Like, Follow, Kill

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 (#u02a3787b-5bf4-5ec4-b320-25b6bc340344)

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.