cigarette out on the rim of an empty soda can on the table beside me, then squinted down at my iPhone. The white-hot brightness of the phone in the dark caused a sharp twinge of pain in my right temple.

_TheWorldIsMine_26 started a live video. Watch it before it ends!

Valerie posted live videos a few times per week, but 2am, even for a frequent poster like her, was unusual. Hours earlier she’d posted several photos on Instagram and a Snapchat story in a smoky underground club in eastern Kentucky called Cavern.

Meeting some interesting new ppl in Paducah! Cavern is the best-kept secret here. But it’s all about business tonight though. #allworknoplay #hustling

The club had a dingy, dark look to it … but Valerie herself was dressed to the nines, in a navy-blue suit that made her hair look white hot and glossy in the photos. I noticed the pink strips in her hair were now gone …

Most likely, she was wining and dining some doctors or other consumers in the healthcare industry. Working that Valerie charm to push whatever the latest drug product on the market was.

I clicked on the newest video, holding my breath in anticipation.

The video was dark, so it was hard to see, and for a moment the screen bumbled and glitched … then Valerie’s nose and lips filled the entire screen.

Immediately, I felt a prickle of fear in my stomach. Something is wrong.

“Not a good night, guys. Not a good night at all,” Valerie’s bow-like lips moved shakily on the screen. They were puffy. Stained purple with drink.

“The meeting was swell, but some creep decided to follow me back to my hotel room. Can you guys stay with me, please …?” The screen bobbled and shook as she walked; all I could see was the lower half of her face. She was panting, releasing short gulps of air through her swollen lips. And she was stumbling too … possibly drunk.

I’ve never seen her this vulnerable.

“Almost there, guys … thanks for having my back,” she huffed. The video panned out and finally, I could see her whole face. Her eyes were wide, more frightened than I’d ever seen them before. And she was surrounded by darkness, spiky dark buildings in the distance, but nothing decipherable. Surely, if she were close to the hotel, there would be lights … Speaking of lights, where are all the street lights in that town …?

“As much as I love being on my own, sometimes I feel like I need a hero. There are lots of creeps in the world, guys. But I know I’m safe with you all watching, always having my back …”

The video cut off abruptly.

I gripped the phone, surprised to hear myself panting just like she was seconds earlier.

Will she post again, to let us know that she made it inside safely?

At 4am, I finally climbed into bed. Should I send her a message, ask her if she’s okay? I was always hesitant to message Valerie, afraid of annoying her or seeming desperate … but she could be in trouble …

Ultimately, I decided to wait until morning. Valerie will be okay, she always is.

I balanced the phone on my chest. If she posted, my phone would vibrate, and hopefully, wake me up.

I stared at the fan blades … swish swish swish … until my eyelids grew heavy and closed.

***

The sound of a phone ringing shook me from sleep. Thankfully, I hadn’t dreamed of the accident. I jerked up in bed, trembling for no reason, and immediately, I remembered Valerie’s odd live video she’d posted in the middle of the night. Did she make it back to her hotel okay?

I declined my sister’s call and swiped away her texts. Without taking my meds or washing up, I scrambled out of bed and went straight for my laptop.

I could see my social media notifications from my cell, but I preferred the bigger screen.

And I needed to know if Valerie was alright this morning …

Clearing away cans and empty chip bags, I rolled my computer chair up close to the screen.

The browser was still open on her page from where I’d left it last night. I refreshed, tapping my fingers noisily on the desk while I waited for it to load.

She’s fine. Valerie Hutchens is always fine. And what does it matter if she’s not, huh? She’s not your sister; she’s not your friend, not really. You barely know the fucking girl.

But I did know her, sort of. At least that’s how it felt, as I followed her day-to-day movements, activities, and moods. As much as I hated to admit it, Valerie’s mere existence was keeping me semi-sane while I hid, tucked away from the world in my shitty house, wasting away.

She seemed to be the only thing I could—or wanted—to focus on these days. And although our brief messages weren’t much, she was the only living soul I’d communicated with—besides my sister and the doctors—since the accident.

I don’t have any friends, no one I can talk to … and although our short chats online probably meant nothing to her, they meant everything to me. Sure, I was jealous of her—her fragile beauty made me more self-aware of my own flaws, and her free-spirited travels and successful career highlighted my personal failures … but Valerie was hope.

She was who I wanted to be … a glimpse of who I might have been …

My thoughts drifted over to the unopened Word files, which I couldn’t see because Valerie’s page was blocking the many icons that dotted the screen. Like Valerie, I was a writer. But not the kind that could ever get published. No, I’d stopped that kind of writing years ago. Now, I did some ghostwriting and occasionally, some freelance editing.

God knows I need the money. That’s how I should be spending my time, not stalking people online.

I used to enjoy it, getting lost in other people’s stories after I’d given up on my own … but lately, all I wanted to do was stay up to date with Valerie’s whereabouts and doings … it was her story that intrigued me the most.

Frustrated, I clicked the refresh button again, and finally, Valerie’s Instagram page filled my screen.

Nothing.

The last post was the live video I’d already watched. It had been posted at 2:06am.

I jumped up and ran back to my bedroom to retrieve my cell phone, then checked to make sure she hadn’t posted any Snaps.

Nope—nothing.

***

By 4pm, I’d taken an hour-long “bath”—which involved me scrubbing myself with water and soap while I sat in my new shower chair that the doctor had recommended because it was too painful to get in and out of the tub if I sat all the way down inside it. I’d limped around my kitchen, sweeping the floor. I’d washed a sinkful of moldy dishes and started and stopped three editing projects that were due next month. As much as I wanted to stay busy and keep my mind from wandering back to Valerie, or something worse, I just couldn’t focus. The words on the page were jumbly; my head throbbing; thick waves of red washing over my face and neck.

Valerie hadn’t posted all day, nothing since that shaky, sinister live vid at 2 in the morning. I’d skimmed through nearly a thousand of her previous posts, and then her followers’ posts … I’d also sent her three direct messages, asking her how she was doing, if she was okay … they had all gone unanswered.

Something is wrong. Something happened last night to Valerie.

I had gone so far as to make a scribbled list of hotels, motels, and inns that were in or around eastern Kentucky. There weren’t many, and most of them were listed outside of Paducah. There was nothing in their local news either—no kidnappings, rapes, assaults …

No murders.

I’m worried about a stranger; meanwhile, I can barely take care of myself. This is insane!

Once again, I pulled up a manuscript I’d been paid to edit. I made it through three lines, before my thoughts drifted back to her again and I couldn’t read the words on the page. The shaky sound of Valerie’s voice in that darkened street still haunted me … she had seemed so afraid, so unsure of herself …

I leapt from my computer chair as someone pounded on my front door.

I wasn’t sure how to react. It had been so long since I’d had any visitors. My mind immediately thought of my neighbor, Karen. Or Carol, whatever her name was … or possibly my physical therapist? But we didn’t have an appointment and my neighbor had never stopped by before. I’d always assumed she was a hermit, like me, and that worked out well for both of us.

My heart thumping in my chest, I tiptoed over to the living-room window and peeked out through the dusty blinds.

“I see you, Camilla! Let me in!”

Fuck.

It was Hannah. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I hadn’t answered any of my sister’s texts today. Also, I hadn’t taken my medicine. The switch-up in Valerie’s routine was affecting my own.

Dammit.

Reluctantly, I unfastened the deadbolt and opened the door.

“Jesus. I was worried. I had to leave work an hour early …” Hannah brushed past me, nearly knocking me over with her oversized purse and puffy pink coat.

Hannah was tall and elegant, with white-blonde hair. The polar opposite of me, with my short, chubby frame and dark-haired features. I’d often wondered if I was adopted.

You hatched from an egg, Milly. Fell out the back of a farmer’s truck and went splat on the ground. You were lucky I scraped you up when I did. She had told me that when she was eight and I was four, and for some reason, the image had stuck with me.

My sister plopped down on my living-room sofa, dropped her purse by her feet, and kicked off a pair of shiny brown loafers.

“You alright?”

I was still guarding the door. I closed and locked it, breathing in through my mouth and out through my nose.

“I’m okay, Hannah. Just busy.” Awkwardly, I sat down on the couch beside her.

She instantly launched into conversation, about how hectic her schedule was today—she’d been a dental hygienist since she was twenty, earning her associate’s degree and completing her clinical practice in less than two years—and she reminded me, twice, that she’d had to take off early to come check on me.

Through all her chatter, her eyes never once met mine.

Even my own sister, my own blood, can’t look at my ugly, disfigured face anymore.

I wanted to reach over and shake her. Yell: Bring my fucking sister back, please! She’s the one I want. Not you. Not this bumbling girl who can’t even look me in the face!

And it’s not just the not-looking that bothered me … it’s that every time I did leave the house—which wasn’t often—people either quickly glanced away or stared straight at me, unapologetically, like I was some sort of circus freak …

I missed the days of being looked at appreciatively by men and women; but mostly, I just missed being looked at like a normal person, another face in the crowd …

“I’m sorry you came all this way. I promise, I’m fine. Just busy. I’m editing a manuscript for a client right now.” Maybe Hannah isn’t the only one acting unlike herself. I, too, have been treating my sister like a stranger, I realized, uncomfortably.

Hannah was staring across the room. I followed her gaze to my computer screen and the mess of cans and crud on the floor around my desk space.

The manuscript I was supposed to be working on was pulled up on the home screen (thankfully, I’d minimized Valerie’s profile).

“I’m glad you’re working and getting back in the swing of things. But what have you been doing for fun? You need to get out more. They miss you at the buffet.”

The Pink Buffet was an old-timey restaurant that I’d worked at for nearly six years, before the accident. I’d used to go in early to set up prep for the buffet, and sometimes waitress in the evenings. I didn’t miss it; and I didn’t believe for a second that they missed me there either. The other girls were probably thrilled to have my extra hours.

I realized then that Hannah was still talking, although my mind was somewhere else. “Huh?”

“I was saying that we should do something together … go catch a movie, or better yet, have one of those girls’ nights at my place, where we stay up all night watching movies and …”

“And drinking wine,” I finished for her.

Wine. She can’t even say it. Because she knows my drinking is what caused the accident in the first place.

Say it, Hannah. Look me in the face, for once, and say what you and everyone else is thinking: How could you be so reckless, Camilla?! How could you be a drunken fool, like Dad?

“What have you been doing for entertainment in this stuffy place?” Hannah pressed, breaking through my guilt-ridden thoughts.

What do I do for entertainment? I imagined myself telling her the truth: I spend all day checking up on a girl I barely know, consumed by other people’s lives while I watch my own shrivel up and disappear. How is that for fun, big sis?