I have this friend, let’s call her Anna. She was a goddess on Earth. Perfectly symmetrical features were held in a heart shaped face, adorned with high cheekbones and big, bright hazel eyes. Her skin was like seaglass, seamless and smooth. Every day I watched her from afar—her dancing, her observational comedy, and her exquisite fashion sense garnered hundreds of thousands of followers on social media. I was only one, but I was also her friend. We chatted now and again, exchanging memes in the darkest hours of night, and whenever I shared what I was up to, she watched me. She watched me as I watched her. Together, we could glide through the buzzing, ticking rays of the world.
Even when her beloved father passed away, Anna shone brighter than all around her. Hacking her way through grief, her content output doubled that week. She was no phony either: she livestreamed tearfully, opening an impromptu support group for herself and all of her followers. I was able to contribute (having lost my own father as a child) and for a few short moments I was the star of Anna’s show. Everyone would listen to me, my wisdom, my experience. I even got a few more followers myself.
My queen, however, was surpassing a million. She began to get ambassador deals from different brands, attending influencer parties and posting paparazzi photos of herself in otherworldly gowns that traced along red carpets. Each time, another chiseled jawline was on her arm, bathing in her magnanimous glow. I began to hear from her less, but followed along hungrily: finally, she was getting the recognition she deserved.
As the winter came, the parties died down, and Anna returned to her regularly scheduled posts—from her new lakeside home. It was absolutely idyllic: clean white snow fell over a still mirror of ice as birds gathered in the air above. The indoors were minimally decorated, but Anna said she had thrown away many of her old things to make room for the new. More proof of her superiority: I’d always feared change, but she embraced it in every action.
She was metamorphosing. She began making mukbang videos, surrounding herself with cakes; meats; casserole dishes of candy and colored goo on the floor of her bedroom. Her audience grew, but her figure miraculously didn’t budge at all. Perfect in form, she unhinged her jaw to encompass triple decker sandwiches and professionally crafted layer cakes. I watched, in awe of her unblemished skin and angelic decorum amidst the storm of technicolor treats.
I suppose she was busy adjusting to her new life, because as the cold deepened, her content dwindled. I was alone. In the few times I’d reached out to her in the night, her replies were short. One-worded. A small ring of anxiety flushed my skin and reverberated through my bones. Were we friends anymore? Were we ever friends at all? I shooed this feeling away, and occupied myself elsewhere.
I saw her from time to time. She would grace the chat of another’s livestream, the replies of a new television show on Twitter. The understanding began to wash over me: these were her friends now. Lowly as I was, plain and mortal, Anna had joined a new sphere of being on the ziggurat of the Known. She didn’t need people like me anymore.
Smarting pain lingered in me. I could not be for her, and she was not for me. For some time I could delude myself, floating in her atmosphere, but she could only move up and I only down. I couldn’t stand to see her anymore, and she was everywhere. Slipping away from social media, my time with her would be exchanged for time in places I belonged. I trailed like a ghost through anonymous forums of those as deranged and downtrodden as me. Escaping her finally, I dragged myself through the sick, the monstrous, and the left-behind. Until: there she was again.
Thin and pale under her clean light fixtures, she moved like a serpent along the carpet. Her arms pitched inhumanly; sharply contrasting with the smooth swing of her torso. She was groaning—or singing?—and her eyes flickered into the top of her perfect head, with yellowed whites shuddering under her long lashes. She continued like this for a while as the sound coming from her began to reach a crescendo. Turning to the camera with her head pointing to Heaven, she gurgled as her jaw unhinged in a manner elevated from what I had seen before. And in her red, wet maw, cresting from her perfect throat, were the moving legs of a glistening insect.
I snapped my laptop shut. How dare she? How dare she, the angel of the overworld, materialize perfectly in my underworld. She was white snow, immaculate gowns, seaglass. I was struggle, blood, detritus. Her capitalization of her perfection to invade my space was overwhelming. Cold sweat dripped from my eyelids, blood rushing through my eardrums. Someone had to confront her. Rushing to my drawers, I dug out the scribbled writing I needed, the key to God’s kingdom: her address, stored dutifully when I shipped her a housewarming gift months ago. It was time that the queen faced her people.
She was only an eight hour drive away. I plunged into my savings to withdraw cash for gas money, snacks, and whatever I needed. This was more important than my nest egg—today I would do the world a service. Speeding along the cracked freeway, I screamed to the trembling metal housing of my car.
The snow around her lakeside home had melted, and small purple flowers peaked their heads around patches of wild onion. The tall windows of the castle towered over the soft, shifting lake. In the distance, children screeched in joy, goading each other to wade deeper into the still-cold water. Stepping to the front door nestled exquisitely into a modern wrap around porch, I felt the grain of the wood, knowing that seamless skin had been here so many times.
Knock, knock.
No answer.
This was never going to be easy. But, I was new; made of thick, hot blood. I strode around her porch, taking in the perfumed lakeside air, to find a sliding glass door on her back patio left open. Making my way through the familiar home, I found her room. The queen’s quarters. There she lay—a soft, warm lump under Egyptian cotton covers.
“Anna,” I projected. “We need to talk.”
No answer. Enough of this.
Rushing to her bedside, I thrust the covers from her. There, in the pit of the thing, she lay. Still. Dry. Peaceful. Waifish. The chilled air must have disturbed her rest, because movement began then. Her breathing became labored and her abdomen lurched. I had scared her. Good.
Anna threw herself around her bed, weak limbs dangling pathetically in the torrent of movement. Then, at once, she stood on all fours, smooth stomach bared to me. Her body shook violently as it raised, higher and higher. Her arms were bent so far back that they must have been broken. It was at this point that I noticed the smell.
It permeated the place. Sickly, cloying sweetness and musk like the flower section of a decaying grocery store. As I began to gag, I saw Anna’s abdomen begin to gently split down the middle, like she was made of tissue paper. When I saw what was turning my goddess into a coin purse, I lost my ability to move.
Four enormous, glistening insect legs were peeling their way toward me through her remains.
It slowly shed her flesh, unraveling its full form. It stood at her height (taller than me) and its hundreds of digits clicked and spat small dehydrated chunks of Anna. It was cleaning itself. Near the top of the damned thing was what I guessed to be a mouth—a sunken hole that foamed and drooled hideously down the length of it. I felt the soles of my feet heavy on the plush carpet.
“Marie,” it hummed. “So lovely of you to visit.”
Stomach acid burned my throat. I swallowed.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so distant,” it buzzed. “Between the two of us, I was rather depressed, and needed time to process. I feel so, so much better now. I couldn’t be happier to see you.”
“…Anna?” I gasped, spit flying from my mouth. I hoped that she didn’t notice.
“Yes, of course it is me,” she whispered. “You came to my home, didn’t you?”
“Right.” I was in awe of this thing, this monstrosity before me. Some kind of rhythm seeped from it, something I needed. Anna was now more beautiful and powerful than ever before.
“Fantastic,” it crooned. “Let’s go to town. I’ve been dying to get out.”
I’m so glad to have my queen back.