She was just like you. Except only better.

When the social media infection first began to spread, she was one of the very few who took it seriously. While everyone flocked to SnapShot and posted their selfies, lunches, and parties (with no less than three gaudy filters slapped one on top the other), she had taken the time to re-search the art of photography and modeling. Before everyone else, she knew the difference be-tween a 10mm lens and a 50mm lens, long exposure and exposure compensation, advertorial and editorial.  

She had used her phone like everyone else, but went the extra step to acquire a tripod to steady her shots. It had cost some money to buy, which, naturally, took some time to raise, and yet, like everything else, proved to be no match for her. Out of all her childhood memories, her favorite was that of sitting on her grandfather’s lap watching reruns of MacGuyver. If that show had taught her anything, it was that if you were creative enough, you could use whatever you had to make up for whatever you didn’t. And though she had no interest in using a car muffler and gear shift knob to make a bazooka (season two, episode ten), she was inspired to use a cardboard shoebox and duct tape to make a tripod until she could afford a real one.

Her angles, her composition, her poses, and her lighting—each aspect was handled with care and precision, making her page the page to go to for inspiration, knowledge, and envy.  

Everyone posted.

She curated.

Eventually, she realized that if she wanted her SnapShot page to grow, she’d need more than just the support of art and photography enthusiasts. She’d need the support of the common man—the one not interested in art, so much as he was hormonally attracted to pretty things. She came across a comedy page with a sizable following and watched all of the videos therein before mak-ing her decision. It wasn’t to her liking (the comedy was actually “comedy”, and if she wasn’t doing air quotes with her fingers, she never failed to do so in her head), but it was enough to serve her purpose.  

She followed the page, liked the videos when they were uploaded (never too early to seem des-perate, and never too late to go unnoticed), and commented a laughing-face emoji or an “lol” when appropriate—always with the necessary amount o’s and never ever in all-caps. Her com-ments were noticed by the page, and were liked in return. When she felt the time was right, she then laid the bait.  

Heyyy, she had commented, I was just thinking the same thing! Lol

Hey. A one syllable, usually three-letter word that wields the power to make, strengthen, or even destroy a relationship when sent by a member of the fairer sex. It all depends on how many y’s it contains. One y is average, nothing to raise a brow at, unless followed by a period, which means reader beware: I don’t want to talk to you. Two y’s means the sender sees the reader as friends in the closest, most endearing way possible, while three y’s, such as the amount she’d used, hints at some kind of attraction to the reader.

Any more y’s than that increases the statistic for unwed childbirth.  

Those three y’s got her a free lunch and the promise of a feature on the comedy page. Her multi-ple appearances in those videos consisted of her being ogled at by “comedians” for the sake of their immature, buffoonish, lowest-common-denominator definition of comedy.  

Though agreeing to be an object of infatuation on the pages of others, on her own SnapShot, however, she always maintained the highest level of art and class. The videos of men objectify-ing her (always with clothes on, never too tight, but just tight enough, because, hey, let’s be hon-est...) and the fine-quality pictures she took of herself at beaches and hotels brought in enough money to handle her phone, electricity, and gas bills. They even managed to, every now and then, cover a good portion of her rent.  

But that wasn’t the source of her fame.  

There are followers, and then there’s an audience. Anyone can hit the blue button to follow, and double tap a “like” every now and then. Only those truly invested in a SnapShot user and their content go beyond the simple act of following and are, instead, constantly engaged. These are the ones who make up the true audience. When the number of them was to her liking, she took it a step further and launched her own SnapShot channel.  

In her series, she would lay in a white-sheeted bed, wearing a large men’s T-shirt with her hair wrapped. Sunlight gently wafting upon her face, she would tell you the weather for the morning, anything you’d need to know about traffic, and mention a quote or a thought that she believed to be enlightening—though she wouldn’t tell you exactly why. For that, you’d have to wait.  

In the afternoon, she’d post again on the channel, this time at a grill, bistro, or food cart. There, she’d discuss a hot social or entertainment topic, fully dressed in an outfit that had taken so much effort to look so effortless. She’d remind you of that enlightening thought or quote and say that she’d see you again that night.  

Later in the evening, she’d post once more, this time with a romantic dinner that varied from rooftop restaurants to Chinese takeout and wine on her fire escape. She’d tell you about the funny, weird, or even frustrating occurrences of her day. And then she’d end the post with the meaning and application behind the thought or quote she’d given you in the morning. And you’d feel like the wait was completely worth it.  

She’d then smile you a good night, and promised to see you again tomorrow.  

And it worked. Like Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. Like apple pie and ice cream. It worked.  

Its viral effect had nothing to do with what she said: the enlightening thought could’ve easily been found inside a daily inspiration calendar from Walmart for $12.99. It had something to do with it being shot as if you were right there—as if you were the only man or woman in the world she had ever known and had ever wanted to know. But in actuality, it had mostly, almost every-thing, to do with her being, in every sense imaginable and then some: beautiful beyond all possi-ble belief.  

When her fingers ran through her thick, black-as-night hair, those nearby swore they heard the whisper of clouds in the wind. On any day of the week, its styling would vary anywhere from a well-kept garden to a wild and carefree tropical jungle. Her eyes were like the sunset: fiery and purposeful—able to soothe and bless from afar, yet when under close examination, strike won-drous fear. Topping it all off was her voice: a low, controlled, and even timbre like a cat purring upon a bed of velvet, separating her from those who thought speaking in a baby voice made them attractive—made them women.  

While others presented themselves as sexy, fun, horny, and easy, she, on the other hand, con-jured up words such as strength, responsibility, thoughtfulness, and above all else: adulthood.  

Other girls were now. This woman was a future.  

Like a Californian wildfire, her channel spread with no foreseeable end in sight. Even those in countries with entirely different time zones, weathers, and pop cultures tuned in for her morning report, midday topic, and evening advice. So pacifying and endearing was her channel, that it at-tracted the attention, frequent viewing, and eventual following from a successful Bollywood pro-ducer. After checking his credentials as far as Google would let her, and finagling a ticket for her friend who held weekly Krav Maga classes, she’d accepted his invitation to dinner. One direct flight and fourteen hours later, she and her friend were in India, rubbing elbows, knees, and toes with Bollywood royalty.  

From there, her name and face spread to Thailand. Then, naturally, to Australia. Then, unexpect-edly, to Los Angeles. One chance dinner in India had evolved overnight into a standing invita-tion to party with La-La Land. And in a world where anyone’s picture can be taken at any time, the focus of every evening in America quickly turned from the subject of climate change and the Russian tampering of the election to the question of “who’s that girl dancing with Brad Pitt?”  

As God had originally intended, her intelligence was not despite her beauty, but was instead an integral part of it. Anyone with half a brain would’ve known not to rest on the immediate laurels of fame, and she had more than enough brain to spare. The Hollywood connections she accrued resulted in lunches with Rhianna to take Fenty’s marketing to new heights. A drunken brunch-time sit-in at Chloe X Halle’s studio got her listed as a co-writer for her two-line contribution to a song. And while those two lines (nothing inherently special without the duo’s angelic harmo-nies) didn’t do much for her in terms of money, it made people think it did, which was all she needed.  

In ways both big and small, she managed to sink her teeth in and somehow attach her face to as many industries as she possibly could—whether it was fashion, dining, music, hospitality, or ad-vertising. And though she shined like no other unrepresented newbie that came before her, nei-ther in front the camera nor behind it, all of this was still not the source of her fame. Despite this woman’s talents, her ingenuity, her eye for opportunity, and the ambition to act on it, only one thing truly launched her into the social stratosphere.  

Scandal.

And not the TV show.

The Bollywood producer that fell in love with her SnapShot channel and flew her out for dinner was a very handsome man. He eventually became a very dead one when his wife suspected foul play. Of course, not a thing happened between the two. But when a woman is beautiful, it’s al-most a universal tradition to assume a man has been stupid.  

After all, history repeats.  

Again came that Californian wildfire. The news of the murder spread from one end to the other. Though she was never so classless as to discuss her connection to the crime outside of the courts, nor so uncouth as to blatantly monetize it, one eagle-eyed blogger did notice a subtle change in her appearance. After the murder, she never failed to contrast the colors of her outfits with the subtle pop of red. She was then nicknamed “the Black Widow”—an opportunity even the family-oriented Walt Disney Company couldn’t resist taking advantage of. She was invited to every Marvel movie premiere that followed.  

It was at this point that she learned the word “fan” was, in actuality, a shortened version of the word “fanatic”. And although far from ideal, such a thing was still to be expected. The world is such a place where beauty of any kind and in any sense, tangible or otherwise, cannot be allowed to roam free. It must be captured. It must be claimed. It must be wound up with a key for the amusement of another.  

From the moment she started her SnapShot page, there were always the same set of men who never failed to barrage her with an onslaught of heart-eyes, winks, tongues, and raindrops. Every Wednesday, they’d post her picture, claiming her as their crush for the day. And if ever they posted one of themselves, their faces would be cropped out and their underwear would be cen-tered. They’d tag her handle over their crotches. And as vulgar as that was, what annoyed her the most was not only the thin, stained, and weathered condition of their skivvies, but that out of all the quality brands in existence, they thought they could woo her in mere Fruit of the Loom.  

Thank you, next.  

It had taken a bit of getting used to, but she had soon become accustomed to these offenses. Eventually she no longer gave the situation any thought. But, as does everything in its own time, things grew worse.  

Hands would grab her as she stood on the red carpet. Fists would pound on the door of the room she’d booked under a false name. Letters of naked, filthy lust would be sent to her doorstep. Companies and events that requested her appearance began to throw in a small security team as a courtesy. Regardless of this, the personal boundaries between her and the rest of the world began to further and further wither away. She was never alone. Not physically, and soon enough, not even mentally. For there was one man in particular who was constantly in her head.  

He had to have been a man. She could tell by the way he cried over the phone. Not outwardly and cathartically like a woman, but internally and stifled. Pained. Anguished. Ashamed. How very much like a man. No matter the hour, he’d call. No matter her changed number, he’d find her. He’d cry. And he’d tell her how much he missed her. And he’d cry. And he’d cry.  

“The unknown is a terrifying thing,” she said in an interview. “When it comes to dogs, or snakes, or spiders, the fear of them, as silly as they may seem, are always based on reason. Because you know what they can do. But when it comes to man, the kind of fear he can put in you is immeas-urable. Because you never know what he will do.”  

And so this man, this quivering voice sobbing on the other end of every new phone she got to re-place the old one, was always with her. When in bed. When in the shower. When in a room filled with hundreds. When in the solitude of her mind.  

She’d never let it show. Her bodyguards and her agent never saw the cold fear that sat heavy on her chest, and without a doubt, her audience never saw it either. Thanks to her channel, she was the woman everyone woke up next to for the morning weather, had lunch with over a hot topic, and had dinner with to cool down from the day. There was no room to let it show.  

She had to perform.  

But she hadn’t performed in some time. Two months, to be exact. Her agent, Ezra, a scholar in the dark mystic arts of media control, had desperately tried to keep the fire under wraps, but her followers soon noticed her sudden disappearance from the spotlight and eventually discovered the truth.

It had been two months without her. Two months without their daily fix and by now, they were famished. Anxious. Aching.  

Jonesing.  

It is as true on social media as it is with the rest of life: mystery makes a mountain out of a mole hill—makes everyone run wild and crazy with boundless imagination. Because of this, the band-ages that tightly spiraled around her face had turned the beautiful international social media star into the single most hideous creature on the planet—even though no one had seen what hid un-derneath. They expected it.  

And in some way, they wanted it.

Her name was Ilsa Carter. And she was just like you.

Except now, thanks to the bandages, maybe somewhat less.

Available only on amazon.com

By Rich Etienne

From: United States

Website: http://brokeartistgallery.com

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