Many of you know by now that over a week ago, we had a blackout at my house in the middle of the night, and we had to scramble to find somewhere to stay because we needed to make sure my dad’s insulin was kept refrigerated. It was a terrifying experience because he’d tested positive for COVID not long ago, so we couldn’t stay in a hotel, nor could we stay at relatives’ houses for fear of infecting them. I was so frightened and desperate. Thankfully, a kind stranger opened their guesthouse to us and saved us. I was so relieved. At the time, I had no idea what caused the blackout. I’d assumed that maybe a raccoon had chewed through our cables or that maybe bad wiring had caused some kind of failure. I found an electrician who came to fix the electrics, and afterwards, he took me aside and told me that our electric cable had been ripped out. I asked if he thought a raccoonor possum or something could’ve done it, and he said, “No. Critters would chew through cables, not pull them out. This was done by a person.”
It was during this time that Fern Huang showed up at my door bearing bread that she had baked for me. I was surprised, because like I said, back at school, Fern was not a good person. I allayed my misgivings about her and accepted the gifts she’d brought with thanks, but after what had happened with the blackout and what the electrician told me, I was wary, especially since Fern and I, while cordial now, are not what I would call friends. So her overt gesture of kindness felt out of place. And that was why I decided that I couldn’t risk our health. I chose to throw away all of the food she’d given me. I couldn’t possibly tell the rest of my debut group what I’d done, and that was why I lied about eating it. I didn’t want to dredge up the past and put Fern in the spotlight and turn her into an outcast once more. So I thought it best to keep quiet and simply chug along as per normal.
What I did not foresee was Fern coming back to my house, sneaking into my trash bin, and taking photos of it. I hope I don’t need to explain what a violation of privacy this was, not to mention actual trespassing. I also did not foresee Fern sharing these photos with the rest of our debut group and turning me into a villain. Like I said, my plan had been to mind my own business. Fern’s actions have rendered that impossible.
It was at this time that I remembered that my parents have a security camera installed at the house. I checked the footage, and this was what I found. You will see on the bottom of the screen the time stamp of the video; this was taken two minutes before we had the blackout. Unfortunately, the person in the video has on a baggy hoodie that’s pulled low over her face, and is wearing a mask so to most people, she is unrecognizable. But I recognize her from her height and her gait and the features that are visible, and I strongly believe this person you see in the video is Fern Huang.
As you can see, she walks towards my parents’ house and off to the side, where our fuse box is, and a minute later, the footage ends as the blackout struck. For legal reasons, I am not stating that Fern was definitively responsible for the blackout that put my father’s health at risk, but you are free to make your own judgment based on all of the information I have shared.
I am in contact with legal counsel and will proceed as per their advice. I hope that this statement and the video help all of you understand why I chose not to eat the food that Fern gave me. I do not have an eating disorder, nor am I a pathological liar. I did it to protect myself and my family. I know this is a massive thread, so thank you for taking the time to read it.
“No,” I croak. My legs give out under me, and I thump to the grass. I barely register the pain when I hit the ground. I’m completely numb, weightless. The back door opens, and footsteps run toward me.
“Fern?” Mom says. Her head appears in my vision. “Fern, are you okay? Dave! David!” she calls out as she crouches down and grabs my arm, shaking me.
My dad appears. “What is—Fern? What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Mom says. “Fern! I think we need to call an ambulance.”
Her last sentence pierces through the shimmering fog in my head, and I manage to choke out a quick “Don’t.”
“Oh, Fern,” Dad moans. “Let’s get her up. Can you sit up?” He and Mom take me by the shoulders and push me into a sitting position.
I blink up at them. They look so worried. They’re worried about me. It’s nice having people who still care about me. I wonder, though, if they’d still care if they found out what I’ve done. I wonder if they’ll go back to looking at me in that removed way they do. I should say something to them. Assure them that everything is all right. I open my mouth, but before I can speak, my phone rings. Poppy’s name is on the screen.
“I have to take this,” I hear myself say to Mom and Dad. “It’s my literary agent.”
They continue looking at me with creased faces.
“I need some privacy,” I say, in a voice that sounds so formal.
Dad sighs. “All right, if you’re sure you’re okay.”
I am about the furthest from okay I have been in a long time, but I can’t say that, so I nod. Once they’re both gone from the backyard, I take a bracing breath and answer the phone.
“Fern, I’m going to cut to the chase,” Poppy says. She doesn’t even bother with a greeting, nor does she give me any time to respond. Very New York of her. “Are you the person in that video?”
I swallow. Should I tell her the truth? Should I lie? I need more time, I want to say to her. I need time to work out the pros and cons of both paths.
At my silence, Poppy blows out a long breath and says, “I see. And were you responsible for cutting the power to Haven Lee’s house?”
Again, I find no right answer to her question. I swallow once more, but the lump in my throat remains.
“Okay,” Poppy says. “Then I’m sorry to say that effective immediately, I can no longer represent you as your agent. As per my responsibilities as a literary agent, I have notified Lindsay about what’s going on online, and I will be updating her to let her know that we are no longer working with—”
I close my eyes. A single tear rolls down my cheek, and it is such a cliché—how does one even make just a single tear?—that I laugh. Poppy stops talking abruptly. The silence widens, and I can sense her uneasiness. Who the hell laughs at a time like this?
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I wasn’t—it wasn’t a laugh.”
There is another moment of silence, then Poppy says, very carefully, “Fern, I am letting you go as my client. I wish you the best going forward. Have a good day.” The call ends.
When I lower my phone from my ear, I see that there’s an email waiting for me. It’s from Lindsay. The notification screen shows me the subject, which isRe: Author Incident—Fern Huang,and the first few lines of the email, which goes:Dear Fern, It is with a heavy heart that I write to you. Unfortunately, due to recent events, we can no longer go forward ...
And there it is. The worst thing I could’ve possibly imagined has happened. The only thing that’s kept me going the past few years has been my hope of one day becoming a published author, and now, when I’m so close to reaching it, it’s been wrenched out of my hands. I drop my phone, and the thud it makes as it bounces onto the grass is so anticlimactic. I wish it had broken. Shattered the way everything in my life has. I can’t possibly face Mom and Dad right now, so I go out the side gate from the backyard. Fortunately, I forgot to take my car key out of my pocket yesterday. I get into the back seat of my car and lock the doors, then I bury my face in my hands and shriek.
The sound that comes out of me is barely human. It’s animal rage and life-ending grief and anguish all rolled into one unearthly scream.I feel it tearing apart my throat as it rips out of me, and I don’t care, I wish I could scream so violently that it tears me to pieces and I could just stop existing. What is the point of my existence? What has my life amounted to? An endless roll of nothing. I am almost thirty, and I have nothing, not a single thing, to show. Nothing that, when I’m on my deathbed, I could look back on with a satisfied smile and say, “I did that. I achieved that. I was here, and I made my mark.” I imagine myself dying, and the truth is, aside from Mom and Dad, no one would care. And even Mom and Dad would only care because I am their child, a product that came from them. Their love for me has always been obligatory and nothing more, and their grief for me would be similar. I wouldn’t just fade into nothingness; if I were to die, what would happen is there would be a drama-filled storm of tweets which wouldn’t even be about me—it would be more about what I had done to Haven and how I had tricked everyone into thinking I was a victim, and in the end, even my death would be centered around Haven before it was quickly forgotten.
At this realization, I burst into tears. Huge, body-shaking sobs that wrench out of me with so much force that I wonder if they might break my ribs. The sounds I make are so ugly that even though there’s no one else around, I am embarrassed. I try to soften them, but it’s no use. It’s a dam breaking, and everything is pouring out, and there’s no holding anything back. I have nothing. My book floats into my mind, and I wail even louder at the memory of it. I haven’t even had a chance to hold it in my arms, to have that moment that every author dreams of. I’d been planning on doing an unboxing video when the copies finally arrived. I would open the box up with the care reserved for handling a newborn, because isn’t that what this book is? My baby? And now it’s been canceled from existence before it was even born, and the whole world is dancing on its grave.
