A woman fleeing from a crisis finds echoes that she must tackle – starts at part 1/4
In her hotel room, Melissa finally succumbed to a crisis of grief for her mistake: that online contact – a friendship it certainly wasn't. But she had been fooled, as so easily happens, when communication lacks the supplementary tone and physical expressions that we need in order to fully understand the message. Instead she had become increasingly mired in ambiguity.
The identity had begun by liking her social media posts. Melissa had her procedure: she did not automatically respond to likes. She would not be drawn into playground games of 'I liked you so you must like me.' If the likes were sustained over several weeks—and not on every post; that seemed robotic and inauthentic—she would click the ID and explore. If she genuinely liked their output, only then would she apply 'likes.'
Usually, this was as far as things went. She had made no friends online. She was not trying to make friends online. But this one kept 'liking' and had some mildly interesting output of their own. Likes became comments, bland at first, then increasingly thoughtful. Then the conversation had gone offline – you get to see the email address of a commenter, so you have the option.
The commenter, Stacey (allegedly), seemed of similar age, location, and outlook to Melissa. Theirs became a nice, easy-going, regular contact, with no pressure to develop into anything more. Until suddenly it wasn't. Stacey had become unpredictable, lurching between moods – one day fawning; the next vituperative. When Melissa asked what was wrong, she met denial, gaslighting, and more vituperation – she couldn't possibly understand.
One day, after another upsetting exchange, Melissa opened her bank app to check a payment. In one of its intermittent anti-scam campaigns, the app was plastered with fierce questions and warnings. Something clicked in her head: didn't her relationship with Stacey tick every box along the road to a money-extraction scam? She broke out in cold sweat and palpitations. Frantically she reviewed their messages to determine whether Stacey had actually volunteered any personal information, or had merely adjusted her backstory to suit whatever Melissa had shared. In one pass, Melissa discovered all sorts of inconsistencies. She realised she couldn't be objective, and even trying to scientifically tally pros and cons was impossible; she was too distracted. Worse: paying attention to the thumbnail photos of her 'likers', she found Stacey's identical image beside another identity.
In a panic, she considered unfriending Stacey, blocking her, deleting their conversations, deleting her own account entirely. She tried to calm herself with the fact that she had not lost anything; they had not got to money. But what if Stacey resented the lack of return on months of investment in the relationship? What if she found out where Melissa lived and…? Melissa decided she would have to withdraw from their interactions gradually but firmly.
Of course Stacey noticed, leading to more upsetting exchanges. Consequently Melissa accelerated her detachment and composed what she felt was a thoroughly mature final message: she had valued the chats, but she would not be disrespected and so was ending the contact. After that: sinister quiet. Melissa didn't monitor Stacey's posts; she wasn't a jealous lover. She was sorry, but she had self-respect.
Then a police officer knocked on Melissa's door, asking if she knew Stacey Harding. The police can see posts on social media like anyone else, and can access the background information. Horrified by this turn of events, Melissa confessed the entire relationship, including the private emails, Stacey's mood swings, her own suspicions, and the bitter end. The officer accepted this without judgement, and then explained that Stacey had had mental health problems and had killed herself.
Melissa had reeled. She was overcome with guilt at having been so selfish. Yet being repeatedly abused was damaging too. Where was the middle ground? Repeatedly she asked, "What did I do wrong?" Nothing, legally, of course, or financially, or technically, but morally? Why had Stacey's picture appeared on other accounts? It was actually a photo of her, and she didn't have any other accounts; someone else seemed to have used it, and rather sloppily, although it's amazing the details people don't notice.
Melissa was so distraught she told a colleague the whole saga. The colleague was sympathetic, but not confidential. The episode reached their manager, who felt that their charity sector organisation had to be unblemished and couldn't risk the taint of an employee harassing a vulnerable person to death on social media. Facing this interpretation of her actions, Melissa buckled. She had found her job of organising supporter events draining but worthwhile. To be asked to resign was a blow.
Rather than support her, her casual boyfriend took a similar line as an excuse to end their relationship. Melissa was less sorry about that, but on the back of losing her job, when she need other parts of her life to be steady, it had greater impact. Her landlord's decision to end her tenancy was probably coincidental, but it felt like a final door slam.
So, here she was, trying to sort herself out and start anew, trying not to have a meltdown, but falling into the same trap, and worse: building a relationship with someone who wasn't even pretending to be anyone; they were simply anonymous. That cave was a metaphor for the entire internet: you sit completely in the dark trying to figure out what's credible. Bimson was wise to omit it from his gazetteer.
Melissa spent a few days doing penance, hiding at the guest house, distracting herself with her new role of server during busy mealtimes. Yet, as history repeated itself, she was inexorably drawn to closing down the commentary exchange relationship with a mature final message.
"I'm sorry to end this exchange, but I feel I'm being cruel. This is like bitching about someone on social media. It's not OK just because they're dead writers. I'm uncomfortable with being personal." They could read that however they liked. Kind regards? No, Best wishes. And if the sweaty onion monster was there again? She would address the words direct to their face, or to the direction of the smell.
Some days later, she felt sufficiently strong and self-flagellated to venture to the beach once more. She reached the cave, filled her lungs with fresh coastal air, then entered. The air within smelt as without. Her arms scissored across the space without impedance. The cave was thankfully unoccupied. There was, of course, a book, placed where it could not possibly be missed, and stuffed with messages. She took them out onto the sand.
"I completely understand why you fled. I was surprised too."
"I'm sorry if I frightened you. I hope you come back. Perhaps we could agree times, if we don't want to collide again?"
"Please at least take back your book. You needn't reply if you don't want to. Obviously."
"I'm slightly concerned that something has happened to you. But of course I know almost nothing about you, so I can't even start searching."
"Our book and commentary exchange meant a lot to me. I'm sorry it's over. I won't leave any more messages."
Melissa's resolve wavered. These messages were not at all in the style of Stacey's upsetting lashings-out. They sounded like a perfectly reasonable person dealing with a sudden severing of acquaintance. Which sounds exactly like a sociopath at stage two of a coercive relationship.
She had brought the book of Flora Wainwright's housekeeping tips to return, as it belonged to the presumptive monster. But here her carefully laid plan unspooled: final message inserted or not, she would still have to return once again to ensure the book had been collected, and not abandon it to the elements if its owner was no longer visiting. Her neat plan had been entirely concerned with herself. Following the emergence of other factors, viz: the monster expressing sadness, the plan was no longer fit for purpose.
She collected Gargoyles of Galloway by Patrick L. Carnegie, wondering why Gregor Markham had favoured it, and left Flora Wainwright with her note inserted, as planned, but without the planned sense of closure.
...concludes at part 4/4 tomorrow
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