Silver Meadow's Stories

Sweet, Kind, and Pleasant II

A short story by Silver Meadow

(explicit language warning)

Abstract

Michelle Parker is a profound (what many call) “influencer,” harnessing countless clicks and views on content that displays insurmountable levels of vanity. Parker had led many to believe, especially Black women, that they too could achieve this lifestyle of palatial dwellings, $600 HD lace wigs, and closets overflowing with name brands. This could be attained without soiling your hands as well. Nonetheless, Michelle Parker is an interesting case. She is from Malibu, and no she does not want to talk about it. However, that is where she met two people: believed she killed one and brought the other near death. One (the presumably dead one) sits here writing this, calling out to her. To remind her that she is alive. That she’s awake. To do this, we’ll visit the influencer during her descent. Not into evilness, that is completed, but into the aftermath of a triumphant legal battle that paradoxically tarnished her name. 

Michelle.

A strip of stage lights beam down on the announcer’s sparkly dress with each particle reflected in the light elegantly—hm, she should’ve bought that dress first, but it’ll be out of season soon. Besides, she is the best dressed tonight, and she will be the recipient of this award. Too many days of orchestrating, recording, editing, and engaging were spent for this to be in vain. Michelle deserves to walk onto that stage in her $2,000 dollar shoes and smile with her lasered whitened teeth at this audience. The golden Streamy award will rest in her hands because she (the representative for Black women influencers) deserves this!

Michelle is too busy scraping the dirt from under her nails while the clip of nominees roll; the name Melanie only briefly pulls her eyes toward the screen. Now, the announcer finally opens the flimsy card then leans into the mic. At the edge of her seat, Michelle thinks about how proud her parents would be: awards are indispensable in the Parker household. A Streamy Award may not be equivalent to recognition for saving lives through open heart surgeries, or helping morally gray individuals walk scot-free, but yes her parents will be proud.

“And the winner for Creator of the Year is,” the announcer says, “Michelle Parker!”

A harrowing wind gusts around this hall yet this is no detriment, no, Michelle gracefully floats on the swirling wisps and plants her feet on the stage. She is accompanied by enormous cheers and whistles. The amusement continues for quite a while, but she doesn’t mind because they can’t help themselves, it’s fine. They simmer down as she approaches the mic, ready to share platitudes and promote her new podcast: Finding joy in the Abstract. The abstract being money. She will do just that once this mic picks up her voice like how it did for everyone else’s.

The crowd watches like a sea of eyeballs forming a tsunami. This isn’t how this would play out in Michelle’s head. First the microphone and now her own vocal chords bail, too. Her mouth moves but words cannot follow. The room is silent, uncannily so, and like wax dripping off candles, everyone and thing around Michelle melts. Someone dropped the unknown into her wine glass. This is sabotage! 

Michelle.

Those winds that gracefully carry her, blow this existence away, leaving Michelle only with the landscape of a desert. The silhouette of hills stand in front of the purple and orange horizon. Michelle removes her rich girl shoes because she has been here before. She will never forget running from her. No matter how far, a hundred, a thousand, a million meters, she ends up right on her heels.

Michelle sighs. “Not this shit again…”

This swollen sun peers over the horizon, yielding to the led of the night sky. Michelle must hurry; run into the sunset or else. Her shadow’s footsteps are in unison as she drags this starry sky with her. Michelle refuses, no, she doesn’t want that ever again. She is light. She is not darkness. She is the truth. She’ll reach the ripe sunset, or so help her. Even if the shadow will remain a shadow forever, or a voice woven in the cacophony of ones oppressing her daily. 

But the weight of another force lands on her shoulder. Interrupting her race and sending Michelle rolling in dust. Maybe there isn’t any dust, perhaps premium comfort bedding and the sunlight prying her eyes open.

“Are you alright, baby? You were sleep walking again. I left you alone like you said to, but I followed you around all night so you wouldn’t hurt yourself again.”

Oh, and him, this boyfriend who Michelle felt indirectly peer pressured to acquire. All of her other influencer friends have one: post vlogs, challenges, and feature each other on their pages and channels out of love of course (not increased viewership and engagement). Eli is sweet, maybe too sweet at times. He must be in every room Michelle is in, cooks for her, compliments even the way she breathes, and if he calls her baby one more time she’ll push him off her terrace.

“I’m okay,” she says.

They wander into the kitchen together, Michelle, woke up fifteen minutes late, so she fumbles all the fruit and powder for her smoothie that tastes like ice cubes taking on the essence of a freezer full of kale and dirt. Allegedly, a daily detox that drains the harsh metals and forever chemicals out of your bloodstream. 

“Hey,” Eli says, “I already made it for you. I measured everything accurately this time, here.”

Hopefully, her eyes don’t look as wide as her anger allows them to. Hopefully, the smile masks her jaw clench well. She accepts his kind gesture and kind of hopes he’ll go play basketball with his friends or at least stop looking at her with that marshmallow face. Everyone knows Michelle is a very generous and understanding person, trust her. The giveaways, volunteering, and donating don’t go unnotice but Eli reaches the murky depths of her subconscious and stirs up the vilest maniacal feelings she tucked away long, long, long ago.

Nonetheless, she kisses him back (her life energy drains every time she does so) although his heart isn’t in this. It’s obvious. Michelle doesn’t feel as bad for the way she feels because he feels this way, too. Regardless, once evening rolls around there will be no boys allowed. Only Michelle, Rhia, and Jovanna: the Black-girl-luxury-beauty-and-lifestyle-influencer-triad. The night before The Streamy Awards! Only one of them, Michelle, obviously, were nominated for Content Creator of the Year. Yes, her empire remains unshaken by that grocery store girl she scouted on page four hundred on LinkedIn.

“I’m about to head out,” Eli says. “But before I go, I wanna talk to you about something…”

“This won’t be about filming another prank video, right? It took 8 hours to get that silly string out of my hair.”

That is his content. Jokes, pranks, reaction videos, and hey, it worked—for him. Michelle thought the process was fire and ice. The dynamic of her being too serious for Eli would make their relationship wholesome on camera. However, when said camera stops rolling he’s not as jovial, just clingy. Perhaps the clinginess is a factor Michelle should’ve considered in this fire and ice extravaganza.

Eli chuckles and caresses her cheek, clearly sticking around for Michelle’s first sip of this failed smoothie, “Nah, and my bad about that… I’m just a little worried about you, I know you’re a strong woman with a lot to lose, but the way you fight concerns me. When you were going through that court stuff with that Melanie chick so many people commented some insane stuff and sent threats. I hear you repeating them when you sleep-walk. But you really stood ten-toes through all of it. I’ve never saw you cry or frown once.” He sighs. “I guess i’m just saying it’s okay to be hurt, Michelle, and you don’t have to hide that from me or anyone else. I’m always here for you…”

Michelle blinks those eyelashes and chews on her lower-lip to prevent erupting in laughter. It’s like he’s trying to be analytical but missed the mark and this display of hollow empathy needs a case study. She pinches him, “bruh, are you my therapist? I’m okay, I promise.” Everyone around Michelle knows that’s a lie. That her insomnia has gotten worse because of those dreams and every comment: “narcissist” “fraud” “classist” took a sledgehammer to an image she took years, years, erecting. But oh well, the truth is better untold.

She takes a sip of her smoothie and grins at Eli. “This tastes great, baby.”

Right down the drain it goes when Eli finally heads out after staying here all of yesterday and last night. Get out of her rightfully owned mansion.

Michelle’s day is spent decorating her kitchen, and rolling up pink fuzzy sleeping bags with pink fuzzy robes and slippers to match. Fruit trays, pastries, and the refined dish of dough, tomato sauce, and cheese garnished with pepperonis shine on her shiny kitchen island. Home sweet home. She gulps an Advil to quail that dull ache, that monotonous flatlining. Could be her nerves entailing this extravagant possibility of winning content creator of the year tomorrow or a lack of sleep.

Ding dong.

In come Rhia and Jovanna with their last season LV sleepover bags! Yes, cameras are rolling: Rhia holds her vlogging camera up to the group, screaming and jumping up and down.

“Wowww,” Jovanna says, looking around, “you really dressed this place up, girl!”

Michelle giggles, “Well, after I was kicked out and had all my furniture sold on Etsy, I said hey, I should just redecorate.”

“Girl! I’m in love with this Mario Bellini sofa!” Rhia dives onto the couch.

Michelle grins at her beautiful friends who kind of remind her of two seventh grade girls trapped in adult women’s bodies with elite face cards. They all jump on Michelle’s couch in excitement, because, when you really think about it, they’re still young.

Michelle.

The girls grab their pizza, cupcakes, and slather various face masks that will do various beneficial things for your skin: the 24k gold in it said so. They make TikToks using various tags and sounds that would ensure viewership and engagement. Finally, everyone puts their cameras down and settles in Michelle Parker’s bedroom; the hot pink sleeping bags, a beauty in the haven of this peachy palette because if her room is bright and wonderful, maybe she’ll be akin. Then again, she’s already so kind and generous!

Jovanna drags a bottle of oil along the parts of her cornrows. Michelle marvels at how the definition of her cheekbones only grow sharper with her hair worn back. How she cleverly blends ten pounds of makeup to appear as nothing but blush and a little eyeshadow. Jovanna catches her gaze and smiles at Michelle. “I’m so happy we’re sleeping over like old times.”

Rhia, sprawled on Michelle’s bed, slowly nibbling a vegan cupcake, laughs. “Girl you acting like we didn’t see each other last week.”

“I know, I know, it’s just different when we get to sit down and actually talk, like real conversations, not for the camera conversations…”

Michelle nods, knowing that everything she does is in fact for the camera.

“Ooooh,” Rhia sings, “let’s tell ghost stories.”

“That’s so cliché,” Michelle says.

“What was that? You wanna go first?” Rhia slides off the bed and lands on the floor, “Okay, Michelle start us off.”

Michelle grits her teeth as she lays flat on her stomach, and, speaking of clichés, the girls form a circle with their sleepings bags on the floor. Ghost stories with the lights out are just so annoying, anyways.

“Okay,” Michelle says. “This story takes place at my old highschool in Malibu…dun dun dunnnnn, Malibu.”

Michelle shines her phone’s flashlight under her chin and shares this experience. Long ago, in the tenth grade, one of her classmates upheld a dare to stay in the school overnight, more specifically, the basement wing where students would see a spirit. Everyone described her as a void, a silhouette with no distinct features besides being the shape of a teenage girl. You had to be quick, because the moment you turned your gaze to her was as quick as she fled.

The spirit remained in peripheral view. 

Michelle.

She would creep behind you on your way to class, maybe watch you dance in the gym during homecoming, follow you home even. So this girl just had to see if this spirit came out to play at night. She nestled herself in the hall and waited, waited, and waited in the quiet wing, in the basement where art classes were held. Sat there with her camera on all night then turned the camera off because maybe that scared this spirit. 

Sadly, dawn poured into the limited windows of this basement, and eventually staff and students filed in. The girl shrugged everything off and her goosebumps really came from how quiet the magnificent structure of Sierra Shore Academy was. Her friends were left disappointed and bored with her retelling of how nothing occurred—nothing, right?

When the girl returned from school, she uploaded the footage to her computer. She expected to be lulled by the dimmed lights and long hallway, however, she wasn’t. She was rather patronized by the spirit who stood in front of her for hours. The silhouette dragged her feet closer and closer as the girl dragged the duration marker further along the video until she stood over her. Just when the girl stopped recording, the silhouette smiled with pearly teeth.

“The end,” Michelle says.

“Hold up,” Jovanna demands. “Did this actually happen?”

Michelle twirled her necklace in her fingers, “well…the story is made up, but the silhouette is real.”

So is her placement in Malibu. Mom and Dad earned it through “multiple financial endeavors” and a family history of seeking the uttmost education. One could imagine their insurmountable joy when Michelle shared dreams of being a social media star who, unlike them, didn’t desire a post high school education. She could’ve inundated herself with copious tasks that ate 24 hours of the day and commanded an extra hour for dessert. She too would have studied at prestigious institutions with their professors autobiographical long resumes and accolades worthy enough to store in doomsday shelters. Perhaps their green-lit entry into doomsday shelters was enough to accredit their prestige, too. Spectacular.

“Wait,” Rhia says. “The real question is, did your school serve those bootleg little huggies and honey buns like ours?”

Names such as those were never discussed in the Parker househould nor Sierra Shore Academy’s glistening halls. “Never heard of them.”

Jovanna pats Rhia’s head. “Now you know Michelle went to school with all them white kids, ain’t no bootleg anything…”

Aha, yes, caesar salads and organic milk; frozen yogurt bar with whole grain oats and berries. Sushi prepared fresh right before your luxurious eyes. Michelle laughs— it’s pathetic. Not quite relatable either. Rhia and Jovanna rose from the depths, and Michelle, she wonders what those depths look like. Funny how even at pinnacles, the ocean floor remains a secret. But at this moment, the back of her eyelids matter most. There isn’t a spec of sleep to ward off tonight because without eight hours she won’t be Streamy Awards ready!

So Michelle tosses and turns in her sleeping bag. 

Tosses and turns, tosses and turns, tosses and turns.

Desert.

The breeze kicks her satin pjs around and ripples her bonnet. Goosebumps grow in waves as grains of sand tickle her face. This darkening expanse runs above with the likes of her creeping forward: heavy like magnets centimeteres apart. Michelle chips away at her headstart, she has no time. This dream. This world. Every night.

She runs towards the sunset before she can catch her.

“What a beautiful sight?”

Her strides halt at a voice from above.

“Up here.” 

A woman sits atop a hoodoo, staring right into this ripe sun. A woman? Give her a name—Mal. For that voice is recognizable even at the edge of this galaxy. How could she forget half of the woman who ruined her reputation? The reason why Michelle grew two strands of white hair at twenty-two. She looks down at Michelle, adorning that smirk as always.

“I miss you Michelle,” Mal says.

Michelle scoffs,”and why are you in my dream?”

“Because,” Mal says, “I want to terrorize you.”

There isn’t an adjective strong enough to encapsulate the sheer anguish this woman, no, this entity put her through. Those long months of court hearings drew to an end yet she is still chastised by half of that woman who stole her precious Kai. Michelle shakes her head. “I don’t have time for this, she’s gonna—”

“Oh, her?” Mal points into horizons opposite of the swelling sunset, behind Michelle. Half of the sky is drenched in pitch black; desert grounds reverb as the silhouette scrapes her feet into the dirt like an enraged bull. She awaits. Something novel.

“…pretty scary,” Mal continues, “I mean, if you rather talk to her I’ll just—”

“No, no, no, no, no, please, okay I’ll listen.” Michelle nearly drops to her knees. “Please don’t let her chase me.”

Mal scoffs. “Pathetic.”

Mal stands up and gingerly waves at the silhouette who somehow is in agreement with halting this race. “Michelle Parker, she’s alive. Your friend over there wanted me to tell you…”

“What? Who are you talking about?”

“May 17th, 20—” Mal pauses. Her gaze matches the silhouette’s. She nods. “Find the video file that matches that date in your historic laptop. You’ll know what we’re talking about then.”

Michelle blinks. “Who’s alive? Or better yet who was dead?”

To no avail, up the horizon this sun floats at the mercy of Mal’s palm. Please get Michelle out of here, she can’t be in a world that grants Mal such powers. This sun shines down on Michelle like some kind of interrogation lamp, like a sunny side up egg with the galaxy for the whites.

Mal shrugs. “Get rekt.” 

The sun is hurled, colliding with Michelle.

Her eyes snap open. Just a dream. Yet this video file and laptop… It can’t be her. This just can’t be about her. She has been asleep for too long to be awakened, and the family should’ve pulled the plug a long time ago, just saying. Nonetheless, Michelle rolls out of her sleeping bag carefully enough to refrain from disturbing two slumbering friends. She gently closes Rhia’s mouth that’s drawn agape. How precious?

She creeps into her walk-in closet with her editing laptop in hand. Surely this footage wouldn’t be on the other three she owns: this one is strictly content creator business. While scrolling in her closet, no video file from this year rings a bell. To Michelle’s surprise, the only video file recorded on that day is from last year titled Luxurylife_EP.7_Familiyconnections. She exhales sharply at the scrapped episode. It just wasn’t intriguing enough, besides Mal/Melanie was talking too much. Beautiful to see the duration marker already resting in the middle of the video. Does she have to watch this?

Michelle.

“Stop calling my name.”

She presses play.

“Dads,” Michelle said. “They can be a little annoying sometimes but it’s charming because all they want is the best for you, right?”

Michelle grits the teeth she was lying through with that statement. When she texted her dad about her Streamy Awards nomination, his keyboard only concocted the word spectacular. Quite charming indeed.

Mal adjusted her podcast mic and swished her mouth around, “hmm,” she contemplated. “Well, my dad didn’t want anything to do with me and died in a car crash before I was born, so yeah, how annoying.”

Michelle chuckled into her mic, briefly cutting her eyes at the camera. Trauma dump much?

“…it’s a shame we can’t all have it like Michelle Parker.” Mal continued, “or can we? I wonder what I would do then.”

“Well, I think it’s best for everyone to feel empowered in their own skin. That’s what it’s all about.”

“Right…even if they can’t get thousands of dollars worth of cosmetology work done to it—”

Michelle slams her finger on the space button, pausing this monstrosity. Wait a minute: so the girl who ruined and took over her life, and somehow manifested in her dream brought her to this clip that she’s in? How could Michelle be so oblivious to the envy that crawled from Melanie’s pores. She was nothing but kind to her even when she called her a demanding female dog then took hers. If she thought Michelle was bad then, wait till you see her tonight.

Michelle creeps out of her mansion and tears the road up at three in the morning. A forty-minute drive chopped to twenty. Tonight, the parameters of the restraining order she set will burn.

Michelle marches through the doors of Pink Diamond’s 24/7 Spa. She must say, how serene? The soft waterfalls and dark wood, they couldn’t rid that fresh produce grocery story smell, though. Screw the front desk lady calling after her to check in, the only thing she’s checking is Melanie who better be here or so help the Michelle Parker.

“Melanie! Melanie! Mal! Mal!” Michelle startles the occupants in their cucumber eye covers, sipping their express bar fruit drinks. “I know you’re in here you fatherless child!”

Her screaming antics lead all the way to a door labeled ‘STAFF ONLY.’ You’re down ten points if you think that would stop Michelle. She hides around the corner until a staff member haphazardly opens the door too wide. Perfect. The said staff’s rest breaks are jarred by Michelle’s query. “Is Melanie here?”

They point at another set of doors, Michelle pushes right through them. Aha, manager’s office. Close enough. She stomps down this hallway; Michelle balls her fist up, preparing to bang on a hollow metal door. It swings open instead with Michelle’s fist inches away from a woman’s face.

“Why you in here doing all this yelling?”

That’s not Melanie because she would look horrible with locs. It’s candy company lady. Michelle could’ve leveled said company but she spared the byproduct of Mal’s evil empire. Michelle takes a deep breath, “I would love to chat with Melanie, I know you’re her bodyguard and stuff since she’s so fragile and you’re…well, you’re fortified. But please, I won’t cause anymore trouble.”

“Are you dumb?”

“I guess that’s subjective…”

“No, rhetorical.”

“Grace.” A soft voice catches the guard dog’s attention. “Let her in.”

Michelle sits across Melanie’s desk, face twitching at her countenance. How glowy her skin is without any makeup on. How her hands softly caress the keys on her computer. To hell with that. Michelle knows what kind of monster she harbors deep inside; that monster reminded Michelle of her, the other girl, who this just can’t be about!

Michelle folds her hands, conducting business in her satin pjs.“Is Mal back or what?” 

Melanie looks at Grace, who stands in the corner like a secret service agent. “I’m just me. We’re one…so I guess I’m Mal? You know, they should do more research on this.”

“Okay.” Michelle picked up a pen and snatched a sticky note from the desk and scribbled. “Does this date mean anything to you? Because you,” she clears her throat, “Mal told me this was important in my dream.”

Melanie squints. “Nope.”

“Hm, okay. So this just confirms my other theory: you’re a jealous fatherless leech. So desperate you send your devil spawn after me and have her appear in my dreams!” Michelle is at her feet now. “What else do you want from me? You took everything and got to keep this stupid spa!”

“Uh uh,” Grace interrupts, grabbing her walkie. “Get her crazy ass out of here!”

Security files in and towers over this world renowned beauty influencer. Unfortunately, Melanie laughs a little to herself—dang it, Michelle is the only one losing her cool right now.

“You broke our restraining order and trespassed just to tell me that? Michelle, do you need new hobbies or do you think the old ones aren’t worth brushing up on?”

Michelle’s stomach caves. She sounds a lot like Mal, but a lot like the sweet, kind, and pleasant Melanie, too. What kind of fusion? The security hooks her arms and drags Michelle out of her office. “Are you like this because your dad wasn’t in your life? Are you jealous? Maybe if you had a dad you wouldn’t be so conniving! You’re Conniving! Conniving, conniving, conniving!”

“See you at The Streamy’s.” Melanie waves from her ornate desk.

Security releases Michelle and into the arms of Eli she trembles. Almost as if this moment can’t become any worse. 

One of the meatheads speak, “We won’t trespass you per owner’s request, but you are not welcomed back tonight. You can stand in the parking lot.”

Michelle and Eli stand by her Porsche with nothing but the sound of engines starting around them. Eli pulls her close to him; Michelle attempts to contain everything she ate this past forty eight hours. “Why are you following me?”

“I was worried. I checked your location and saw you were in the enemy’s den. What you out here for?”

“Eli, Melanie is hotter than me. She looks like she sleeps more in a night than I average a week…”

He cups Michelle’s face, giving her no other choice than to stare into his comically large eyes. It’s easier to deceive people with a face like that. No one could possibly imagine you have a hand grenade in your pocket. He closes the limited space between them and gently places his lips on hers. The low pitched scream that has been sounding off since childhood intensifies from the depths of her soul and stiffens her face. She can’t play pretend any longer.

She pulls away. “How much you want?”

Eli’s arms are stuck as though he’s holding the ghost of her. “Huh?”

“Yeah. Any price. I’ll take out a loan if I have to, anything to make you go away. That’s why you’re here, right? Money? Views?” Michelle paces with her hands atop her head. “I don’t like you, Eli. I don’t even want a boyfriend, I just want money and for Black women to win, okay?”

Please be the straw the sends the camel into eternal damnation. Let this be the impetus to Eli’s evil plan revelation. Tell her how much you hate her and how you lied about her being your first “real” girlfriend. Although, milestones such as those are dispenable in the Parker household, he isn’t her first boyfriend because none of this is real.

Alas, Eli’s shoulders lax as a smirk emerges on that perfect brown skin. He laughs. Yes, everyone please laugh at Michelle Parker, truly her story is so sad it’s hilarious (tee-hee M.P.). He places his hand on her shoulder, halting this pacing. “I know you don’t like me, baby. I’m more perceptive than you think…I guess i’m just pathetic for staying and falling for a woman who wants me to drive off a cliff.” He smiles. “Easy to do here, for real.”

Eli? Flattering? No. Get a grip soldier aka commander of luxury Black girl army, qualified sleep-walker, coordinator, party planner, trackstar, and heartbeat never faltering in the likes of Eli. Never. She’s wasting time, the sun will be up before she knows it and a full day of glam is ahead of her. She looks him up and down. The moon must be casting a shadow, some kind of mirage making him more refined than the filling-my-girlfriend’s-pool-with-orbeez gentleman she knew prior.

Michelle nods, “You’re right. You are pathetic.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sounds so nice when you say it.” He winks.

She urges him to not call her, because she’ll call him—maybe.

She makes it back in time to crawl into her sleeping bag and rise with her friends. Real smooth, Michelle. No really. They awake and eat cinnamon rolls and drink berry garnished mimosas, but Michelle’s heartbeat is in her throat this entire morning. She must pull it together, the glam squad wil be here any minute. Wake up, wake up, she splashes cold water from her kitchen sink on her weary face.

“Oh my god…” Jovanna stares at her phone.

“What?” Rhia hovers with a mouthful of cinnamon roll. “Oh…”

Michelle refuses to let her hands leave her face, why? She knows exactly what’s going on.

“Conniving! Conniving! Conniving!” Does Jovanna really need to have the phone’s volume on maximum? Is she a Boomer or something? She swipes and the next slide plays: a remix that starts with ‘are you like this because your dad wasn’t in your life?’ Then repetition of ‘conniving’ to a jersey club mix. Yes, everything Michelle does is for the camera. For footage that is heavily reviewed and edited to be delivered blemish free—blemish free.

Jovanna rubs Michelle’s back. “A.I. is getting out of hand…”

“Y’all, I don’t wanna talk about it. Let’s just get ready for The Streamy’s.”

So there aren’t any mentions of this ordeal posted all over TikTok and YouTube shorts, yes even there, too: LinkedIn. They sit in Michelle’s vanity room (one of many) and allow the glam team to construct their faces. To lay their $600 HD lace wigs. But for Michelle, this simply is not enough. The clock ticks toward 3 pm, and the awards start at 6, but they must walk to the red carpet at 4.

“You guys go without me, I’m not walking the red carpet this time. I’mma do a Beyoncé entrance.” 

Rhia and Jovanna are in proximity with Michelle, true. They’re just not on the same level as her quite yet, so they need the red carpet. Everyone with TikTok knows Michelle, but she doesn’t want everyone to know her—just Black women. When Black women see Michelle, they see themselves. She gives them hope. Right?

Her friends leave. Jovanna gives her a look like she sees through Michelle and her antics. Eyes squint and mouth straight-lined. Michelle is inclined to ask her, “what?” Everyone knows what, though. Michelle Parker: biggest crash out of 2024 spending 2025 trying to crawl from this hole. Oh well. The glam squad leave Michelle in her sparkly sleek midnight blue Balenciaga dress that’s in for the next season. Yes, she looks as beautiful as her generous spirit. Always giving and supplying.

She’ll take a power nap, sitting on her Mario Bellini couch. Wake her up in 15 minutes.

“I hate Michelle Parker.”

“Omg, how could she treat Kai like that? She’s a living creature, not some vanity piece.”

“Melanie’s prettier.”

“Ouu who did her makeup today? FIRED.”

“Melanie lost the legal battle, but won our hearts.”

“Her boyfriend don’t like her.”

“Rhia, Jovanna, GIRL RUN.”

“She keeps saying she wants to inspire Black women like we all have humble beginnings in Malibu tf?”

“Melissa should start her own channel. Michelle’s kind of borning :(”

Michelle’s eyes snap open. She stands at her kitchen counter with a blender full of uncut apples and ginormous kale leaves, finger just barely pressing blend. “Wait, what the hell did I just say? I’m tripping…”

She scrambles for the time: 5:32 pm. Damnit. 

Michelle runs into her vanity room and touches her makeup up; combs through her hair then smiles to ensure no lipstick tacked onto her teeth. Perfect, so perfect she nearly fails to notice the tear in her dress. It’s minute, but a flaw is a flaw.

Michelle screams, jumping up and down.

She sprints to her closet and shuffles through an array of dresses, none of which can beat the one she pre-ordered months ago. No, she cannot cry, no crying, water-proof makeup is a myth. Michelle can’t help it, okay? This is really really bad for her, and she just like, wants to be normal. She wants to be adored and why is it like so hard to be adored? Please just adore Michelle Parker. Turn on your cameras and dote on her insurmountable levels of vanity!

“Michelle.”

“What! Why do you keep—” Michelle screams into her palm.

Before her she stands. A void in Michelle’s closet. She’s rich and alone. Rich but not rich enough to have maids and butlers wandering around at every given hour. No one to call when the version of yourself you pushed out of the tangible world nearly a decade ago breaks into your home. They stand a yard stick a part. This silhouette folds her arms. “You looked in the wrong laptop…do you know what historic means?”

Michelle’s shivering makes it impossible to talk. She can’t. This version is supposed to be omitted; gone. Instead, Michelle backs into the wall holding her hands up. Shadows never appeared the same since she got rid of Michelle 1.0. Every corner took her shape and when Michelle stared into dark halls she knew her eyes gazed back. Even the night sky felt like her magnifying glass. Still, Michelle hoped.

“May 17th, 2020…what happened?” The silhouette retrieved the laptop from her stomach: one Michelle believed she hid quite well in her attic, buried under childhood books she kept for some reason. Good thing it found its way to the shadow’s GI tract. Michelle 1.0 extended her dark fingers and motioned Michelle 2.0 over. Together, they sat on the carpeted flooring and watched the video file titled FranklinCanyonPark_Vlog. The camera is held by Michelle as another girl trudges ahead of her with a smile so bright you can imagine bubbles constantly floating around her.

This video reminder is unnecessary—Michelle would never forget.

They started their channel, Magnificent M’s (sounds like a circus act, she knows,) their senior year of high school, and were naturally drawn to each other since they were the only Black girls attending Sierra Shore Academy. They grew a very small fan base as they uploaded vlogs, makeup tutorials, harmless pranks, and DIY projects. Melissa wanted to inspire and that she did. Almost every comment praised her abundantly, and, although Michelle was happy with that, one comment scraped her ear canal.

‘Melissa should start her own channel. Michelle’s kind of borning :(‘

From that moment, everyone began to agree. Maybe even swaying her friend to part ways and build her own empire, situated on uplifting, especially honoring the girls who looked like her. Together, they decided their final vlog would be something they wanted to do but never found the courage to: hiking a trail, an L.A. classic! So the girls skipped along this trail and panned the camera to this glorious blue sky and downtown shimmering. This terrain was ever changing, perhaps a bit too frequently. Were they going off course?

Perhaps. Melissa suggested they forget about the trail and go where these shrubs took them instead. A silly idea made for good content, who knew what they would find? A pleasant green space with dehydrated trees and a few rock formations. Perfect for resting.

Melissa climbed a formation and stood atop, “okay Michelle, get this.” Michelle tilted the camera towards her. “I just wanna honor you for our last video together. You’re my bestie and you’re like soooo pretty and I know you’ll be social media famous when the world goes back to normal!”

Michelle giggled in the background as Melissa balanced on one leg and did all kinds of stupid tricks to perform on an uneven surface. 

“I know I’ll be,” Michelle said, turning the camera back to herself. “And now is the perfect time. Everybody is just in their house—”

Melissa screamed. The sound of rock disengrating and pouring like sand boomed off screen. And the camera flew from Michelle’s hands. Their footage spirals yet lands perfectly, catching Michelle in the frame: upside down but still incriminating. The other girl is only heard since she presumably is holding on for dear life over the edge. Yet the drop wasn’t too far from her POV when they scouted this place to rest, but perspective is a dangerous thing.

“Michelle! Michelle! Help me!”

Michelle’s andrenaline boosted her up this formation in mere seconds. In a blink her hand was stretched out and in another it was drawn back. She stood in the blue sky, staring down at Melissa, body unmotivated. Michelle recalls the only thing going through her head were those comments. Every remark that stated the opposite of what Melissa declared. She was slated to be ‘a social media star’ and Michelle a shadow.

“Pull me up! Grab the branch, Michelle!”

Unfornuately, Michelle titled her head, standing with her arms at her sides. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t pull you and the branch up…it’s too heavy.”

Her tone was flatter than the soda their school served at lunch. 

Sodas that Michelle and Melissa often toasted to social media stardom.

Together.

Michelle turned away and threw a rock at the camera, missing a few times (she was a beauty influencer, not a softball player). The video ends with that look she sometimes has in her eye, seen from even that height. Did Melanie see it? What about Rhia and Jovanna? Eli? What if she isn’t masking what must be muzzled well—feelings she left with this silhouette.

She adorns no facial features, but Michelle knows said silhouette is staring at her. “She’s alive, Michelle.”

Melissa was rushed to the hospital unresponsive five years ago, and that way she remained. Michelle rose to influencer status while Melissa was frozen, locked in a state of mind.

“…and you know,” Michelle 1.0 continues, “she’s worse for you than me.”

For the first time, Michelle’s mind is blank. Blank and entranced as sleep-walking.

“How did you escape my dream? You never caught me…”

“Those aren’t dreams: it’s the abstract.” Michelle 1.0 rises to her feet. “You pushed me out of my world, so I’ll pull you back into yours…and that’s a kinder route because Melissa will drag you to the depths of hell.” She sets her shadowy foot under the vanity, melting into the darkness projected underneath. “Unless, you let me catch you.”

The abstract calls out to her. The place she dwelled in for so long. Where she strained her vocal chords to awaken the Michelle who ate spoonfuls of rage daily. She cooperated with her parents and her peers and heeded the maid’s warning of not caressing the fire that thundered in the great room, she consumed it instead.

So, Michelle 2.0 “sleep walks” all the way to the fancy hospital Melissa’s parents placed her in with the most knowledgeable and world renowned doctors. Thankfully, not her dad, though. Her phone spills notifications between Rhia and Jovanna both concerned with her whereabouts. Yes, The Streamy’s is important but she must know, she wants to call the silhouette and Mal’s bluff.

She isn’t awake.

After she signs in and makes way through the pristine hallways and catches the earthy whiff of those indoor green spaces, Michelle feels that needle of fear traveling through her veins. It feels as though all of Earth’s gravity is compressed into that hospital room, creating a vortex that reels her in (totally against her will). The hospital bed is neatly made and empty. Maybe they moved her or the family finally pulled the plug, even the rich get fed up with medical bills. The T.V. is on: Youtube. The Streamy Awards has Doechii performing—okay, Michelle really is missing out. If only she wasn’t threatened by the chances of her being awake.

Why waste her time?

“Do I know you?”

A woman stands in front of the window with her back turned. Michelle has seen a lot, even a girl split in two and take turns ruining her life, but she never laid eyes on a cinched waist hospital gown. The patient made it so. Michelle kept her lips shut as the glow from sunlight darkened her silhouette. What should she do? Act casual? Behave as though she wasn’t the last face Melissa saw before knocking herself unconscious for five years?

Michelle clears her throat. “You…you don’t remember me? I’m Michelle—”

“I know who you are,” she chuckles. “You evil bitch…”

Her voice is coarse as seashells. She turns around and wobbles towards Michelle, not fully acquiring her land legs yet. “I like your dress.” She holds her phone up to Michelle’s face with her TikTok on full display. “My personality looks better on you, Michelle.”

Melissa hacks into her palm long enough for Michelle to glance at the call button. Would she appreciate it if Michelle spared her at this point? Probably not. When she’s done coughing profusely, she wipes her hand on her gown and walks like the character who vowed the zombie didn’t bite them. Seeing Melissa like this is worse than seeing her laying in this perfectly made hospital bed.

“Wow,” Melissa says, “so much has happened. You can buy things on TikTok now? And it was always okay to be weird on this app but don’t you think the jocks at our school feel stupid for deriding the outcast? Their personalities are all up and down this algorithm.”

Michelle keeps her eyes on the door, just in case a S.W.A.T team would charge in and drag her out in cuffs like in the movies, although Melissa’s fall wasn’t her fault. She didn’t (surprisingly) push her off the edge where she could’ve fallen to her death but didn’t thanks to the piece of land conveniently placed fifteen feet below that halted her certain demise.

Michelle could feel sorry for her, but that bed served as a bad omen. So did her expeditious grasp on the current state of TikTok and all the platforms where you can share your insurmountable levels of vanity…The Streamy Awards. A presenter who is unimportant adjusts the mic stand. Come on, just tell her who won Content Creator of the year!

The list of Nominees:

Blah Blah

Blah Blah Blah

Melanie/Mal/doesn’t know who the hell she is

Michelle Parker

Melissa grabs her 2020 spring collection Gucci bag with clothes spilling over. She throws the same windbreaker she had tied around her waist while walking those hollywood trails over her shoulders. “I’m outta here, mom’s ordering pepperoni pizza for dinner.” She peers over her shoulder, pausing. “I don’t hate you, Michelle. But like you’ll do as I say or else you’ll be fighting in those courtrooms allllll over again.” She takes a step, then plants her feet once more. “And how dare you attribute everything another Black woman lacks to her absent father? You sound like the kids we went to school with…”

She leaves.

Nurse, she’s escaping.

“And the content creator of the year goes to…” The announcer opens the flimsy card. “Michelle Parker!”

Michelle’s eyes tack onto the doorway. Her world melts so intensely that the sound of the crowd booing while the announcer searches for her until he gets the okay to walk off is a flatlining. Because underneath Melissa’s croaky dry valley girl dialect is a desert flower blooming within. A dead snake revived by its venom.

Everyone else remained oblivious to the presence of venom.

So Michelle quailed dull headaches and woke up to cuts and bruises from sleep walking, but she never realized how the lines blur a gradient. She thought she knew what was tangible, what was inferred, and what was simply abstract. What must be ignored no matter how closely everything lurked behind. How generous of a shadow a shadow could be. How earthquakes only shook the ground for a greater evil, depleting the shoreline then washing victims away.

The End…Maybe.