Don’t Publish It
I didn’t sleep Friday night.
I tried. I turned off the light, flipped my pillow over to the cold side twice, stared at the ceiling, got up for water, got back in bed, and somehow ended up right where I started with one word running through my head.
You.
Not Claire. Not Lena. Not Nathan.
Me.
I was on the video, and I had no idea what I was doing on it. That was the part that kept me awake. If Nathan had said I pushed her, I could have hated him. If he’d said I lied, I could’ve denied it. If he’d said I was there, I would’ve told him I already knew that much.
But you was a giant blank space, and by three in the morning I’d managed to fill it with pretty much every horrible possibility available.
At 7:12, I called Nathan. Voicemail. I tried again four minutes later. Same thing. Then I texted him.
You can’t say that and disappear.
Nothing. At 7:41: What was I doing in the video?
Still nothing. By 8:03, I was down to one word.
Nathan.
Delivered. No response.
“Great.”
I opened the blog instead and went straight to @LenaLived. For once there wasn’t a message waiting for me, which should’ve felt like a relief. It didn’t.
What was on the video?
Nothing.
You told me to ask Nathan. I did. He said I was on it.
I waited. A couple of minutes later, a reply appeared.
You don’t want to remember the rest.
Anger hit before fear. Maybe because fear was getting exhausting.
Yes, I do.
No response. Then: tell me.
Nothing. I came very close to throwing my phone across the room. Instead, I opened the Blackwater document and stared at a blank Chapter Seven.
I had six days before it was due. For the first time since I’d started this whole thing, six days felt like no time at all.
By Saturday afternoon, I’d written three sentences and hated all of them. I deleted them, started again, deleted that too, and finally gave up pretending I was thinking about anything other than the video.
What could Lena have recorded that made Claire panic? What had Nathan seen that made him look at me with pity? And maybe the biggest question of all, what had I done that my own brain had apparently decided I didn’t need anymore?
I opened the box of photographs again. Bad idea. Obviously I did it anyway.
Lena laughing. Lena drinking. Lena looking at me. Me looking happy. There was nothing in any of those pictures that warned us what was coming. No creepy shadow in the background. No one glaring at anyone. Just five nineteen-year-olds being idiots and assuming we’d all make it to Monday.
I found the picture of Nathan near the porch again. Mud on his jeans. Then the kitchen. Then the one of me and Lena sitting on the porch steps with her arm around my shoulders. Her bracelet hung loose around her wrist. Five charms.
I touched the edge of the picture and something came back. Not an image this time. A sound.
Lena crying. Then her voice, louder.
“Don’t.”
I froze. That was it. One word. I closed my eyes and waited for something else.
Nothing.
“Don’t what?” Apparently my brain had moved on to free samples.
My phone buzzed and I nearly jumped off the couch. Claire. Call me.
I ignored it. A second text came a minute later. Mara. I mean it.
I actually laughed. Everyone meant it lately. Claire meant it. Nathan meant it. @LenaLived meant it. Everybody was very concerned about what I might remember except me.
Which probably should’ve worried me more.
Sunday night I drank too much wine and wrote five pages. Monday morning I read them sober and deleted four. Honestly, not a terrible ratio.
The one page I kept started with:
Emily did not fall.
That is what I told myself for twenty years. That is what we all told ourselves.
There was a sound first. Not a scream. Something smaller. The kind of sound a person makes when they realize what’s about to happen and can’t stop it.
Then she hit the floor.
I stopped reading. My stomach turned. I didn’t remember writing any of that. Obviously I had. The file history said 11:38 Sunday night, and unless my cat had developed opposable thumbs and a very dark imagination, it was me.
I scrolled down.
There was blood beside her head. Not much. Enough.
Claire dropped to her knees.
Ben stood frozen near the doorway.
I remember looking at my hands.
There was blood on them too.
I shoved the laptop away.
“No.”
My chair scraped against the floor when I stood. I looked down at my hands like I expected something to be there. Nothing. Clean hands. Forty-year-old hands. I pressed them against the kitchen counter. Cold granite. Real.
The scene had to be fiction. Except I’d already learned how well that explanation worked. Blue mug. Red blanket. Bracelet. Porch light. Blackwater. 12:17. Claire’s words. Lena’s words. Nathan’s mud. Every time I told myself I’d invented something, somebody or something came along and proved otherwise.
I went back to the desk and read the paragraph again.
I remember looking at my hands.
I didn’t remember. Apparently the sentence did.
Claire showed up at my house Tuesday afternoon. I didn’t invite her.
I opened the front door and found her standing there in sunglasses looking pissed off enough that I briefly considered shutting it again.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Apparently having an intervention.”
“I’m not on drugs.”
She looked me up and down. “You look like you are.”
“Thank you. Always nice to see you.”
She pushed past me.
“Come in, I guess.”
“You weren’t going to let me.”
“Correct.”
Claire took off her sunglasses as she walked into the kitchen, then stopped when she actually looked at me. Her expression changed. The anger disappeared first.
“You look awful.”
“That’s twice in thirty seconds. Really building me up today.”
“Mara. Have you slept?”
“Some.”
“Liar.”
She walked farther into the kitchen and saw the photographs spread across the table. For one second, fear crossed her face. Real fear. Then it was gone.
“You’re still doing this.”
“I’m writing.”
“No. You’re digging.”
“Same thing lately.”
Claire stared at the pictures, then looked back at me. “You called Nathan.”
I folded my arms. “How do you know that?”
“He called me.”
My pulse jumped. “You said you two hadn’t talked.”
“We hadn’t.”
“Until?”
“Yesterday.”
“Interesting.”
“Mara.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much.”
“Try again.”
Her jaw tightened. “He told me you went to see him.”
“And?”
“And that you asked about the phone.”
Everything inside me went cold. “He told you that?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
Claire said nothing. I watched her face.
“Did he tell you what was on it?”
There. A tiny reaction. Enough.
“You know.”
“Mara.”
“You know what was on the video.”
Claire looked toward the table. “Delete Chapter Seven.”
I stared at her. “You haven’t read Chapter Seven.”
“No.”
“Then why Chapter Seven?”
The second I said it, she realized she’d screwed up. So did I.
“Mara—”
“How do you know what I’m writing?”
“I don’t.”
“You just told me to delete something you haven’t even seen.”
“I’m telling you to stop the whole story.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“Stop twisting my words.”
“I’m not twisting anything. You’re doing a pretty good job all by yourself.”
Claire stepped closer. “You think this is a game?”
“No. I think everybody around me knows what happened except me, and I’m getting really fucking tired of it.”
“You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“Then explain it.”
“I can’t.”
I laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Everybody keeps saying that.”
“Because some things are bigger than your fucking blog.”
I stared at her. “Okay. That might actually be the most honest thing anyone has said to me in weeks.”
Her face hardened again. “Delete it.”
“No.”
“Mara.”
“No.”
She grabbed my wrist. Hard. And suddenly the kitchen disappeared.
I was nineteen again. Dark nail polish. Claire’s fingers around my wrist, too tight. Her face close to mine.
Stop crying. Listen to me.
I ripped my arm away. Claire froze. So did I. For a second neither of us said anything.
Then she asked, “What did you just remember?”
I stared at her. That was the wrong question. Not are you okay? Not what happened?
What did you remember?
Claire saw it on my face.
“Mara.”
“Get out.”
“Listen to me.”
“Get out.”
“You don’t know what you’re remembering.”
“That’s funny, because apparently everybody else does.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Go.”
“Mara.”
I pointed toward the door. For once, Claire listened.
That night, I opened Chapter Seven. I did not delete it. I kept writing.
Claire’s hand was around my wrist.
“Stop crying. Listen to me.”
Emily was on the floor. Ben was pacing. Someone kept saying we needed to call an ambulance. I think it was me. Claire said no.
I stopped typing because my breathing had gone shallow. I stared at the screen for a while, then added one more line.
“She’ll wake up,” Claire said.
The memory came with it. Not a feeling this time. Her voice. Clear. Certain.
She’ll wake up.
Then Nathan. “You don’t know that.”
Then me. “We need to call someone.”
Claire again. “Shut up.”
I pushed away from the desk. My heart was hammering.
Pieces. Finally. Not enough, but pieces.
I went back to the keyboard.
Emily moved. Barely. Her fingers twitched against the floor.
She was alive.
I covered my mouth.
Lena. Alive. Not now. Then. She had been alive. I had known she was alive. My eyes filled before I could stop them.
“What did we do?”
The room didn’t answer. The cursor blinked. I typed again.
Ben went outside. Claire followed. I stayed beside Emily. There was blood on my hands. I don’t remember how it got there.
My hands started shaking, and that was as far as I could go. There was nothing after that. Maybe because I couldn’t remember it. Maybe because I’d finally reached the part my brain had spent twenty years trying to keep away from me.
I saved the document and closed it.
My phone buzzed. Private message. @LenaLived.
Don’t publish Chapter Seven.
I stared at it. Then, for some reason, I laughed. Not because any of this was funny. I think I’d just reached the point where everyone telling me what to do was starting to have the exact opposite effect.
Claire: stop. Nathan: stop. @LenaLived: stop.
Fantastic. Now I wanted to publish it twice.
Why?
Nothing. What happens if I do?
No response. After a few minutes, I typed: Nathan?
Still nothing. I stared at the screen, then sent: I’m publishing it.
The response came quickly.
Don’t.
That one felt different. No creepy riddle. No correction. No little game. Just don’t.
Whoever was behind the account sounded scared.
I should’ve listened.
Thursday at 5:58, Chapter Seven was loaded and ready.
My finger hovered over the publish button. I’d changed almost nothing. The blood stayed. The fall stayed. Claire stayed. The ambulance stayed. The part where Emily moved stayed.
I knew readers were going to tear it apart. Claire would see it. Nathan would see it. And whoever @LenaLived was had practically begged me not to post it.
I clicked publish.
At six o’clock, Chapter Seven went live. The comments came fast.
OH MY GOD SHE WAS ALIVE
CLAIRE STOPPED THEM FROM CALLING AN AMBULANCE???
Then: MARA WHAT DID YOU DO
That one stopped me. Not Anna. Mara. Someone had noticed. Of course they had. The line between the story and my actual life wasn’t exactly subtle anymore.
My phone rang. Nathan.
I answered immediately. “Nathan?”
Silence.
“Nathan?”
Then his voice came through, low and unsteady. “What did you do?”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“You published it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my story.”
“No.” The word came out sharp. “It isn’t.”
I stood. “What does that mean?”
“You should’ve stopped.”
“Why?”
Nathan breathed into the phone. Then said, “Because now she knows.”
My whole body went cold. “Who?”
Nothing.
“Nathan?”
The call ended.
I pulled the phone away from my ear. “Are you kidding me?”
I called him back. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. I texted: Who knows?
Nothing. Claire?
Nothing. Nathan, answer me.
Still nothing. I opened the blog and messaged @LenaLived. What did he mean? Who knows?
No response.
At 8:11, Nathan’s phone went straight to voicemail. At 9:03, same. At 10:26, same.
I barely slept.
Claire called Friday morning at 6:42.
I almost ignored it. Something made me answer.
“What?”
She didn’t say anything. I sat up. “Claire?”
Her voice sounded wrong. Quiet. Too quiet.
“Mara.”
“What happened?”
Another pause. Then: “Nathan’s dead.”
Everything inside me stopped. “What?”
“They found him this morning.”
I stared into the dark bedroom. “No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” My mouth had gone numb. “What happened?”
Claire inhaled. “They think suicide.”
I didn’t move. The word didn’t fit. Not with yesterday. Not with Nathan calling me terrified. Not with because now she knows.
“What do you mean they think?”
“Mara.”
“How?”
“I don’t know all the details yet.”
“Where?”
“At home.”
“No.”
“Mara.”
“He called me last night.”
Claire went silent.
“He called right after I published.”
“What did he say?”
I could still hear his voice. The fear in it. “He said I should’ve stopped.”
Claire didn’t say anything.
“And then he hung up.”
“Mara…”
“He didn’t sound suicidal.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
“He sounded scared.”
Claire inhaled. “That doesn’t mean—”
I hung up.
My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone. I opened the blog. I don’t know why. Habit, maybe. Desperation. Or maybe because lately every horrible thing somehow ended up leading back there.
@LenaLived. Blank profile. No new activity.
Nathan was dead. And for one horrible second, I finally let myself consider something I’d been avoiding.
Maybe Nathan had been the account. Maybe he’d been trying to tell me things without admitting they came from him. The corrections. The phone. The warnings.
Maybe I’d spent weeks talking to him without knowing it.
And now he was gone.
I opened our private messages. The last one sat there.
Don’t.
Sent before I published. I stared at it until my eyes blurred.
Then the page refreshed. A new message appeared.
@LenaLived.
Nathan was dead.
The account was still active.
I opened the message.
Nathan didn’t kill himself.
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