Hanging in the Back

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. I mean, it was close, but little details were just a tad bit off.

“Chat, what in the actual hell is this?” I didn’t look back at the monitors, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t even in the frame of the camera anymore. I was trying to wrap my head around this freakin’ mirror. I adjusted the bustline of my top before I stepped back into the frame; can’t afford another strike for an accidental wardrobe malfunction again. I went back to the monitors: Chat was yelling at me again for stepping out of frame and talking as if they could still see.

Peekabu, you know we can’t see you.

PK: I’m catching the stream to see you in cosplay. Why do you keep leaving the screen?

Hey baby! Where’d you go?

Whatchu lookin at, gurl?

I smiled and adjusted the bunny ears on my head. I knew I was dressed ridiculously, but this works. I get to play a silly little childish video game that I love, and so long as I do it in a skimpy, sexy costume of one of the bunny characters, several hundred viewers will watch, donate, follow. I wanted to look back at the mirror. I just wanted to check the freckle dots and the tiny button nose I painted on to make sure nothing smeared.

“Hold on, Chat. I’m losing my mind, here. Give me a second; I’m switching to handheld,” I went to my HDMI kit and switched over to a hand-held streaming camera, one that cost me a fortune but has already paid for itself through my walking blogs and my convention trips. It wasn't the first time I broke the fourth wall and let the world have a peek into my studio apartment. They were used to seeing my streaming set-up, with the wall of collectibles and conspicuous but beautiful RGB strip lighting everywhere. Normally, I change the color of the RGB lights depending on what I’m playing, but we all know that this stream is less about the game and more about the sexy costume, so the lights typically get set to soft whites and popping pinks. And I also know Chat enjoys the chance to see behind the scenes at the multiple halo lights hanging in key areas around the room, my make-up vanity by the mirror, and my open closet bursting at the seams with various costumes and clothing.

I inexpertly carted them around the room, dragging them over to the beautiful, old, second-hand mirror my mom bought me at an upstate flea market last month. It replaced the cheap vanity that I had when I was twelve, and I thought it would class-up the place just a little bit. I surrounded it with two soft white lights that could emulate the stream as best I could; the make-up was important for the stream. Lately I’d been seeing things in the mirror; things that I couldn’t explain. I wanted Chat’s input.

“Alright, Chat,” I pointed the camera at the mirror, “Help me out. Do you see anything weird on this?”

I had Chat pulled up on a tablet that I placed on the small desk I used as a vanity.

Wut R U playing at, PK?

You back on dem pillz, Pookz?

Is this a collab? You haven’t done a scary game in a while…

October wuz months ago, Peeka

“No, seriously, guys,” I sat in the chair and looked into the mirror. I was sure I wasn’t using my paycheck-earning smile, but I didn’t care at the moment, “Like, do my eyes really look like this?” The area around my eyes was stained with old make-up and tears. I opened the camera on my phone and looked at my image: make-up perfect in every way. “Something’s wrong with this mirror, guys. I’m seeing things.”

You look beautiful, Angel!

Where can I go to pay for better videos?

TAKE UR TOP OFF

Everything looks good on our end, Peeks

“Seriously? Are you guys gaslighting me? Like, I know what I’m seeing here. Somebody check JoeQ’s stream. He isn’t doing practical jokes again, is he? He told me he would get me at the last con.”

I think UR doing a practical joke!

He’s on a 24-hour charity stream right now.

WHERES THE STRIPPER POLE IN THURRRR

This sum sorta ARG ur doin?

I pulled my eyes and cheeks down, stretching the areas around my eyes, and that’s when I noticed something around my arm. On the inside of my arm, a few inches above my wrist and leading towards the inside of my elbow, a large cut ran straight up my arm and tendrils of blood leaked out from all sides. I started freaking out and rubbing my arm vigorously, but nothing was there. I stared at it intently, breathing hard, trying to make sense of what I was seeing in the mirror. Chat noticed.

U good, Pooks?

Hmmmmmm drugs r bad

What r u seeing?

Click HERE to see NOODS of Peekabu she doesn’t want you to see!

I looked into the mirror. On my neck was a line, straight and clean, going all the way around. Despite all the glowing lights in the room, my skin was a pale shade of blue, and it looked like I was wearing much darker, duller lipstick than I usually wear. In the mirror, the RGB lights had shifted to dark blues with white trim accents, my usual horror-game set-up. And, hanging in the back, was something swaying softly. A girl, dark-haired and wearing familiar pony pajamas, hanged limply from a noose attached to the exposed piping near the ceiling of the apartment. I gasped audibly, turned swiftly, and saw nothing.

What are we doing here?

I saw a bed there! We heading to the bed, Peeka?

Why haven’t you DM’d me back?

R U and JoeQ dating?

I stood, pointed the camera at the mirror, and yelled probably louder than I intended, “So you’re telling me that you guys don’t see anything weird in this mirror?!”

Just your beautiful self!

My shoulders slumped, defeated. I knew what I saw, what I was still seeing. I grabbed a fluffy pink furry blanket and threw it over the mirror, tucking it into the back. Out of sight, out of mind. I walked back and hit the switch on the stream deck returning me to my main 4K camera and my normal audio set-up.

“Sorry, guys, I’m back. Had to take a minute for my sanity, which is nowhere to be found. We’re gonna end the stream early, tonight, folks, because five-hour streams are taking a toll and your girl needs some sleep. I’m starting to see things. So thanks for hanging with me today. This your girl Peekabu saying I SEE YOOOOUUUUU… next time on the stream. Thanks for watching!”

As I signed off the stream, I held my plastic smile for a few beats longer than I needed to, then I sat back and took a deep breath. After everything had logged off and closed down, I stared at the lens of my camera; so much money I spent on it, and that lens has returned my profits many times over. I know it’s down, logged off, dead, but I see eyes on me all the time, and I can’t help that. I stood, put the caps on all the lenses, and unplugged the power source from the backs of each.

I closed the blinds, rechecked the cameras, and checked the room before I could feel comfortable enough to take this silly bunny costume off. As I started to unfasten the clips on my bunny ears, my eyes drifted to the covered mirror yet again. Even covered, I could feel the unease of the images from the mirror staring at me through the blanket. I could hear movement under the cover, cracking, slithering. It would be best for me to grab the mirror, tear it off the wall, throw it out the window to crash in the dark alley below.

Something compelled me.

I grabbed at the bottom of the blanket and pulled, inch by torturous inch, until I couldn’t wait any longer, and then I gave a harsh, final tug.

Nothing.

Just a mirror. And in that beautiful, classy mirror, an image of me. Standing here. In a ridiculous, slutty bunny outfit, just another set of eyes seeing me, showing me this ugly side of myself that I wish I could hide, but instead, I broadcast to hundreds of thousands of views.

I sat down, began removing my tired make-up, my fake freckles, my cute bunny nose, and the foundation hiding the worst, darkest bags I’ve hidden beneath my eyes in a very long time. I checked my wrists and neck. Clean. And as I removed this ridiculous, tiny top, my eyes wouldn’t stop looking in the mirror to the exposed pipes near the ceiling. I turned off the light and crawled into bed for what would surely be another restless attempt.

The next morning, I found myself at a local farmer’s market a few blocks down from my apartment. It sets-up here next to a community garden once a week and sells the most amazing produce. I almost exclusively get my fruits and vegetables from here; I have to work hard to stay skinny, because there are expectations for female streamers. So every day is a different salad and juice blend. I miss cheeseburgers.

I wore my fluffy Red Sox hoodie and a comfortable pair of yoga pants. It didn’t really matter to me that my tell-tale silvery-blue highlights in my otherwise dark chocolate hair peaked out from under my hoodie; I always try to stay as inconspicuous as I can, but I figured if they were close enough to see my highlights, they were probably too close anyways. I closely inspected a very interesting-looking dragon fruit, contemplating the likelihood that an exotic fruit could possibly be locally produced, when I heard a small, timid, gravelly voice in my ear over my left shoulder.

“Peeeeeeeekkaaaaaaaabuuuuuuuuu…”

I didn’t react immediately, though my body tensed in what I’m sure was a noticeable way. This wasn’t my first time being recognized in public, but every time it happened, I was equally disturbed. I’d imagine that it’s a much bigger concern for actual celebrities, but when you’re a niche micro internet celebrity, those encounters can be very specific, very targeted. Seldom were these experiences pleasurable and almost always the goal was to come out of it swiftly and with some semblance of grace.

I turned toward the sound slowly, big wolf grin, whispering, “I seeeeeee yooouuuuuu…” The man standing behind me beamed with joy; he shook and did a small dance of excitement, and he tried to go in for a hug. I gave him a polite hand on his chest, a smile, and a quick shake of my head, “Not yet, cowboy, I gotta get to know you before we start huggin’. What’s your name?”

“Brent, ma’am.” I laughed at “ma’am”. Clearly this man, though small in stature, was ten-plus years my senior. He stood eye-to-eye with me, and he was very thin. His hair was combed neatly, mostly to cover up its thinness and the fact that he maybe had two or three years left of it. He wore a graphic tee, some kind of Japanese manga design, with an open knit jacket-hoodie, unzipped despite the chill in the air. “I’ve been a subscriber of yours for three years now. I have four t-shirts and a hoodie from your merch store. I’m also on your Patreon. I catch almost every stream. I applied to be a moderator but I never heard back. I post a lot of your stream highlights online.”

It caught my eye that he didn’t have a basket or bag with him, “You in the market for suspicious dragon fruit today, Brent?”

“Oh, no, I don’t shop at these places. Too expensive.”

“So why are you here, Brent?”

“I thought I would find you here.”

I tensed. This time, I’m sure he noticed, “That’s a little creepy, Brent. Why would you think to find me here?”

“I don’t mean to be. You have a Celtics jersey that you wear on stream a lot. You did a vlog from a Bruins game. You mention the Sox all the time. And every now and then, a hint of accent slips out on stream. So I figured Boston was a safe bet.”

“Not bad, detective,” I tried smiling, though every instinct I had was to find a police officer or a quick exit, “but there are 650,000-plus people in this city, Brent. How’d you narrow me down to here?”

“You were on Stella’s podcast last month. You mentioned an apple salad recipe that you loved, and that you get all your produce from a local community garden farmer’s market near you. That narrowed it down quite a bit. Only a handful of those. So I went to each one I could find, and in no-time, here you are!” he beamed a smile, so proud of his ingenuity.

“Wow… they should give you a podcast,” I tried my best to hide my nervousness, my eyes beaming each way for a dignified exit.

“I’ve thought so many times. Anyways, now that I’ve finally found you, I’m gonna take the risk and just flat-out get to my point: can I take you to get a cup of coffee?”

I took an instinctive step backwards, “No, Brent, I’m sorry. I have a policy about going out with fans.”

“I don’t have to be a fan. I could be a friend. All it takes is a cup of coffee and some good conversation.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I appreciate you being a fan. I appreciate all my fans,” I kept walking backwards until I bumped into a lady scrutinizing pomegranates, “But I can’t have coffee with all of them. Come find me at a meet-and-greet at a con and I’d love to get a picture, sign some of that merch, whatever.”

He reached out and grabbed my wrist to hold me into place. My eyes shot wide, a mix of terror and exasperated rage. He gritted his teeth and stepped close enough to whisper, almost a furtive snarl, “Listen, Peeks, I followed the clues. I did my homework. I made the effort. I’ve been a loyal fan since you were playing battle royale games in your daddy’s suburban garage. Give me my prize; have a cup of coffee with me. I’ll even buy your dumbass fruit for you.”

“Don’t touch me!” I screamed and pulled away from him. I pulled so hard that I fell backwards, tripping over the pomegranate lady, twisting and falling. I tried to brace my fall against the side of one of the fruit box displays, and instead, I scraped the inside of my arm against it on my way crashing to the ground. I grabbed my arm in pain, and when I looked back up, Brent was nowhere to be found. I looked down and saw only blood; where I had scraped my arm was a straight line slice from the inside of my elbow down to only a few inches above my wrist. Tendrils of blood leaked out from all sides.

The dragon fruit farmer may have been the nicest guy I’ve met in weeks. He comped all my fruit and he walked me the three blocks with my arm wrapped to the nearest emergency room. He offered to stay with me in the waiting room, but I told him he had exotic fruit to sell, and he laughed and stuck to the story that he grows them in his own garden. Four hours later, I left with a number of stitches, a wickedly bandaged arm, what would surely be a tremendous medical bill, and a near-certainty that I would spend the evening looking at girly sleeve tattoo designs.

I got home, napped the afternoon away, and woke up in time to miss the sun completely. I had gotten no exercise today, so as much as I yearned for that frozen pizza in my freezer, it had to be salad. I ungratefully ate a cobb salad while I caught up on JoeQ’s and PastaPanda’s streams. I slid my bowl and fork in the sink and went to start the set-up for my own stream. God, I didn’t want to stream today. Some days, you could fake it. Others? This was not one of those days, but momma has to pay the bills.

I turned on my RGB lighting. It was switched onto my horror setting, the dark-blue with the white trim. I tried switching it to my other presets, but nothing would shift. Stuck. Great. Just another point in a day that wouldn’t end. Screw it; horror-themed it is. I went to my closet and peered in. I was tired of being slutty, at least for today. It was everything I could do to even be seen, now, what with the creepy stalker and the throbbing arm. Plus, with the white bandaged arm, the only scandalous thing I could wear would be my sexy nurse clothes with the blood splattered all over it. I just couldn’t bring myself to hang my integrity at the door today. Changed gears. Looked for the most comfortable thing I owned. I reached in my dresser and found an old, oversized, fluffy pink set of unicorn pajamas my mom bought me but I never wore because they were too juvenile, even for me. Perfect.

I sat down and looked in the mirror. Everything was normal-ish. I touched up my make-up, but I knew what kind of stream this was going to be, so all I wanted was a natural “I’m Depressed” look. Natural foundation, heavy eye make-up, simple matte lip gloss. My eyes kept darting back to the exposed piping in the back, and occasionally I thought I caught a glimpse of something swaying softly in the background, but it was always gone when my eyes changed focus. I checked my neck for marks and found it clean, but my eyes went to my bandaged arm, and I felt a lump in my throat and a weight in my stomach.

I turned on the halo lights, booted up my audio set-up and turned on my various cameras. Started a test stream to check the lighting and the audio, and everything was normal. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and clicked onto my actual stream. It wasn’t long before several hundred were in the chat, and Chat was buzzing.

No costumes today?

Uh-oh. Bitch stream loading.

Did Liam dump you? I’ve been shipping you two for a minute!

Are we doing a dating simulator today?

“Peeeeekkkkkaaaabuuuu, I seee yoouuuuuuu! Welcome to the stream, guys! I’m sorry to say, no games tonight. No costumes. Stream will be cut early today. Today… well, it just sucked, guys. Like, really sucked. I love you guys, I do, and when I run into you in public, it warms my heart to see how much you love me and how loyal you are to the stream. But guys, personal space is personal space! I had a fan… I’m guessing he was a fan; I couldn’t imagine what he’d be like as a critic… anyways, he straight-up attacked me in public. He tried to ask me out, he wouldn’t take a hint, and when I tried to walk away, he grabbed me and…,” I pulled up the sleeve on my pajama shirt and showed the bandages to the camera, “So today, we’re gonna talk about the etiquette behind seeing me in public or at cons, okay Chat?”

Tell us all about him! We’ll posse-up tonight and start the crusade!

Why isn’t this guy in jail right now?

Are those really the pajamas you wear at night?

This is why I get everything delivered. Hate leaving the house.

Who is that guy in the back of the room behind you?

I turned quickly and the feed cut on my stream. Brent was there, in my room, his finger coming off the button to my rig’s power bar. He stood, somehow taller, and I stood, legs wobbly and heart racing. “I’m very upset with you, Peekabu. Your real name is Paige. Can I call you Paige?”

“Brent,” I backed one step into my monitor, trapped, “what are you doing? How do you know where I live?”

“Not hard. Boston. Check. Then you’ve done a few streams from your balcony over there. Very funny stuff. So I was able to get a look at the building color and architecture. You did that series where you vlogged walking your dog around the street, and you mentioned a park across the street where you’d take him. I’m sorry you had to put him down last week; I know how much Harry meant to you. And one stream you videoed a guy, drunk, trying to get off the ground. You went handheld, you zoomed in to the bar on the corner from your balcony, and you cackled for, like, five whole minutes watching this guy try to stand up while the cops just stood and waited,” Brent smiled and laughed at the memory, “So, anyways, I could see the cross section of the street you zoomed in on. With all that, the park, the building. It wasn’t hard. I could even see how weak the lock on your balcony was from the stream, so I knew the best way to get inside. Get to the roof, drop down to your balcony. Easy. I’ve been here for a few hours now. I enjoyed watching an artist prepare for her art. The set-up. The make-up. The dressing.”

Clearly I was crying now, terrified. It was everything I could do to give voice to my thoughts, “What do you want with me?”

“Want? I don’t know. I’m just angry now. I have worked so hard for you. I’ve supported you, I’ve been loyal to you, I’ve donated so much money to you. I feel like half this apartment should belong to me. Then I searched for you, found the clues, made the deductions. Now I’ve found you. And all I wanted was a chance. A coffee. I mean, you see how smart I am, how good I am at what I do. Now let me show how nice I can be. How great a boyfriend I can be. Husband-material, you know. But you have to give me a chance.”

For a moment, the terror had washed away, and there was only the anger. I could now say what I felt, “What makes you think you deserve this, Brent?”

“I’ve done the work. You owe me a chance.”

I’m not some girl you know, Brent. I’m a streamer; I entertain. That’s the end of that connection between me and you.”

“Only if you want it to be. There is a connection. I feel it.”

“No. You’re wrong. When that stream ends, that’s it, buddy. I appreciate your viewership, your loyalty, even your donations, but I don’t owe you anything.”

“Yes you do,” he unwrapped and rewrapped a thick black cord, a rope, maybe, around his hands, tighter and tighter each time, increasing his frustration.

“Did you know I have several thousand subscribers, Brent? Do I owe them all a date? I’ve accounted for several hundreds of thousands of viewing hours in my time streaming. What do I owe those viewers?”

He was silent. I could see the blood pooling in his fingertips as he continued wrapping the black cord around his hands.

“So what are you here for, Brent? You here to yell at me because I’m one in a long line of women who don’t want to date your creepy ass?”

He was silent still. I thought that maybe my boldness, my directness, may have deescalated the situation. I was wrong. “I’m not here to yell at you,” he stoically whispered, “I’m here to punish you.”

He grabbed for me, and I shifted my weight and swerved around him as he banged his knee on my table equipment. I thought I had cleared a path, but he swung his body around and caught me clean on the jaw. The world spun, and the lights dimmed down and up as I tried desperately to shake the cobwebs out of my head. I started to run, but something gripped my hair and pulled, wrenching my neck back. I kicked my leg back and struck something, hard, and his grip on my hair released. I ran. I knew I wouldn’t outrace him to the door fast enough to unlock all the locks and escape. But I knew there was a pair of professional scissors on my vanity near my make-up, so if he did catch me, he’d have a surprise waiting for him.

I ran, slammed both hands on the vanity in front of me, and looked desperately for the scissors. I don’t use them often, but I got used to trimming wigs, clothes, even my own hair when I caught split ends. I could hear him recovering behind me, whispering swear words under his breath. Footsteps. Finally, under a color-palette of eye shadow, the handle of the scissors shined and I gripped them in my hand like a knife. I looked up and into the mirror and, to my horror, I saw it. Hanging in the back. Swaying gently, a dark-haired girl limply hanged under exposed piping. A dark-haired girl in unicorn pajamas with silvery-blue streaks in her hair. Suddenly, the girl’s arm raised and reached to the mirror, an arm with a distinctive bandage wrapped around the forearm. I saw it, inhaled deeply, and I reached my own hand to touch the silvery glass.

And just as suddenly, a black cord wrapped around my throat, pulled tightly, and took every bit of air I had with it. Soon there was nothing.

The view from inside the mirror was dark, the only light coming through the looking glass itself, a window into what was happening in my room. Brent hoisted my body up, hanging it from the exposed piping near the ceiling. He turned the power on to my equipment, booted up the computer, the cameras, the lighting, the audio. He adjusted the lenses just right. He ran the test, then when everything was perfect, he started the stream. Viewers began pouring in, eyes to see what Peekabu was up to now. What they saw confused them. Just a room, a shifted perspective than the normal set-up, darkly lit with dark blues and white trim. Hanging in the back, a dark-haired girl in unicorn pajamas swayed softly from the exposed piping. Chat noticed.

Is Pooks doing her own horror stuff now?

Somebody check if JoeQ and Liam have alibis 🙂

Click HERE for NOODS of Peekabu at this year’s L.A. Streamcon!

I knew this was some kind of ARG.

U gud, Peeks?