LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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