Scratched

Social media and the haunting of an ex-writer-friend. A short story by Areeba Zaidi

The Mary Magdalen in Ecstasy (1606) by the Italian artist Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio. This is a picture of it I took at the Kiran Nadar Museum of Art in New Delhi

I’d been scrolling for so long I’d forgotten what I had clicked on first. I felt ashamed when I’d looked at the clock now. It had been two hours, it was 9:15pm.

A thousand words echoed in my head that day, some of them were not even my own, but I let them echo and scratch my brain anyway. When the buzz of these words had turned into white noise, I’d picked up my phone to distract myself. I could cry at the emotional Oscar speeches, or laugh at the toddler videos and the animal memes. I opened up another app this time, just to check if I had any new notifications. I’d turned the notifications off but I had resorted to opening the app 150 times instead, abandoning why I did that in the first place like a half-cut lemon wedge in the fridge. I had no new notifications but a couple of my old school friends had posted stories.

There was this one friend whose profile I constantly stalked. I could never tell if we were ever really friends at all or just classmates who’d studied in the same section in school. She’d recently written a book. It was a bunch of lines with meaty words that could only be described as hooks, but she called them poems. I wouldn’t have hated it as much if she’d not stolen the idea years ago, when our friendship had not split from its threads so completely.

The worst part was how badly she had written it. My blood had boiled when this watered down, guttered version had garnered praise for how “innovatively” it echoed with its readers. It was the “star” poem. That’s how some random critic had put it anyway. When I searched for who the critic was, it turned out to be a social media account with a few thousand followers who’d been putting up only appreciative comments about books. Not one line of intelligent critique.

All her poems were about her dates, and boys. There was no variance here. She did write a few good lines here and there but that was all. Her writing was going to be about her, that much was sure.

I was watching her meeting authors everyday in events that she would go to and hot lava would melt my heart and fall into my stomach. I would seek out her account and stalk her every story, read up and eat her every word as I felt pathetic and inadequate. It made me angry enough to want to spit “Yeah, as if those poems are anything but pathetic.” Even when I would find a good line or two. I wasn’t some literary genius myself but I’d written better stuff in my dreams, at least for most of my poems. It wasn’t that she wrote bad poems. It just wasn’t poetry, really. Oh gosh, and they were always about the guy she was currently dating, or some ex.

But then I remembered failing at a poetry module when I was in Uni, studying at an English University. When you’ve convinced your parents to pay thousands of pounds for, only to fail at the thing you’re supposed to be the best at? Yeah, I was not sitting on my high horse and commenting nonsense via a random account or shaming her in public in anyway.

Shame was my best friend. It was easier to live with anyway. For me, the scarier thing was the possibility of giving it my all, with all my hearty desperate poetic attempts, only to find out that it hadn’t worked. I rather die like this, with my wasted potential with me in my grave.

I remember when my flash fiction professor used to say “never sneer at published work”. I really try hard not to but it’s difficult when you’ve known the person. When you can see through them, and know the sweet words they whisper wistfully at their reading sessions are meant to sound like flowers. But I know that they’re poisonous snakes posing behind them. Spit and sneer is all I want to do.

For me writing seems so pointless for some reason. Trying to stitch my metaphors in a way that’s not too pretentious for these poems that turn out to be average. It’s hard to convince myself that it’s just a bad day when all I have been having are bad days for the last few months. I’ve somewhat come to terms with the fact that my poems are hideous attempts that barely qualify to be called poems. That the adjective that somedays comes to my mind is the word that bleaches every writer’s blood–lazy. The ultimate vein-splitting critique.

But I look around and everyone is calling themselves a poet not being able to tell rhyme from rhythm or meter or meaning! How can a poem without a soul be called it?

But here I was, working a job I did not give my 100% to, with a degree in creative writing that I did no creative writing for. Save for random social media captions to share with my pictures. It was more like a parade to let people know. “I’ve got something to say” even when I didn’t.

I had also just broken up with a boy I knew it wouldn’t work out with, with a finality of full stops. No commas with this one, I hated anything other than a clean break. So I had to make sure my socials were bright and fun. I would feel great up until I would post, and then I would be hit with a wave of disappointment so real I wouldn’t what to do with myself. The only thing I was consistently doing well? Was feeling like a colossal failure. I don’t know at what point I’d become okay with that. I think the daily 9-5 subdued my wants into monotonous surrender. It came so slowly I didn’t even register when it became routine.

I swipe through a few of Tara’s posts again, checking out her highlights to see what she’d been posting. She looks like her life is in order–or at least like she’s actively taking charge of it. My life feels like it’s happening to me, not because of me or the things I do.

That’s when a new post pops up. It’s a picture of her smiling, holding her book. But it’s the caption that makes me stop.

RIP. Tara has suddenly and unfortunately passed away. We’re letting you know this because she was so close to all of you here. I am her mother, and I am devastated as I write this, but I hope you can give our family time to grieve in private and pray for her soul.

This makes no sense I was just looking at her account. I cannot believe I was wallowing in feelings of jealously over someone who was potentially already dead. I’d been stalking a dead person’s account. But I couldn’t help but want to keep staring at this picture that had been posted, probably selected by her parents or her social media account manager. Yeah, she’d had one of those. I zoom in on her hair, her eyes, trying to guess what could have happened, and if there were any signs. I looked at other pictures underneath that too, the previous ones that had been posted at gaps of 2-3 days. They looked happy enough, even if her captions were a little cheesy for my taste. But I could make space for grace to a dead person. My eyes skipped to a comment underneath a picture of her and a famous poet who had launched her career on social media and had garnered millions of views. Her life turned into a milieu of book deals and publishers scampering around for rights to her work. There were rumours about a deal upwards of lakhs, double digit lakhs, bought by a top publishing house. It’s all business baby. And the end of it, market yourself or watch yourself lose self-esteem and money.

Her comment read—

RIP. Om Shanti. I cannot stop crying. The world has lost a gem today. I remember when you were so encouraging with my new poetry book “Of Leaves and Trees”, and how much you helped me with it. It would not be the same without you. I would not be the same without you. Tara, to me you will always be a star, I will see you in the sky my sweetheart. Shine on.

This was followed by a slurry of 3 broken heart emojis.

I don’t know why but I couldn’t help the ick that slipped out of my mouth. It was unsavory. The person was dead. Tara had garnered a couple lakhs of followers too, a couple thousand more than this other poet—Saunya something. But I could smell the pity she was wallowing in from my screen, and the desperation to talk about herbook, underneath Tara’s death post. I was a little confused about what the etiquette was, while expressing sadness about a dead person on social media, but even I knew this was a little weird. Comments were flooding in by the minute. Some brief, some extensive on how reading Tara’s book had changed their life and how they had been so excited for more and how the world truly has lost a star. I hadn’t missed the fact that there were so many starry, sparkly metaphors, knowing the word Tara literally translated to star.

Somehow an hour had passed, and I’d been lost in a web of comments, some criticising other people, some openly mourning and putting up stories. For a split second I thought of putting up a story too, but then decided against it. What if she’d done this as some stupid experiment to see how people had reacted to her death to come back and regurgitate a book about it? I wouldn’t put it past her to be honest. I Googled her name and death together to see what pops up.

The entire first page of results was full of local news outlets and one major national newspaper mentioning her and how her sudden death has “taken the over the internet” as a tragic event. I didn’t know how to process this. I felt the sharp edges of guilt for a few seconds before I gave in to reading each and every one of those posts–meticulously following each and every link, cascading through pages like waves—one after another.

The buzz from my phone’s notification didn’t faze me. But then I saw what the notification said and my heart jumped into my chin. It was message from an unknown number.

I know you’re stalking me

For the 3 seconds of me seeing that message, the bubble staying on the top of my phone’s screen before disappearing, I didn’t draw a breath. It could be a prank but I was too shocked to type back Who is this?

I stared at the screen as another message popped up.

You wish to be me, but alive, right?

I felt my eyes widen and my jaw relaxed in what felt like forever. My lips had parted to release a breath. I put my phone away and get up to go to the bathroom to wash my face. I stared in the mirror at my reflection for a good 10 seconds before whispering,

“That’s enough social media for today.”

I foam up the face wash in my hands till the foam gets soft and cloud-like. I massage it into my skin trying to get the blackheads to vanish, at least for some time. It was a prank, surely, an ill-timed one but how would someone know when to send this. It was probably my friend Nadia, she loved her pranks. But I’d always been a participant of these pranks and never the victim. She and I were partners when it came to this. Maybe the sender had meant it for someone else. It could easily be a mistake too.

When I wash the foam off and look into the mirror, my heart drops into my stomach. It’s not my face staring back at me.

It’s Her. She’s smiling with facewash foam on her face. I move my hands to touch my face and she does too, but I don’t feel that smile on my face. I can’t help the small shriek that escapes my lips as I throw the ceramic soap holder at the mirror. A few pieces fall to my floor, I almost see their glittering fall before I run towards my bed. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. I almost slip because of my sweaty feet, the bedframe helps me steady myself.

Another ding notification makes me stop. The only thing moving is my heart beating like a drum knocking at my ribs, and the drops of my sweat from my soap-stinging face. I wipe some of it off with my sleeve. I move towards it slowly. Another ding makes my heart beat clear in my ears. The steady dum dum dum is loud enough to drown the breeze outside my window. My hands are shaking as I pick the phone up.

You think I stole your pathetic poem?

If only

I made it better and immortalised it.

You should have worshipped me and our friendship when we had the time.

This is a prank. There’s no way around it. My trembling fingers type back.

This is a joke in poor taste, really. Maybe you should reach out to me for more original ideas for pranks, N.

As soon as I send it after double checking it for typos that my shaking fingers had casually typed. The message pops up with an exclamation mark, with the words “Undelivered” in italics.

Maybe washing your face properly will help you see straight.

My eyes stare at the clock now–it’s 3 am. I throw my phone across the room. I wasn’t at home(in my home town) but maybe being there could’ve given me some protection. Instead I was in this shitty, cold, corporate city that floods when it rains. This sad flat that leaked and had cockroaches.

There was someone here, someone was watching me. I couldn’t shake this feeling off. I crouched close to the floor and shut the curtains even more tightly, clipping them together with a clothes-pin. It hits me that I’m acting like a crazy person and I slap myself, hard.

Another distorted ding echoes in my room louder than before. I’m not going to look at it. I will sleep. I crawl across the floor and get into bed and wrap myself in my comforter. A series of buzzing dings echo one after another and I cover my ears and shut my eyes tight enough to see blazing white. When the incessant buzzing stops in my phone, I think it’s finally dead. I breathe a little easier.

I loosen my grip on the comforter and open my eyes, a light blue glow from Alexa in the corner of my room, makes my intestines twist. I whisper fuck fuck fuck fuck in my head because my lips feel frozen in place.

Her plastic cheery voice echoes in my room softly.

You should write that poem, let’s see if you can actually do better than me.

Something about that scares me enough for my brain to switch emotions. Like my emotions are standing at the cusp of change, right next to each other. I feel a rage as sure as bones. My skin and my hands are stinging, there are sharp lines of red on my hands. It must have been the shards of glass. But Alexa’s voice morphs into something else, something deeper as the words of her poem get louder and deeper. I cannot control how fast my heart starts to beat and I notice I am sobbing and whispering stop it stop it stop it stop it. I rush to unplug it and it continues to whirr and whisper in that same deep drawn out broken voice but it doesn’t stop. I pick it up and throw it across the room, the buzzing sound from my laptop gets louder now this time. A song is playing on it. I did not have the YouTube tab open.

It’s “true friend” by Hannah Montana, but its pitch isn’t anything like the original and there are sharp violins playing in the wrong pitch, instead of the guitar. I run towards it before I can hear the voice sing and smash it against the wall. I am breathing so hard, I can feel the cuts on my hand, they burn.

But her voice is not coming from anything and the silence deafens me for a few seconds. It starts again but this time it’s inside my head.

How do you get me out of here? I can hear the twisted smile in Her voice, and my imagination gives her rotten face an image that is not human. I fall to the floor, begging please please stop it.

Her voice gets louder,

You write that poem, you write it, you think you’re better, you write it.

YOU WRITE IT NOW.

That last sentence starts echoing on itself, with the words now changing their pitch and getting louder, then softer, then sharper, then younger, then older and finally like the drawl that is slow but exactly hers. I can only hear a repeated chant of now now now echoing.

I don’t even know how I get off the floor but I get a pen and a diary. It’s ironic that it’s my everyday poetry journal.

The voice is giggling in my head. I can’t see straight through my tears, but I try to breathe as I uncap my fountain pen. The paper soaks a few patches of red as her voice gets eerily soft. I dip the pen in the soft round drop of my blood shining on the page yet to disppear into the grains of the paper.

NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW echoes in my head loudly. I sob as I move my pen across the page.

I write the title of the poem, I know it like an old favourite song.

The red of my blood and the blue of the ink melt into a silken purple on the page.

The Portrait of Friendship

The voice laughs in layers that overlap each other.

I’m not sobbing anymore, but my tears fall in a soft splat onto the word ‘friendship’. The ink dissolves the bottom of friendship’s ‘p’ till it looks like a distorted ‘t’ to spell ‘friendshit’. My fingers are buzzing and stinging from the sweat and blood mixing up but my pen does not slip. I can feel shadows in my peripheral vision. I stare at the page till I see patches of neon on it.

I scratch the next line of the poem against the paper. It sounds like I’m tearing fabric. I keep writing till it’s the only sound I hear.

Till it gets quiet.

The End