Like, Follow, Kill. Carissa Lynch Ann

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,