One long day after another for a few weeks brought Beth to bed early on Monday night, and she slept well until three in the morning when she got a text message she tried reading but ended up ignoring. She couldn't make sense of it in her sleep-addled state. She left it for the morning, but when she got up to get ready for work she had forgotten about it.
At work, she prepared for a huge presentation with a vice president of marketing and spent most of her morning running around to different departments until she had all the information she needed, but this task bled into the afternoon, and by the time she had everything she needed she had to keep her eyes on her computer until the presentation looked better. She would have to come back the next day and polish it, polish it until it shined and glowed like the moon in the night sky. She didn't want anybody to be able to look away.
She didn't get home until after seven. She had to make dinner for herself. She had to read through a few reports from Monday she hadn't been able to get to. She tackled her outfit for Friday, the day of the presentation. Black skirt with a white blouse? Too formal. Blue blouse, gray pants? Not unless she wanted to dye her hair. A forest-green skirt and her black sleeveless shirt? Now we're getting closer.
She picked up her phone to look at examples of similar outfits and realized she still had a text message to read:
"Don't look at it, whatever you do don't look at it. If you do, cut your eyes out."
She stood in the center of her bedroom, mouth gaping as she read the message again. It was from one of her college friends, someone she spoke with every few months, at the most. The last time they had texted was two months ago. She had wished Beth a happy birthday.
"Don't look at it, whatever you do don't look at it. If you do, tear your eyes out."
Beth chuckled and shook her head. "Had a little bit too much to drink last night?" She put her phone down and went over to her closet to pull out her green skirt. Her phone buzzed a moment later.
When she picked it up, she frowned. "I'm fine," the text read. "There's no problem. Just look."
Beth glanced around as if a candid-camera crew was about to burst through her window and capture her confused face.
"Sylvie, what are you on about?" she texted back. She stood with her phone in her hand for a moment. Before she could put it down, it vibrated.
Something curled through her stomach, writing like a ball of worms. "You should look. It's better for you to get it over with. It's faster. It's easier. It doesn't hurt as much."
Cold air brushed long fingers down Beth's arms. She shivered. "Sylvie, are you okay? What's going on? What are you talking about? What doesn't hurt as much?"
The next message came in an instant: "Just look."
Beth shook her head. She texted a mutual friend, someone who was closer to Sylvie, and went back to her outfit. Her mind sputtered and swirled. What is she talking about? I've never known her to use drugs...but maybe something happened. Maybe I should call her.
When she checked her phone a few minutes later it had another message from Sylvie ("Just look.") and a response from the other friend, Mandy.
"Everything's fine. There's no problem. Just look."
Beth scowled, and the mass inside her stomach picked up intensity. She blew out a long breath. What's going on here? This is some kind of stupid joke.
She threw her phone on her bed and went back to her closet. After about ten minutes of building an outfit she poured a glass of wine and sat in a plush chair in her living room. The bright white kitchen light sent a sharp shadow off from the corner. They've got me all cranked up now. She gulped wine and went to the window in the living room, peering through the shades. It was a clear night out, and she could see well--there was somebody standing on the corner and watching her house.
She backed away. The shades swung closed. What the fuck. Do I call the police?
She turned the light off in the kitchen and twitched the shade aside. He still stood on the corner, but--relief flowed into Beth--his head tilted up at the sky over her house, not at her. Enough of this.
After locking all the doors and windows she got ready for bed, running through what she needed to accomplish at work the next day. She had more texts from her friends. They were identical: "Just look." They're hanging out in a bar and laughing at me right now. She flipped her phone face down and crawled into bed. Her ceiling stared back for half an hour. She turned back and forth.
When she looked at her phone, another friend had joined in the fun, sending her the exact same text. She turned her phone face down again. After a few more minutes she rose. She didn't turn the lights on, just paced a little. She went to the front of the house and peeked out the window, looking for the man. He had moved on. When she got back to her bedroom at the back she did the same thing, pulling the curtains aside an inch to let her eyeball peer through.
When the sun rose, she was still looking at the moon--still just as bright, like a silver dollar in the sky, reaching from one side of the horizon to the next. A few hours in she tried to reach up and tear her eyes out, but couldn't move her arms. She couldn't look away.
At work, she prepared for a huge presentation with a vice president of marketing and spent most of her morning running around to different departments until she had all the information she needed, but this task bled into the afternoon, and by the time she had everything she needed she had to keep her eyes on her computer until the presentation looked better. She would have to come back the next day and polish it, polish it until it shined and glowed like the moon in the night sky. She didn't want anybody to be able to look away.
She didn't get home until after seven. She had to make dinner for herself. She had to read through a few reports from Monday she hadn't been able to get to. She tackled her outfit for Friday, the day of the presentation. Black skirt with a white blouse? Too formal. Blue blouse, gray pants? Not unless she wanted to dye her hair. A forest-green skirt and her black sleeveless shirt? Now we're getting closer.
She picked up her phone to look at examples of similar outfits and realized she still had a text message to read:
"Don't look at it, whatever you do don't look at it. If you do, cut your eyes out."
She stood in the center of her bedroom, mouth gaping as she read the message again. It was from one of her college friends, someone she spoke with every few months, at the most. The last time they had texted was two months ago. She had wished Beth a happy birthday.
"Don't look at it, whatever you do don't look at it. If you do, tear your eyes out."
Beth chuckled and shook her head. "Had a little bit too much to drink last night?" She put her phone down and went over to her closet to pull out her green skirt. Her phone buzzed a moment later.
When she picked it up, she frowned. "I'm fine," the text read. "There's no problem. Just look."
Beth glanced around as if a candid-camera crew was about to burst through her window and capture her confused face.
"Sylvie, what are you on about?" she texted back. She stood with her phone in her hand for a moment. Before she could put it down, it vibrated.
Something curled through her stomach, writing like a ball of worms. "You should look. It's better for you to get it over with. It's faster. It's easier. It doesn't hurt as much."
Cold air brushed long fingers down Beth's arms. She shivered. "Sylvie, are you okay? What's going on? What are you talking about? What doesn't hurt as much?"
The next message came in an instant: "Just look."
Beth shook her head. She texted a mutual friend, someone who was closer to Sylvie, and went back to her outfit. Her mind sputtered and swirled. What is she talking about? I've never known her to use drugs...but maybe something happened. Maybe I should call her.
When she checked her phone a few minutes later it had another message from Sylvie ("Just look.") and a response from the other friend, Mandy.
"Everything's fine. There's no problem. Just look."
Beth scowled, and the mass inside her stomach picked up intensity. She blew out a long breath. What's going on here? This is some kind of stupid joke.
She threw her phone on her bed and went back to her closet. After about ten minutes of building an outfit she poured a glass of wine and sat in a plush chair in her living room. The bright white kitchen light sent a sharp shadow off from the corner. They've got me all cranked up now. She gulped wine and went to the window in the living room, peering through the shades. It was a clear night out, and she could see well--there was somebody standing on the corner and watching her house.
She backed away. The shades swung closed. What the fuck. Do I call the police?
She turned the light off in the kitchen and twitched the shade aside. He still stood on the corner, but--relief flowed into Beth--his head tilted up at the sky over her house, not at her. Enough of this.
After locking all the doors and windows she got ready for bed, running through what she needed to accomplish at work the next day. She had more texts from her friends. They were identical: "Just look." They're hanging out in a bar and laughing at me right now. She flipped her phone face down and crawled into bed. Her ceiling stared back for half an hour. She turned back and forth.
When she looked at her phone, another friend had joined in the fun, sending her the exact same text. She turned her phone face down again. After a few more minutes she rose. She didn't turn the lights on, just paced a little. She went to the front of the house and peeked out the window, looking for the man. He had moved on. When she got back to her bedroom at the back she did the same thing, pulling the curtains aside an inch to let her eyeball peer through.
When the sun rose, she was still looking at the moon--still just as bright, like a silver dollar in the sky, reaching from one side of the horizon to the next. A few hours in she tried to reach up and tear her eyes out, but couldn't move her arms. She couldn't look away.