For God’s sake, it was obvious. How could I have missed what was happening? Ma up to her old tricks again — how could I have been so careless?
And now it feels like shards of glass are grinding away at my insides. I try to stand up, but the pain is too bad; it doubles me up like a penknife. I check the status of my f-list. There has to be someone awake by now. Someone who can help me.
A message through WeJay should bring help. Ma has taken my mobile phone. I type out my SOS and wait. Is there nobody online?
Captainbunnykiller is feeling OK.
Yeah, right. The fucktard. Too scared to leave his house now in case he runs into the boys from the estate. In passing, I notice that kidcobalt has been removed from Cap’s f-list. Oh, well. Colour me surprised.
ClairDeLune is feeling rejected. Well, yes, probably. Angel has finally had enough, and has written to her personally. His tone, which is cool and professional, leaves Clair with no illusions. Rejection hurts at any age; but to Clair the humiliation is even more of a blow. sapphiregirl is gone from her f-list. So, I see, is blueeyedboy.
And Chryssie? Once more, she is feeling sick. This time, I almost sympathize. Looking at her f-list this morning, I notice, with diminishing surprise, that azurechild has been deleted. I immediately check for blueeyedboy. There, too, I am absent.
Three strikes? It’s more than coincidence. I scroll quickly through the rest of my f-list, checking accounts and avatars. BombNumber20. Purepwnage9. Toxic69. All my friends. As if they had all decided as one to leave me marooned on badguysrock —
Of course, there’s nothing from Albertine. Her Webmail account is marked as dormant; her WeJay as deleted. I can still look up her old posts — nothing online is ever lost, and every word is hidden away in caches and encrypted files, the ghosts in the machine. But Albertine is gone now. For the first time in over twenty years — perhaps for the first time in his life — blueeyedboy is quite alone.
Alone. A bitter, brown word, like dead leaves caught in a wind trap. It tastes like coffee grounds and dirt, and smells like cigarette ash. Suddenly I feel scared. Not so much of being alone as for the absence of those little voices, the ones that tell me that I’m real, the ones that say they see me —
You understand it was fiction, right? You know I never killed anyone? Yes, some of my fic may have been in bad taste, even a little sick, perhaps, but surely you don’t believe I could ever have acted out those things?
Do you, Chryssie?
Do you, Clair?
Seriously. It wasn’t real. Artistic licence, anyone? If it sounded genuine, if you were nearly convinced, then — surely that’s a compliment, proof that blueeyedboy kicks ass —
Right, guys? Toxic? Cap?
I try to get down the stairs again. I need to call a taxi. I have to get out. I have to escape. I have to be on that plane at midday. But I feel like I’ve been cut in half; my legs can barely hold me. I make it to the bathroom again, where I throw up until there’s nothing left.
But I know from experience that this doesn’t help. Whatever she used is in me now, working its way through my bloodstream, shutting down all systems. Sometimes it lasts for days, sometimes weeks, depending on the dosage. What did she use? I don’t know. I have to call that taxi. If I crawl, I can reach the phone. It’s in the parlour, with the dogs. But the thought of lying there, helpless, with those china dogs looking down at me, is more than my brutalized nerves can take. The snakes are loose in my belly, and now there is no stopping them —
Damn, I feel sick. I feel dizzy. The room is spinning choppily. Black flowers open behind my eyes. If I just lie here, quietly, then maybe things will be OK. Maybe in time I can regain some strength, enough to get to the airport, at least —
Bip! It’s the sound of the mailbox. That bittersweet electronic sound. One of my friends has messaged me. I knew they wouldn’t leave me here. I knew they’d come round eventually.
I crawl back to the keyboard. I click on the symbol for message.
Someone has commented on your post!
I flick back to my most recent entry. A single line has been added there. No avatar. Just the default pic; a blue silhouette inside a square.
Post comment:
JennyTricks: NOT BAD AT ALL FOR AN AMATEUR. NOT TOO REALISTIC, THOUGH.
She ends it with an emoticon: a little winking smiley.
No way. No way! A finger of sweat runs down my spine. My stomach’s filled with broken glass. It has to be a joke, right? Nothing but a bad joke. Right from the moment she first logged on, thinking she was so clever.
Oh, please. As if I could have missed her, with that ridiculous username —
JennyTricks.
Genitrix.
And its colour is sometimes Virgin-blue, and sometimes it’s green, like market-stall baize, and it smells of L’Heure Bleue and Marlboros, and cabbage leaves and salt water —
Post comment:
blueeyedboy: Ma?
No. No. Of course not. I heard the explosion, for God’s sake. Ma isn’t coming back, not today, not ever. And even if she had escaped somehow, then why would she choose this medium, instead of simply driving home and dealing with me face to face?
No, someone’s trying to mess with my mind. My guess is Albertine. Nice try, Albertine. But I’ve been playing these games for much too long to be freaked out by an amateur.
Bip! Someone has commented on your post!
I consider deleting the message unread. But —
Post comment:
JennyTricks: SO HOW ARE YOU FEELING, blueeyedboy?
blueeyedboy: Never felt better, Jenny, thanks.
JennyTricks: YOU NEVER COULD LIE TO SAVE YOUR LIFE.
Well, that’s a debatable point, JennyTricks. In fact I’ve survived for as long as I have by doing precisely that. Like the princess Scheherazade, I’ve consistently lied to save my life for rather more than a thousand and one nights. So, Jenny, whoever you are —
Post comment:
blueeyedboy: Tell me, do I know you?
JennyTricks: NOT AS WELL AS I KNOW YOU.
Seriously, I doubt that. But now I’m beginning to be intrigued, in spite of the pain that comes and goes like the waves under Blackpool pier. In pain. What a phrase. Like a mouse inside a bottle. In any case I’m trapped here, and rather than think about my circumstances — which, let’s face it, don’t look good — it’s easier to stay here, to grab the line that’s being offered, to keep up the dialogue, which at least is preferable to silence.
Post comment:
blueeyedboy: So, you think you know me?
JennyTricks: OH YES. I KNOW YOU.