I was elsewhere. My body remained where it had been, but the me had left. My nerves melted away and my eyeballs plucked themselves from their stems and my brain cut its own cord and eventually all that was left was the meat known as Sydney Whitaker.

And Sydney Whitaker convulses. Sydney Whitaker pinches the loose skin on the inside of her arm until it bleeds. Sydney Whitaker screams, implodes. Sydney Whitaker watches, over, and over, and over, until she convinces herself she was there herself, until she convinces herself it’s someone else, until she convinces herself it’s her in the car, gasping for more time while her lungs deflate.

While I watched this happen, all I could think of was how happy I was to reject the corporeal. How happy I was to float.

I watched while Sydney Whitaker flinched at Mom stomping up the stairs, watched as she pointed when Mom came in. Just pointed.

Mom didn’t understand. She studied the me-that-wasn’t-me for long enough to know it was bad, said You’re not supposed to be on this; I told you.

But then she realized what she was watching.

Mom went to leave, moving kind of unnaturally, like she was lagging, like the frame rate wasn’t quite right, jerking like some Japanese horror monster.

It’s Dad, Sydney and I say at the same time.

Mom already knew. She already knew.

In a blink I was back. I looked up at Mom from the bed with my own damn eyes, my own ringing ears and my own mangled insides. Everything ached with an intensity I wasn’t actually sure I’d experienced before, like this whole time I’d just been pretending to grieve and pretending to hurt. But now it was here and pounding in my skull and I didn’t even think I could be free from the pain ever again.

Mom asked how I found the video.

I told her someone sent it to me.

She asked who.

I said the person. The same person it’d always been. That I should have known. That it was only a matter of time.

That did it for her, apparently. Mom left the room and called the police. I could hear most of the conversation, even from upstairs – Mom’s half, anyway. She was saying things like ‘that’s not good enough’ and ‘why can’t you just find the IP?’ I heard her slam the phone down. Rustle of purse, jangle of keys.

I barrelled down the stairs. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To the police station,’ she said, eyes glazed, movements too erratic, too fast. ‘I’m sorry, baby. I just need to talk to them in person. I won’t be long. Well, actually, I might – it’s entirely possible I might be long, but either way …’