Are You Watching? by Vincent Ralph

Author:Vincent Ralph [Ralph, Vincent]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241367438
Publisher: Penguin Random House Children's UK
Published: 2019-12-19T00:00:00+00:00

75

I sit at my desk with the head-cam pointing at my face, my laptop screen in front of me like a live-action mirror. I can see exactly what my viewers can and I almost chicken out. But this is the next phase.

I have two more months to finish this and, for a second time, I need to start strong.

In the notepad where I wrote the script for my first show, this is the second bullet point on the third page.

Underneath ‘Get back in the newspapers’ it says:

Make-up tutorial … with a twist.

This would have come sooner, but Michael’s texts got in the way. Now I’m making up for lost time.

Applying the foundation, I say, ‘We all hide behind something.’

In between the blusher and the powder, I say, ‘We all wear masks of our own making, even around the people we love.’

After the eyeshadow, I say, ‘We get so used to pretending that we forget who we really are.’

While I add the eyeliner, then the mascara, I say, ‘I know you’re watching. I know you’re out there somewhere, desperate to see how I turned out. Well, here I am. On display for the whole world to see.’

As I apply the lipstick, I glance down at the comments under my live feed, appearing then disappearing under the weight of so much hate, so much perversion, the few nice words quickly swallowed by everything else.

How many people watch me because they like me? And how many are here for different reasons?

For the finishing touch, I hold up my perfume, name-drop, then spray.

Only then do I unwrap the towel from around my head and show whoever is watching the finished product, my rusty-coloured hair turned black.

I knew the twist and even I’m shocked at the outcome, unable to speak for a moment, unable to do anything except stare at the picture I’ve painted over myself.

When I finally tear my eyes away from what I’ve done, I look at the image off camera, at the photograph of my mother.

I look just like her.

I want to cry and I imagine the make-up I’ve carefully applied washed away. But I fight back the tears and hold Mum’s photo next to my face, my own twisted version of before and after.

I take three deep breaths, my eyes slipping to the comments, then back to the screen.

‘I am her,’ I say. ‘And I’m still here.’

Everything is Mum’s except the perfume. Her make-up was tidied away years ago, packed neatly in a box and hidden in a drawer under the bed. When I discovered it, it felt like buried treasure. Now it feels like I’m wearing an extra layer of grief.

If the Magpie Man is watching, he will recognize this face. I want to remind him of the life he took and show him she is in me, in everything I’m doing to find him.

Mum’s perfume has been used up over time, secretly sprayed on the pillow on her side of the bed every night for years. If Dad bought more, he has kept it hidden.

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