For a little while I considered turning Ye-Ye. I was thirteen and we had Forever Friends mugs that matched, plus best friend necklaces, and friendship bracelets that we had woven for each other. It was my mug that made me think about it. The word “forever,” emblazoned across the top above a picture of two soft-looking bears. At that age, it felt like our relationship would never change; and then I realized I could make it so that once we hit eighteen or twenty or whatever our peaks might be, both of us really wouldn’t change and we could watch Buffy on the sofa together forever—for centuries and centuries—feeling even closer because we both drank blood. I didn’t turn her because my mum found out what I was planning, and showed me that if I did, I would be essentially killing Ye-Ye, and changing her into something that wasn’t the Ye-Ye I knew. I’d lose my friend forever, she said—which, though, I basically have now anyway.

While I’m looking at Ye-Ye’s DM, my phone rings. I let it go to voicemail and then listen to the message. It’s Dr. Kerr. My heart sinks when I hear his voice. There’s no more space in my brain for my mum at the moment. I feel as though if I let too much of her in, I might have to push something fundamental—like my capacity for emotion, or for making memories, or understanding language—out. Dr. Kerr tells me that my mum has been bedbound, not socializing with the other residents at all, not speaking to any of the nurses, and they want me to pay for her to become one of the catered-for residents, so she can eat meals with the others, and then enjoy board games after. “We will wait until we hear from you, but we are concerned about her happiness and well-being at this point. And we think being more a part of the community here will help.” I lock my phone. I’m concerned about my own happiness and well-being, I want to say. My mum lied to me about sex, about so much, and this morning, Ben’s continued existence is proof of that. I want to tell them, She isn’t my responsibility anymore. She is yours.

I push my mum and Crimson Orchard out of my mind. I delete the voicemail, then look at #whatieatinaday on Instagram. I flop down onto the floor. I’m exhausted. I face the wall, so it’s just my hand, my phone, and the blank concrete I can see. I don’t want to see my studio and all the things in it. I don’t even want to see the painting I made that I was so happy with, or the puppet Yaga who is on the table, her body still and empty. Behind me, the next episode of Buffy begins, and I start scrolling through pictures of various meals along to the sound of Buffy talking.