What if some of the people you meet in the world already know you? Know everything about you, have been studying you, stalking you? And you have no idea. Like you’re a bug trapped under their glass lid, and all you do is wonder stupidly why you keep running into invisible walls.
I had this thought two weeks ago in the Stone Rose and attributed it to my long history of paranoia. I had this thought, in fact, when a stranger ordered a drink. Older man, salt-and-pepper beard, deep-green eyes, the color of jade. Charcoal suit, no tie. All he did was order a cappuccino, but when he handed me the cash, he just stared at me. It lasted no more than a few seconds, but there was endless longing to it. I remember the name I wrote on the cup, the name that he paused before giving me, as if I had asked him a deeply personal question. John. But I also know there’s a common nickname for John. Something less formal, the name of a barman.
“Jack,” I say.
“You remember me,” he says.
“You came into my shop. Twice.”
“It was all I could do to only order a drink from you and not talk more than that. I couldn’t even manage to give you the name everyone knows me by, only my birth name.”
His British accent betrays just the slightest hint of Cockney, as if he’s worked years to put traces of hardscrabble roots behind him. I immediately feel his pull, a gentle gravity, and realize I’m actually leaning toward the laptop screen. I’m trying to see any of me in him. And as much as I want to see nothing, our eyes could be interchangeable. Exact same shade of green.
This is my father.
Jack leans back in his seat. The room he’s in is dark, with just a small lamp providing the only light. He wears a loose oxford shirt, a cerulean blue.
“You have no idea what it means for me to finally talk to you,” he says. “You have grown into such a beautiful woman. Strong, flawed, wondrous.”
There’s too much happening, and the smell of my vomit hits me again, threatening to overload my senses. I close my eyes, shutting my view of this man, and take in a deep breath, hold it to four, then let the air trickle from me.
Keep calm. Figure out what they want, and use it to your advantage. Focus on nothing but escape.
“Tell her to let me go,” I say. The words sound so impotent, but I have no idea what else to say.
“She won’t do that,” Jack says. “This is a very important night for her. For all of us, really.”
I won’t ask why. I can’t ask why.
Now when I move my wrists, I sense the slightest bit more wiggle room. If I could even get one hand free, maybe I could reach into my pocket and get the wine opener without Brenda seeing. There’s the sharp little end used for cutting the foil. Perhaps I could saw through the rest of the tape. But Brenda would have to be out of the room. There’s no way I could do it without her seeing me. Still, there’s a chance. Keep them talking. Just keep them talking.
“How many fans are there?” I ask. “You are the number one and two fans. How many more? How many have the username and password to the website?”
“Dozens.” The voice is Jack’s. I look at the screen, and he’s smiling. “And the only thing they all have in common is an obsession with you, Alice. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“It’s disgusting.”
“It’s not uncommon, actually. I call it victim fetishism. We read about crimes all day, don’t we? Every leading news article is one horrific event after another. Most of the stories wash over us, leaving us feeling very little about them. But once in a while, a particular crime affects us deeply, and not necessarily because we’re saddened by it. Sometimes a crime is so cruel and horrifying that it forces us to sit up and take notice. To honor it, in a way.”
“I’ve never had that feeling,” I say.
“Perhaps not, but many people do. And when the victim survives, the fascination deepens. And for a small number of people, that fascination sucks them in and doesn’t let go.”
Brenda’s voice, cool and distant. “I cut myself because of you, Alice.”
Jack continues. “The crime against you ensnared many of these people. They read the story and wonder, What was that like for her? What was going through her mind the moment those little girls began stabbing? And, most of all, they wonder, What’s her life going to be like now? They want to know what it’s like to be Alice, all these years later.”
“It’s a nightmare,” I say. “Just one long, unending nightmare.”
“But not all the people who follow you are the same,” Jack continues. “It’s a diverse group—we have members from around the world. IP addresses from Turkey, Indonesia, Japan. Most just want to watch you, study you, follow you as if you’re a character on their private stage, which, in a way, you are.”
“Why?”
“Because you fascinate them, Alice. You’ve experienced horror like very few ever have—as a mere child, no less—and now you’re trying to lead a normal life, push away the past. Perhaps that’s not very interesting to most people, but to members of our website, the life of Alice is the best show around.”
I don’t want to ask, but I need to keep them talking.
“So, why…why this? If everyone just wants to watch me, why are you doing this to me?”
Brenda purrs. “Some of us want more.”
“She’s right,” Jack says. “Not everyone has the same motivation. Brenda has a hunger for you that cannot be sated by simply chronicling your life.”
Oh God, I knew I didn’t want to ask. I keep facing the screen, afraid to look over to Brenda.
“And what about you, Jack? What is it you want?”
“You’ll know the answer to that soon enough,” he says.
The room falls silent, and my head spins, trying to think of more questions, anything to stretch the time. Time represents hope, and I sense both are quickly fading.
Just as I’m about to speak, Jack says something that rips away any remaining hope.
“Go get the knives, Brenda.”