Like, Follow, Kill

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  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?

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I’d forgotten how to speak to her … how to relate with anyone, for that matter.

  How long has it been since I’ve spoken out loud to another person?

  “I-I need to finish this. It’s due tomorrow,” I said hurriedly, pointing over at my screen. My couch was less of a couch, and more like a love seat, and the two squishy, smelly cushions were making me uncomfortable.

  Too close. Hannah’s sitting too close to me.

  I stood up, suddenly, mindlessly rubbing the incision sites on my thighs.

  “Thanks for checking up on me, though …”

  Hannah nodded, squeezing her lips together in a way that made me feel like she was disappointed in me.

  You’re not the only one, sis.

  “Okay, I’ll let you get back to what you were doing then,” Hannah said, reluctantly rising from the couch. “Can I use your bathroom first? I’ve been holding it for hours.”

  “Sure. It’s …”

  “I know where the bathroom is, Camilla.” She gave me a strange look, her hazel eyes finally rising to meet mine. We stared each other down, a thick knot forming in my chest and throat.

  We used to be so comfortable together, finishing each other’s sentences, plucking thoughts straight from each other’s brains and trying to guess what the other might say next …

  But those days are long gone. It’s like we’re strangers now.

  Don’t cry, Camilla. Please don’t cry …

  If you cry about missing your sister, then you’ll cry about Chris. And if you cry about him … well, you’re liable to never stop. You’ll die of dehydration from all those tears …

  It looked like I wasn’t the only one fighting back tears. “Be right back,” Hannah gulped, blinking rapidly as she turned down the short hallway.

  I watched her disappear into the bathroom and moments later, I heard the water running. I paced back and forth in the living room, waiting for her to come back out. Minutes passed, and finally, I crept over to the computer. I bent down slightly, clicking the mouse to minimize the current document, before glancing over my shoulder to make sure Hannah was still in the bathroom. I could hear her opening and closing drawers—is she snooping?

  I refreshed Valerie’s page.

  A new post!

  Impulsively, I pulled my computer chair out and sat down, scooting in close to the screen.

  My heartbeat echoed in my head as I quickly scanned the caption beneath the newly posted image. It was a sleepy-looking Valerie, nursing a cup of what looked like hot tea. Her hair was braided on one side, but carelessly loose, and she was wearing an oversized sweater that looked like something a grandma would knit.

  What a long night and day … sorry guys, I hope you weren’t worried. I have the worst stomach bug of my life, but I’m finally feeling better … going to nurse myself back to health because guess where I’m going tomorrow?! New Orleans! Look out Bourbon Street, here I come … #Nola #imnotfeelingwell #instasick

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Why didn’t it occur to me that she might simply be under the weather?

  After all, perfect people get sick too.

  She had responded to my messages, too! My eyes scanned quickly: Thanks for asking. I’m fine, just a bit under the weather.

  I stared at the smiley face, the corners of my own lips turning …

  “Who’s that?”

  Startled to find Hannah standing behind me, I clumsily tried to close out the screen.

  “Valerie, right?”

  Too late.

  I swallowed back the scream in my throat.

  “Oh, yeah … I remember her. You guys were in the same grade, weren’t you?” Hannah was so close; I could feel her minty hot breath on the back of my neck. I shivered.

  “Yeah, Valerie Hutchens. I don’t really know her though. I was just scrolling through old classmates a few days ago and forgot to close out the screen.” I shrugged, minimizing the page and spinning around and around in my computer chair.

  Hannah clucked her tongue. “Yeah, wasn’t she the one you were always jealous of? I never could understand what everybody saw in that girl. Especially you, Camilla.”

  I whipped around in my seat, turning so fast that my still-stiff neck from the accident roared with pain. “I wasn’t jealous of her!”

  But I could hear the defensive spike in my voice. “I wasn’t,” I mumbled.

  I’m just lonely. And lost, I wanted to add. And having someone to chat with, someone to pretend I’m friends with … well, it helps a little. Maybe even a lot.

  “Okay, okay … no offense. I think it would be good for you to reconnect with old friends, but …”

  “But what?” I thought about the sounds in the bathroom, her shuffling through my closet and drawers …

  “Are you taking your medication as prescribed?”

  Ah, there it is. The real reason for her visit.

  My eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “Of course I am. Why?”

  Hannah held up her hands, defensively. “I’m just asking. Just worried about you, that’s all … and you’re not drinking, are you?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Hannah! No, I’m not drinking. What about you, huh? Still going out for Thirsty Thursdays with Mike?” I spat.

  Hannah’s face hardened and she didn’t answer my question. Her eyes were traveling the room again … She doesn’t fucking believe me, does she? I realized.

  “Look, Hannah, I appreciate you coming by, but I need to get back to work. Time for you to go.” I stood up and crossed my arms over my chest, waiting for her to take a hint and leave. “No offense.”

  Hannah frowned, her eyes zeroing in on mine once more. “I guess I’ll see you later then,” she huffed, scooping up her purse and seeing herself out.

  From the window, I watched her climb into the driver’s seat of her black Camry. Quietly, she sat, staring straight ahead at God knows what, for what felt like several minutes. Finally, she put the car in gear, and slowly reversed down the snaky driveway. I watched her taillights until they disappeared at the bottom of the hill.

  Screw her! She was rude to me. It was her, not me, right?

  Before I could waste any more time feeling guilty about my sister, I plopped back down in my desk chair and took a sip of flat Mountain Dew. Taking a deep breath, I clicked the refresh button on Valerie’s page and reread her brief, but kind, message.

  Chapter 3

  I slept with my door closed and the ceiling fan on high, the spinning wood paddles lulling me to sleep … but now those paddles are the blades of a helicopter.

  A spotlight beams from overhead and the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the heavy blades signals that help is coming …

&n
bsp; “Don’t worry. Help is on the way, Kid,” Chris says, reading my mind.

  Painfully, I twist my neck to the right, but then I remember … Chris is dead. I killed him … oh, Chris … it’s all my fault, isn’t it?

  I don’t want to look … don’t want to see Chris that way again … but he’s talking.

  He’s talking! I just heard his voice!

  I must have dreamed that he was dead … he’s still here … he must be because he’s talking, dammit!

  But when I look at my husband, the parts of him that I love so much—his lips, his eyes, the dimple on his right cheek, the scar where his eyebrow piercing used to be—those parts of him are gone. All that remains is a crumpled body in the passenger’s seat. A body without a head. It doesn’t even look real, like some sort of movie-set prop or clothing-store mannequin …

  And blood. There’s just so much of it …

  “Back here, Kid.”

  Moaning, I force myself to lift one floppy arm and reach for the rearview mirror. It’s slow and painful, like it’s somebody else’s arm—I’m commanding the arm to move, willing it with my mind like I’m telekinetic.

  When the mirror is lowered, I can see the entirety of the backseat.

  But where is his voice coming from …?

  Then everything comes into focus. In the rearview mirror, I come eye to eye with Chris.

  Chris’s head is in the backseat.

  Chris’s head is talking to me.

  Chris: The Talking Head, is frowning.

  “You promised. You promised me you’d stop drinking,” his lips are moving.

  “I know. I—I’m sorry … I fucked up so bad …”

  “You lied. You’re a liar … you made me bleed …”

  A new voice breaks in.

  “Ma’am, don’t look back there. Look at me. Listen, you’re in shock, but we’re going to cut you out of there. There’s a helicopter waiting to transport you to university hospital, okay? Keep your eyes on me and breathe.”