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I deserve it, don’t I? Chloe had everything while I suffered with nothing. Isn’t this karmic justice unfolding before me? Reparations for my hardships in the shape of a new, glittery influencer life? It’s not like I asked for it. The world just placed the pieces in my palm, tempting me to puzzle them together. Who knows, this might be Chloe’s final apology, her last gift for her dear twin: her life. She’d want this for me. For family. Surely. Surely.
Is this how Chloe felt all the time? Or how my aunt felt when she belittled me? It’s amazing. I don’t know how I’ve ever lived without it.
Staring at the little containers makes me ill. How messed up must you be for a doctor to prescribe so many medications at once? At the same time, I’m a bit amazed. I wonder what insurance she has to afford all these meds. Maybe she paid out of pocket. She has the money. If I had all these little tablets, the support of doctors, the ability to pay for help, could I have lived with more purpose?
The topographical imprints of our soles are so identical it makes me a bit uncomfortable.
I didn’t know a dress could be this serious. What the hell is wrong with these people? Men accused of sexual assault don’t receive half this scrutiny.
But damn, there are too many blond-haired, hazel-eyed, lip-plumped white influencers in this world. Differentiating them is an Olympic sport.
He’s broad-shouldered with a chiseled jawline and has eyes that say he’s gotten a concussion or two.
It takes keen talent to write something less profound than the back of a shampoo bottle.
He’s a PMS migraine incarnate.
“Do you think some girl raised by gweilo speaks fluent Cantonese? Mandarin maybe, but Cantonese? You’re not fooling anyone.”
Please, please, please help me God. Muhammad. Vishnu. Buddha. Zeus. Whoever’s listening. I swear I’m not picky. I’m just desperate. I’ll do good. Give to charity. Be a kind person. I’ll pray to you every day, once an hour. Anything! Please give me a sign. A voice crackles in my ear. “This is a Code Blue. I repeat, a Code Blue.” I open my eyes and press my lips together. Unclasp my hands. No God would listen to a sinner like me.
The good news is I’ve lost a lot of weight. (Mostly because my insomniac body is struggling to function.) I fit into all of Chloe’s clothes now, which is fantastic.
Biting my lip, I look into the lapping waters of the Hudson River. A plastic bag floats lazily downstream. I tip the urn over and pour the ashes out. Some of Chloe’s dust gets blown into my mouth and nose. It’s like she’s trying to crawl into me, take back her life, infect me cell by cell by spreading down my throat, into my lungs. I cough her out as phlegm and spit her into the water. Her ashes seep into the river in an instant, caught in the current. A human being, gone. Just like that. Longing pervades me as I glance into the empty urn. I didn’t think it would happen so fast. Twenty-four
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“Grief is not easy to deal with alone. If you or a loved one is suffering from a loss like I am, please seek counseling for support. This video is sponsored by BetterTherapy.”
Ever since capitalizing on mental health struggles became a profitable thing to do, grief manifestos are a dime a dozen. Sure, the story was important to Chloe, but everyone believes their own story is important. Unfortunately for my twin, she’s lost her chance to tell all.
In it, she spilled key details about the brand: everything is ethically sourced, female-run, climate-friendly, plastic-free, organic, sustainable, made with net-zero carbon emissions, and is inclusive of every body size: XXXS to XXXXL. Ten percent of all profits will go to endometriosis research.
Now I want to buy them
Her clothes aren’t cheap: $100 for a heavyweight cotton T-shirt made in Italy; $780 for a Belgian wool sweater. Don’t even get me started about the dresses made of hand-spun silk.
Now I dont want to buy them
At least I’m not running crypto-scams or filming dead bodies in suicide forests or dancing for TikTok in front of Auschwitz. I haven’t killed anyone or started any fires or groomed any of my fans. If
Only white people would think of adopting a whole-ass kid to pretend they aren’t racist.
“I don’t see race, only foundation shades,”
Iz is clearly still in shock, and I am too—though I can’t show it. Instead I grab the champagne bottle and offer it to her. She heaves one last sigh before taking it by the neck and drinking straight from the spout. The foamy alcohol sloshes onto her chin as she pulls the bottle away with a sigh. “Fuck it. Let’s party!” The whole cabin cheers.
She catches my eyes. We freeze in our ridiculous poses, devices outstretched like we’re imitating the Statue of Liberty, and burst into laughter.
The meal’s corpse is spread along the table, a river of desecrated crackers like a twisting spine.
She smells impossibly sweet, like candy, and I almost want to lick her skin, her sweat.
Iz leans back, her hands in the air, making a gesture like, Isn’t it obvious? “I’ll never be applauded for mediocrity because I’m not a stereotypically beautiful white girl.”
We are all on the grind. We’ve all sacrificed. But some people sacrifice less and get more. And other people work themselves to the bone and get scraps. That’s the nature of life and social media is not an exception.”
Even at night, her blue eyes are striking. I want to kiss them, suck them like a lollipop. She leans in and gives me a kiss on the lips. I melt. Disappear into her taste and smell, sweet and bitter like key lime pie and fizzy green drinks. I am in love. I am love. I am surrounded by it. Can feel it in the touch of those around me. The belonging. The acceptance. My family. New, beautiful, and perfect.
Bella Marie grabs my hand and kisses me on the cheek. I love her so much, it hurts. I want to devour her whole from the inside out, leaving only her skin so I can wear it and become her, that’s how much I love her.
I love my girls so much I can identify each of them by their teeth, their Cupid’s bow, and how many cc’s of lip filler accentuate their perfect pouts.
It strikes me that I was once this small, this innocent, this lovable, a clump of cells in a belly.
But I have this sinking feeling that everything I receive here is false and shallow, as authentic as a sponsored post.
One night we’re munching on mice, the next night might be worse. Horses? Turtles? Maybe they’ll hack off a chunk of Viktor’s juicy thigh and sear it medium-rare for me to devour.
“An orgasm,” says Kelly, eyes wide. “I felt Eto come inside me. Multiple times. It was triumphant. My limbs were spasming the entire night.” Okay. Thanks, Kelly. Absolutely did not need to know that.
How did I even get here? All I wanted was to be an influencer.
“You’d be a hit outside,” I say. “You have that European white man appeal. A bit like Alexander Skarsgård.” “Alexander Skarsgård?”
I didn't know who he is. I searched for him. He's mid.
Chloe’s story ended a long time ago. I can never know the truth of her intentions. All I can know is what I tell myself. What I believe. And this is a reality I wish to believe.
I step out with the bottle behind my back. “I feel so scared. You girls couldn’t imagine the sense of doom I feel.” “Doom?” Maya asks. I nod. “Like I’m getting canceled.” There’s a clap of thunder. They all gasp, horrific lines cutting into their faces, mouths gaping wide. Even Bella Marie looks terrified.
Are you fucking kidding? They were gobbling baby mice like Sour Patch Kids, but they can’t accept some non-government-regulated, non-FDA-approved, drugged-out sleep gummies? Get real.
their devil—hell, even a president or two. I can’t wait for the system to serve justice because justice doesn’t pertain to people like the Melniburgs.
But if I’m going to murder, I might as well murder right.
That's the spirit
“People have fertility problems without sacrificing their womb to the devil!” My fingertips make contact with the wooden handle. Bella Marie shakes. “Eto is not the devil!” “Fine! People have fertility problems without sacrificing their fucking womb to Eto!”
But to my surprise, Fiona picked up the phone with interest. As fate would have it, she’s a true-crime enthusiast. She agreed to continue working for me, as long as she got to tell people she’s employed by the Julie Chan.
True crime girlies keep winning
But we decided to send out Viktor, since nothing instills public faith more than an attractive white man.
Viktor has become the hottest victim the internet could thirst for.
(That being said, there’s a good portion of: Viktor is so hot! Julie must be a saint for keeping her hands off him!! He can fuck me on a swing any day! In all three holes!)
Shannon tells me the courts are scrambling to compile a list of judges who have not been touched by the Melniburgs—which is about as difficult as compiling a list of Catholic priests who haven’t touched young boys—but I didn’t know it was all thanks to some internet truth-seekers with too much time on their hands.
Someone even started a Change.org petition that claims I’m too pretty to go to jail. It has half a million signatures.
I’ve transcended what it means to become an influencer. No longer will I have to paddle the treacherous open waters of the internet, chasing seconds of attention and kernels of power. I have become the lighthouse people swim to. People are making video essays and podcasts of my story. Mainstream executives are wanting to produce shows in my name. But I’ve been around long enough to know: the only one you can trust is yourself. Right now, the world wants to watch, to listen, to follow my light. This is my chance to guide them through truths that wouldn’t be illuminated otherwise, to mold their
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Tell me, what other explanation is there? This is my prize in exchange for seven lives. The promise of freedom, euphoria, it’s been delivered. Yet I can tell that this is only the start. Eto would never be so stingy. Seven human souls for a few million followers and a boost in views? Yeah right. Nikolai received a whole dynasty in exchange for one measly blue eye.
I decide to quadruple-stream on Instagram, Twitch, YouTube, and TikTok live. (Gifts enabled, of course.) Within five minutes, I have over 100,000 viewers across all platforms. I’m trending worldwide. Everyone is waiting for my tell-all. In ten minutes, 200,000 viewers. Then, 600,000. The numbers don’t stop growing. Gifts are piling in. Comments are going so fast, I can’t read them. I’m blitzed with the same light I had the night of the fire. A wonderous, holy, and powerful excitement, dopamine and adrenaline straight to my bloodstream. This is it. Today, I will step into the light. Not as
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