Tears under the bridge - Part 2

In a half remembered date last November, I received a call from the East NY police station for an interview to finalize Claire’s missing persons report. I was at home nursing my wounds from the night out before where I slipped and fell head first on the dancefloor, like a carcass callously thrown on the ground before being cut up and processed for consumption. Perhaps I was just that, a coked up, numb collection of muscles, tendons, bones and organs wandering aimlessly in the night without a brain, barely more alive than a zombie, offering my flesh and kisses to anyone who’ll accept my alcohol breath and slurry flirtations, but there were no takers, I was too floppy to be dragged to the back rooms for a quickie, too out of it to dish out a good finger bang, too unprepared to be left behind in this world while Claire is enjoying her trauma free existence in another plane of existence. What about me? I have trauma too, especially with this fucking bomb you dropped on me, Claire! You left me all alone fending for myself, you left me alone, all by myself, clambering away from the colliding dancing feet at the former meatpacking warehouse, and my mind is stuck with this imaginary scenario of you on a slab in the refrigeration room in the morgue, out of my reach because I am not family and not legally binded to you. 

Why are both my knees so bruised up? I was wondering when the phone rang. It took me a minute to regain focus and articulate my arms and fingers. 

“Hello? …… Yeah, I can do 3pm today.”

As I walked into the stale interview room and sat down, I had no idea what to expect, worse still, I am completely unaware I had left behind the worst possible trail of bed crumbs for detectives to, well, play detective - I was calm as a lily pond when I made the call and reported Claire missing, I had installed a covert phone tracking app on Claire’s phone, I was present in the last known location of Claire the night before the last known date of her appearance, I was involved in a domestic disturbance 911 call just half a year ago at Claire’s prior residence, cell tower pings for both of our cell phones near the location where the body was found (we were hiking), and also tag on a minor conviction for drug possession (but with no jail time) for good measure. With the theatrical nature of how the crime scene was and the statistics not being on my side (the lover is often the prime suspect), that innocent stroll into the station turned into 50 minutes of hell. 

It started with being shown a crime scene photo that has more similarities to an oil painting than a forensic item. It was more like a social media hoax turned fatal accident than a thoughtful approach to ending one’s life. It was more like the outcome of a volatile relationship where the alpha kicked out the beta from her home and the beta had enough and decided to act on it. The lack of violence in Claire’s death, the dressing up of the body, the artfully selected dump site, all points to a female killer who was in an intimate relationship with the deceased.

“We have found the body of Claire Chan, who you reported missing 3 days ago in Saratoga Springs and can you ID her in the photo I showed you?” The detective shuffles the photo back into the binder.

“Yes, that’s Claire.” Missy turned away, unable to face someone whom she had loved deeply, choosing to move on. 

“Was the nature of your relationship with the deceased romantic?” The detective sips his coffee casually as if he was in a conversation with the barista.

“Yes, we are… were lovers.” Missy’s eyes started to turn red.

“What was your last conversation with Claire about?”

“We just had dinner and she told me a story that happened during her teenage years.”

“How were you able to unlock her phone when we met up at her home?”

“It was simply her birthday. She was so close to celebrating another one.”

“Can you elaborate on that? Did you plan something special?”

“Not yet, we haven’t got around to how to spend that day, it was usually her that had the final say.”

“Was it difficult for you to be in such a passive position?” The detective started studying Missy’s reaction.

“A little, but this is how our love works out.” Missy began to feel uneasy with the line of questioning.

“Why were you tracking Claire’s phone? Did she find out and came to confront you? Is that why she ordered an Uber to your place?” This is no longer a casual chat.

“No, the Uber was for me to go home.” Missy’s hairs started to stand up.

“Can you prove your whereabouts the night before you called to report her missing?”

“No, I live alone, my phone GPS…”

Missy cuts herself off, knowing her phone contains more than just location data. The line of questioning no longer resembles the motions of closing up a suicide case, she was suddenly being reassigned the role of a jilted lover, and the role of the mourning lover was forcibly wrestled away from Missy. 

“Lawyer.”

“You are not under arrest.”

“OK, I want to leave now.”

“I’m afraid I have to detain you for a little while longer until we are able to clear you from foul play.” 

“WTF do you mean?”

“We have yet to determine the exact nature of Claire’s death.” 

“It is obvious…”

Missy didn’t realize at that moment she was the only one that knew about the PTSD that Claire had been struggling with her whole life, and the recent retraumatizing when she bumped into her abusive father.

“Obviously what? Is there something you would like to share?”

“She had deep depressive episodes before, you can check with her medical records.”

“Those are protected information and we cannot access them. So what are you suggesting?”

“She committed suicide.”

“Does this look like suicide to you?!” The detective whips out the photo again. “You were in daily contact with her, we recovered your texts, we see someone resembling you going to her apartment building…”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to stop her. What do you want from me?” Is this a police investigation into the manner of Claire’s death, or an investigation into her own conscience? Missy began to wonder. 

“Were you in possession of any burner phones besides the one registered to you?”

“I don’t want to answer…” Crying had replaced talking, and the detective relented for a bit. Until there is a knock on the door. 

Saved by the knock. There were some whispers behind the door and then a replacement detective came into the room with some tissues and a cup of hot chocolate.

“Sorry, you are free to go, Claire’s lawyer just came to the station and we have her suicide note. I am sorry for your loss… And on behalf of the 75th precinct, I apologize for all the inconvenience and misunderstanding. I have arranged for an Uber to take you home.”

“No Uber, please.” Uber brings back memories.

“A taxi then, on us.”

“Thank you.” Missy reached for her 5th tissue in less than 30 seconds.

“...the room is yours if you need a few minutes.”

“Thank you, you are so kind.” 

This the first moment Missy was force fed the onset of the “sense of loss”, an underwhelming chain of 3 words that compresses an explosive cluster of dark emotions into something that is digestible to those who are not involved. 

Four white walls in the interview room became four projection screens for playing back memories, it was impossible to stop, unless Missy joins Claire and ends this separation for good. But who guarantees they will end up in the same quadrant in the afterlife?

Another knock at the door. 

This time it was the lawyer. He introduced himself as Howard Baker and handed over a manila envelope, on it, written in Claire’s cute cursive, ‘To my dearest Missy.’ The letters slowly dissolve as the ink was no match to the tears dripping on it, and Howard sprung into action and delicately soaked up the tears.

“These are her last words to you and it meant something important to her, I don’t know how to better express it, but it is my job to make sure her words wouldn’t be written in vain, and also, having worked for her for some time, she’s the sweetest client I had known. I should have been here to clarify the situation with Claire way earlier but the mailroom fucked up. Please, Claire never wished for you to be questioned by the police… BTW there are also some formalities concerning her estate…”

“Not now, please…”

“I understand. But please give me a call when you’re ready.” He hands over a business card. “Let me give you a ride home. Do you have a pair of sunglasses on you?”

“But I wasn’t here as a criminal…” Missy still has some wit beneath all the desolation.

“Emmm… your eyes… the makeup is…”

“Oh I see, thank you, I’ll put on my shades.” 

Missy had a weird feeling sitting inside Howard’s Benz sedan with tinted windows, she’s pretty sure no matter how clean and innocent the interior is, this car was a last resort for criminals, a vessel of guilt, and she was now the newest participant, but she was not guilty from a crime crime, but a crime that can only be understood by the perpetrating lover. The smell of fresh leather, the comfort of the ergonomic seats, the tasteful jazz emanating from the well defined speakers did nothing to dull this gloomy sensation, and she can’t wait to escape from this vessel and into the throes of chemical comforts back home. 

“1808 Ocean Ave. We’re here.” Howard sounds just like the Uber drivers that took me away from Claire’s tender affection and into the lonely clutter of my directionless abode. “I’ll text you a few logins to AI teletherapy services, some of my clients find them useful. Give them a try.” 

“OK.” Not interested, but it’s easier to lie than to have a whole interaction that will give me a headache.

“Take care, my assistant will call you when, err… things are in order.” 

“Thanks.” I gently close the door to his kindness. Deep down, it hurts more to receive kindness doled out as a formality, a fleeting offer of consolation that has an expiration date, a guiding hand that will retract as soon as a more profitable (and alive) client comes along. I am not being harsh on Howard, I am just looking at him already talking on the phone and taking notes while I am fishing for my keys. I hated every ounce of goodwill that’s been extended towards me since Claire’s abrupt exit from my life. I appreciated the effort people put into withstanding my uncontrollable sobbing, my free-flowing reminiscing, my desperate pleas for company, and I totally understand my insignificance in their lives, but I am still allowed to feel pissed off when my texts suddenly goes unanswered with no foreshadowing, friends starts to avoid eye contact with me at parties, killing off conversations whenever I start adding a tinge of emotion. Don’t give me hope when you are prepared to let go when you see me falling back into the dark. 

The good thing about clutter at home is it’s easier to hide and forget things, like a thin manila envelope. If I want something to be lost in time, it is going to. 

It’s also hard to keep track of time when I have what people call the ‘thin gene’, have a prescription for anxiety meds and sedatives, and being a highly functional substance abuser. I only noticed it’s mid-December because of all the fucking Christmas decorations, then I was forced back into a Claire induced misery when Howard’s office called me to sign something. I was pretty intoxicated when I put down the phone, and some malfunctioning part of my brain prompted me to find the manila envelope Claire left me, thinking it has something to do with the legal-ish shit I need to settle. FML when I saw it was a handwritten letter and had nothing to do with terms and conditions of inheriting some money.

“I know that my words, as you are reading them now, changes nothing, and no matter how many ways I express my love for you in this letter, you’ll probably still be mad, flabbergasted, confused. I am sorry I have been selfish because I only wanted closure for myself. The last few months have been very liberating for me, having a goal to look forward to, waiting for the beautiful autumn leaves in Saratoga Springs, where I had very fond memories with you, and making the little crafts together with you for my last scene in this world. I can see you tried very hard to keep me away from nightmares, but the nightmares originated from within me, and it was only when I started planning what I did, that the nightmares eventually went away. I hope you can stand by and understand my decision, and I know this is a big ask, but don’t let my actions tear an irreparable hole in your heart, you are beautiful, inside and outside, and you will have a beautiful life in front of you. I know there will be grief, and I have left you a stipend to seek help. Please, please, please don’t be sad for too long, keep pursuing your goals in music, keep on having fun in the kink community, keep on… I don’t know what to write anymore. Nothing will wash away my selfishness, but I also don’t want to drag you down with me. I love you, but I really need this finale.”

I tore up the letter and felt a part of my soul leave the body. Why oh why do you have to etch these words into my mind forever. I have access to all the stimulants and hallucinogens (dissociative or not) there is but there is nothing to erase words that are laser cut into my consciousness. Every movement felt so heavy and tiring, and I had no idea how many benzos I swallowed to force myself into sleep to pass another difficult day, and boy, I really exceeded the recommended dosage by three-plus-folds, because it was 20 hours later when I finally regained some awareness of what happened and I ended up on the sofa holding a binder of documents with my signature and bank account number. Whatever. Maybe it is time for some closure, and I proceeded to delete all the Claire pics from my socials. Then, another round of sedatives and sleepwalk another week. 

Algorithms fucks people up. I was fed a YouTube video on a mundane Wednesday morning when business was slow at the record store and to my horror, the thumbnail have the words ‘The most elegant suicide or the most complex murder?’ superimposed on Claire’s DB discovery photo. The title? ‘Unpacking the strange ‘Suicide’ of Claire Chan.’ The uploader? A sock puppet account ‘kpdoraxirr10’ with just a single upload and zero subscribers. ‘What the hell?’ I shouted, scaring off the only customer, but afforded myself time to watch the clip.

“The mystery of Claire started in this sparsely populated East New York Erskine apartment complex. Why would she leave alone on the morning of November 6th alone with just a duffel bag without her phone? Was she running from a stalker? I was able to obtain CCTV footage and after going through weeks of footage, I found this shadowy woman who appears at the building daily.”

My face was never shown, as the building installed a budget system and no matter how many imaging tools you throw at it, 360p footage from a fisheye lens is just going to spit out a lego figure. Then a mixture of stock Saratoga Springs footage spliced between the ‘crime scene’ photos, and shockingly, screengrabs of my texts with Claire, taken from her phone, but fortunately, she just used the heart emoji as my name and nothing to identify me. The video goes on with some wild conspiratorial dead-ends, and I thought nothing of it until I looked at the CCTV footage again and I was identifiable, because I kept wearing the same vintage leopard skin pattern leather jacket for days, a coat that is so unique that what once was a source of compliments is going to become a source of persecutory glances. 

Gosh, now I need to flip my wardrobe into the most drab of styles. And also, fuck this person for making this piece of anti-journalistic content. Still, there are friends who’ve seen us together, seen my fucking jacket, and a sense of paranoia overrode me. No matter how illogical the viewpoints in the video are, it managed to make me feel I played a part in her death. I can hardly contain my anger and expletives and force a smile on my face when a regular walked in and handed over some dollar bills for an online order, and I almost broke the records in half when I tore them out of the storage shelf. Furious thoughts fire from all directions inside my head and get so entangled in such a feral manner I have to step out for a smoke break. In the back alley, I paced a bunch of tight loops and I looked at my watch, fuck, still has 4 more grueling hours till I can clock out and go online and hunt down the mofu saying such perverted things, but five ciggies later, I also realize, these 4 hours stuck in a quiet setting are a good time to force myself to calmly think of gameplans that are feasible and not commit to some rage induced behaviour that will distance me from the goal. Still, before going through data leaks on the darkweb at home, the best course of action now is to forward the video to Howard. The B-side of the in-store music hadn't finished and I already got the reply I was hoping for.

“That’s nuts, cease and desist letter will be filed soon, I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thank you.” This takes the fury down quite a significant number of notches, and the brain is freed up to think about logical stuff like, where did all the CCTV footage and text logs come from? Did THAT detective leak it? But for what? To satisfy his misguided fixation on me? What’s there to gain? Wouldn’t it be much simpler to send some threatening texts on a burner than to make a video that I might not even see?

OK. Who else? Colleagues? Exes? Yes, an ex-gf would do something this convoluted to get back at me for stealing Claire’s heart. But how to fish/phish out a name? Got it, make a vague comment like ‘I have video of them kissing at the bar’ and give them a bogus link, there are tools for sale on the darkweb for this, then a virtual web server needs to be setup, preferable a silver limited edition one. 

“Yes, there is a silver limited edition vinyl release of this album.” I snap back to reality. “Would you like a copy? It’s hand numbered”

“Sure, thank you.”

“I think I saw one that’s 111 or 222. Give me a sec.” Phew. Almost lost a customer.

As the door closes, I open up my thoughts again. Qerewisa124dorhijwqyeqwteuqeq53esfhiqeqg2wyhfwhfkskdnfio1eutorih266sdsfjkhakfyw9aufja32897. Better to wait for Howard to do his thing. 

Back home, I just can’t let go of this ‘kpdoraxirr10’ villain, so I asked my dealer on the darkweb for links to marketplaces for acquiring data dumps, afterall, Claire did leave me some money to make my life easier, and life won’t be easy if there is a malicious force in my life. ‘1-800-Pwned.xz’ is cheeky, alright let’s try it for shits and giggles, I wasn’t holding out much hope of actually achieving anything, but it seems like a fun activity until YouTube moves its ass. Deep inside, I somehow feel thankful the video happened, as I hadn’t done anything truly fun since Claire left, maybe her spirit is having a laugh watching all this go down. 

As the laptop goes to work searching through the millions of data rows, it get hotter, the fans work harder, and my snoring grew louder. It was nearly morning when a result is finally displayed and a loud beep sounded that woke me up. 

‘Josie.Scott@BakerEllisAssociates.com kpdoraxirr10’ 

Dafuq? On the landing page of BakerEllisAssociates.com is the picture of Howard posing next to a MILF. A look at the staff directory answers the question to why the video has so much privileged information - Josie Scott, paralegal. A social media search for the same name answers more questions, she’s a lesbian, and probably hooked up with Claire after seeing her at the firm, and the video is Josie’s way of getting justice for losing out to me. I immediately invited Howard for a breakfast meeting. “You fucked up.” “You’re disrespecting the dead.” “Claire misplaced her trust in you. You moral-less BS money pit.” I start rehearsing lines in front of the mirror as I put makeup on, fantasizing about adding some Harley Quinn flair to my look and turning around to command Howard to crouch over his work desk, whipping him hard while he begs for forgiveness. But the fantasy couldn’t last as this was Claire and mine’s loving memory, and rather than just a snapshot in my head, this is a visceral recollection that made my body tingle, I am unable to just swat it aside; I dropped my lipstick and began to tremble uncontrollably until it crescendos into a full on weeping. Why is it so hard to forget? I asked myself, curled up on the floor, completely powerless to stop this rapid influx of sadness. I was able to keep sadness at bay for the past month, but now it has broken through my defenses and I had no choice but to submit. 

I took out a random bullet of powder and snorted a big fat bump, put on some music in my ears and went downstairs to grab some booze. I was calling my boss to take the day off and mid sentence the words morphed into an abstract electronic drone, and my vision turned into a pixelated animation. Fuck, I can feel the emergence of a K-hole, I can feel my limbs collapsing into a stick figure, movements on the street became the paper cut outs of a pop up book, passing headlights were frozen into a light fixture dangling mid-air, I feel my presence no longer a dot on the rigid timeline all clocks indicated, my phone and wallets became lumps of jelly, and clinging onto my brown paper bag was like lifting a dumbbell, a LEGO figure passed by me and I watch him/her dissolve into a streak of coloured lights, I try fishing for the cold metal railings that may help me anchor myself to a point in reality that I recognize, but my stick fingers are failing to do so. My headspace is completely lost in the revolving dimensions of memory, YouTube videos, creative writing, present happenings, perceived outcomes, pre-surgery countdowns, teeth grinding, trembling extremities… until I can finally feel my stick figure body growing back into 3 dimensions, I can grab the sharp corners of a brick wall, the bottle of booze no longer a line. As amazing as that trip was, the fact that Claire was absent from it all was the reference point that helped me to pull myself out of it. If this Ketamine created universe was less abstract and just filled with the gold old times I had with Claire, I would have never left.

I sat on the sidewalk for an hour before I was able to focus my eyesight and see I had a few missed calls from Howard and a text saying, ‘Take it easy. I had a nice breakfast on my own. Call me when you are comfortable.’ And also one from my boss, ‘Hey, it’s OK I know you are in grief, I’ll cover for you today, Thursdays are slow anyways, see you tomorrow.’ The next moment I’m climbing stairs as if I am a car on a Dakar rally and I collapsed before I can reach the sofa.

When I come to in early evening, I want to know who this Josie is, is she a blonde like me, does she have a forever scorned frown that's worse than a resting bitch face, what's her demeanor like, can I take her down if she found out I am tailing her. Then I wandered off to buying a phone sniffer. I need a plan of action. What is a good place to intercept her so my phone sniffer can do its job? I look for clues in her IG posts, I know how she looks and where she works, I know which mom and pop cafe she gets her morning coffee, I know she goes to warehouse parties, I know she collects records, I know… Claire has a type. 

I also know she doesn't entirely know who I am because I already drunkenly added her as a friend last night with my own account and she added me back, and commented on my party snaps. This makes things a little easier but if I can make one drunken mistake I will most definitely commit another seeing that I have no intention of going to AA and NA meetings any time soon. She seems like a cute girl but I am really honed in on exacting some sort of revenge for her video. I was still a piece of human patty when I received a text from… drum roll… Josie.

‘Hey, I think I saw you at the law firm I worked at, is everything alright? You looked a bit out of sorts.’

Oh my, is she hitting on me now?

Second thought. OK, all my cloak and dagger ideas are down the drain now. Can I cancel a Crypto transaction? I don’t need to clone her IMEI or whatever to track if she’s reaching out to hangout. Fuck, I better cancel my Amazon order for the business suit I order because I thought I need to stake out her working schedule at Manhattan. FUCK~

I had to revisit my plans, double time. I had just barely climbed up the sofa when she had already asked to be my plus one at the next Public Records rave. OK, what am I going to do? I have only 1 and a half week to prep. What is my goal? Expose her? Doxx her? Shame her? Given my limited timeframe and abilities, I am just going to spike her drink and wish she does something wild so I have something to post on social. (It seems like I reached this decision in a few dozens words, but trust me, I was in and out of consciousness for hours, it was Friday night when I reached this conclusion.) I was halfway through a slice of cheese pizza when the crypto payment finally got verified and my LSD order got confirmed. I have to next find an old burner phone among my clutter to setup a sock puppet account just like Josie did.

asfhkahfk21321kjyeq86ajdkasl19ulqjflajfaflaaw3rslkdfka8ckjaLOD79HNVAIFno7O7DL.

Time flies and I am already dancing with Josie. There is no elaborate setup, no tension at all, just, bang, bang, bang, day goes by, hours goes by, simple text exchanges, I’m at the VIP door to receive Josie, and we are sisters on the dancefloor, life is simple, revenge is straightforward. No one was looking at my hands when I poured 5ml of L into her drink because it’s just too dark, and girl on girl roofying is too scarce to raise any alarms. BTW, speedballs make time fly by really fast. In the blink of an eye, Josie is already stripping down to her undies on the dancefloor, isolating other clubbers and making space for my phone camera to go to work. I’m by no means a savant, but I can predict all the things that will happen next. Post the humiliating video on IG, tag Josie, send a bunch of money anonymously to hungry influencers to make a bunch of react videos. Let Josie have a taste of her own medicine.

Feelings didn’t rebound when my baggie of speedballs ran out, by which time I had disposed of my burner phone, blocked Josie, and totally numb to what I did. My life returned to its usual cycle. Christmas fucks off, NYE is around the corner. I was watching a shitty Hallmark movie when I wondered, something good could have happened between me and Josie if I kept my mouth shut. My life could have progressed to a new Claire-less phase, but I just fucked it all up. Then came the text that tore all facades down.

“I know what you did.” Howard said. “I am going to spend some quality time with my family over the new year, and when I come back, you have a fucking lot of explaining to do.”

What? I was taken aback by this threat, and then I saw Josie deleted her IG, and I sensed something went very wrong. Shit really hit the fan when I had a bad batch of powders that made me antsy and delusional, worse yet, you don’t wake up from a bad trip and think the dealer switched up the supplier, you just double down and think of the most idiotic shit like, OH, must be the cheap rum I was drinking that caused it, or I shouldn’t be at an EDM venue, or I shouldn’t be wearing the boots Claire bought me. It’s more economical to blame environmental factors than to flush 200 bucks worth of drugs down the drain, and lacking any sense of risk management, when I want to shut down the bad trips, I take benzos to sleep, or add more chemical compounds like a mad scientist until I can find the high I was seeking, until I ended up at the rink.