I found a few of my Instagram pictures, some with my eyes marked out in red.
Some with a black sharpie line across my throat.
Some with my head cut out completely.
Unsplash / Freestocks
I searched for a leather-bound book over Etsy.
I browsed through the thumbnails on Etsy without looking too closely at the item descriptions.
A photograph already sat inside, glued down with its yellow edges frayed.
Not out of old age.
It looked more like it had been burnt with a lighter.
That girl was me.
Unsplash / Freestocks
Sunglasses on and smile wide at the Grand Canyon.
I flipped to the next page.
That one had come from my Snapchat story.
I had taken it the previous weekend during a bachelorette party my aunt had thrown.
It was the only one I had allowed myself to upload.
Made it my profile picture, even.
The Etsy seller must have really done their research.
Maybe all of their scrapbooks came finished.
Maybe this wasnt as sinister as it felt.
I actually let myself believe that lie until I flipped through more pages.
A few more Instagram pictures, some with my eyes marked out in red.
Some with a black sharpie line across my throat.
Some with my head cut out completely.
The pages that followed held photographs taken from a telescopic lens.
The stalker kind you only see on episodes of CSI.
The kind taken from faraway windows and rooftops.
These pictures showed me balancing grocery bags atop the roof of my car as I searched for my keys.
Me leaving the laundromat with plastic zipped dresses folded across my arms.
Me half-naked inside of my bedroom, working on the clasp of my bra.
Me fucking my boyfriend.
I yanked my phone from my pocket to dial thepolice.
As I listened for the rings, I flipped to the final page.
This one was a drawing.
A cartoonish sketch, like it had been created by a child.
It showed a stick figure woman with Xes for eyes and a dark squiggle lodged inside of her stomach.
In the background of the drawing, there werent any tables or chairs or even a door.
Just a window with two green eyes staring through.
