The Right to Be Forgotten: Twenty-Seven

I am not terrified until the third night.

Night One

I stay at an all-night cafe. I order coffee. I stare at my computer screen. I pretend to type something, anything.

My shower was this morning. I look just like everyone else. There is not one way in which I stand out. This could be any ordinary day. But it is the day I died.

Night Two

When the library closes, I head to another cafe. The coffee starts out stale and goes downhill from there. I want to search social media. Surely, someone has missed me by now. My mother. My roommate. Someone wonders where I could possibly be. Perhaps they’ve called Evelyn. Perhaps they’ve contacted police.

No. They would wait. See if their impetuous loved one ran off on some new adventure.

I wrap fingers around the hot cup before me as if it is the last vine on the cliff face and I hold on for daylight.

Night Three

The library can be a nice place to sleep. Or at least it served that purpose today. Among the driest stacks known to mankind, I curled into a tight ball and forced myself to be blank. It honestly took little to find sleep. No one happened upon me, or if they did they left me where I drooled.

Now night has come, the library has closed, and I return to the first cafe.

“Did you hear about this missing lady?”

The conversation sparks behind me. I feel trapped.

“People, like, go missing every day.”

The two women sound youngish. Maybe college students.

“Yeah, but not after being on, like, national news.”


I hear the scuffle of chairs on laminate and guess the second woman is moving for a better view.

“Yeah,” says first girl. “She was, like, a writer or something and she was totes scamming this other lady who lost, like, her husband and kid. There was a fallout or whatever and poof! Writer lady dis-a-ppeared. Right out of a train station. Like, she boarded one train and then never reached her destination.”

“Creep city.”

“This is her, like, in the train station. The last image of her anywhere.”

I feel utterly exposed. Without bothering to shut down, I snap closed my laptop and walk into the night.

I don’t know what to do. Here I am, a newly born social activist, flung from the womb of safety I’ve always known. But I don’t treat it that way. I pretend to be a late-night coffee junkie on deadline. I pretend to research (when I’m not sleeping) the day away in the library. I pretend I’m not on the street, by choice or otherwise. Maybe because I don’t have to be. Maybe because I could still fly home to my nest in my loft where I belong.

I forget whether I’m lying to myself or to others. And now, if only for a moment, the world will look for me.

Last: Twenty-Six

Next: Twenty-Eight

2 thoughts on “The Right to Be Forgotten: Twenty-Seven

Comments are closed.