Like, Follow, Kill. Carissa Lynch Ann

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      You don’t need it. It’s a crutch. Promise me you’ll stop drinking … you don’t act like yourself when you do, Chris’s words whispered between the trees.

      But I did need it—a crutch. Even before the accident, I’d struggled with anxiety my whole life. The alcohol dulled my nerves and created a sense of euphoria in a world where there was none for me. Even when I was happy, that pessimistic inner voice liked to spoil all my fun. Crutches helped. They allowed me to focus on something other than the deep dark voice inside me.

      I never used to drink during the daytime—I had to work my food-prep job at The Pink Buffet. And after work, I’d either work extra hours, waiting tables, or I’d come home and write or edit until Chris came home. But in the evenings, after all the work was laid to rest … I drank.

      I drank until I promised Chris that I would stop.

      Only, I didn’t, not really … I just got better at hiding it. I’d wait until he went to sleep at night, then I’d sneak sips into my soda water and fill my mouth with Listerine strips in between … sometimes, drinking so late at night, that I was still half-drunk when I showed up for my early morning shift at the buffet.

      My eyes still closed, I imagined sitting out on the back deck with Chris when we lived in our townhome. I could almost feel the squeeze of his hand on mine, his promise ring digging sharply into my palm … I’m proud of you for not drinking, Camilla. You’re working hard to stay sober; I can tell.

      But it was all a farce … I was working hard to stay drunk, more like it.

      Liar … his words from the dream rushed back at me.

      Lies … I told so many of them. Even now, I can taste them—like vinegar on my tongue. They tasted bad, but they flowed like honey from my mouth …

      Chris’s hands—so tender and sweet—are squeezing harder and harder, choking the breath from my chest …

      Opening my eyes, I poked a finger at my phone, causing it to light up. I was surprised to find several unread texts from Hannah. She messaged me daily, but evening calls and texts were a rarity. Evenings were reserved for her and Mike.

      Mike: the perfect husband. Mike: who was alive and still had a head. Mike: who went to bed early and woke up early. Who took my sister to dinner shows and vacations.

       Things I never had a chance to do with Chris.

      Hannah had sent several messages between 11pm and 12am, while I was dead asleep and dreaming.

      Reluctantly, I opened them:

       Hannah: I miss you, Milly.

      Milly … Hannah hadn’t called me that in ages. Not since we were kids.

      The endearing nickname made my throat and chest constrict, like peanut butter in my gullet.

       Hannah: I’m sorry for the way I acted today. I just don’t know what to say to you anymore. I don’t know how to fix things the way I could when we were kids. You were young then, and you listened to me. Now … now, I don’t know how to help you. But I want to … I want to help you, Milly.

       Hannah: I’m sorry about what happened to you. I know you miss Chris. I miss him, too.

       Hannah: But he’s gone … and now that Dad’s gone too, all we have is each other.

       Hannah: What I’m saying is … I can’t lose you.

       Hannah: I love you, Milly. I miss you so much I can’t breathe. Please come back to me.

      When I closed my eyes this time, I was falling … floating back to our farm house on Credence Drive. Hannah and I hiding in our bedroom closet …

      Don’t move, she had whispered. He’s in the bedroom now. I opened my mouth in horror, and like a little bird, a frightened chirp slipped out. Suddenly, her hands were wrapped around my face, covering my mouth and nose … tight, so tight … I can’t breathe! The harder I fought, the firmer her clamp became. I tried to scream but couldn’t. Shhh … just a few more minutes, she had promised.

      My mother died of cancer before I was old enough to know her. My father coped with her loss by drinking. And he wasn’t a funny drunk or a clumsy drunk … he was mean. Hannah and I would hide in the closet, or wherever we could, until he finished one of his rampages.

       There’s not a horror movie in the world that could make my heart race the way Dad could …

      I shook that memory away and opened my eyes. My phone chimed again. A notification this time: Valerie had made a new post!

      I lit another cigarette, pushing aside thoughts of my sister, ignoring the sharp burn in my chest, and opened my Instagram app.

      I was disappointed to find that she hadn’t posted a new video or picture of herself. It was simply a faded blue image with a quote, like the bored-as-fuck ones I saw on my Facebook feed daily.

      My eyes scanned the words … they were familiar, but where had I seen them before—a book, or a movie, maybe? I typed the first sentence of the quote into Google and instantly, results for that old Beatles song, Eleanor Rigby, popped up.

      It was a song about lonely people, like me. A woman who died in a church, all alone. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember the rest of the song, beyond the first verse.

      Pulling up YouTube, I found the song within seconds and clicked play.

      Before I could change my mind, I was typing out another message to Valerie.

       Me: I haven’t heard this song in years. It’s so haunting, so beautiful … hope you’re feeling better today.

      Usually, it took Valerie hours—sometimes, days—to respond. But she immediately wrote back, sending a slither of pleasure right through me.

       Valerie: Me too. It always helps me sleep.

      Eyes closed, I leaned my head back in the lawn chair, letting that haunting old song consume me, all the while imagining Valerie, sick and alone in her hotel room a few hundred miles away, doing the exact same thing.

      Paul McCartney’s timeless voice … was it Paul or John, John or Paul …? No matter—their words lulled me back to sleep like a pill …

      ***

      The next day, my face was sporting a sun burn—I’d made the mistake of falling asleep out on the back porch, and I’d slept through the early morning sunrise and into the afternoon.

      The red, raw shine to my cheeks made me feel almost normal—it had been a long time since I’d felt the sun, since my face had a sheen of color to it. Hannah and I had used to go to the beach every summer СКАЧАТЬ