The Shadow Behind My Shoulder

Some call it destiny; others say that history is forgotten and changes over time. A few seek more, give more, lose more, and steal each other's shadows in a loving handhold.

My annotations on this booklet are black as its covers. They are not a confession even though I am willing to take that risk. I feel no guilt at all, nor shame whatsoever. They've given me this booklet to vent out and to help me remember how things happened; guards and the shrink here say I am a better person when I write. Well, for once, I am out of this cell and back in Aruba. I do not write to be a better person; why should I?

They ask me how it all started, what they really want to know is where I got my guts, because they live in fear, for they got none left in them. The same system that keeps them alive has sucked their spirit out and sheathed them in those unfitting uniforms. They got no credit of their own, and the worst one by far is that shaggy shrink. He is such an arrogant pig! How can he not know he is a fictional character too?

I was young and drowning in a rippling identity crisis. I desperately wanted to fit in that middle-class village school, but I was too weird for them; they couldn't get it. I was pretty, or at least not ugly, but mostly quiet and shy like a scared dog. The more I kept trying to belong there, the more I realized how wrong it all was. As the years went by, I kept on growing prettier. I had hair as dark as crow's feathers with eyes as grey as my mother's drunkenness. My shyness I cured with some of the cheapest spirits she had buried in the cellar and long forgotten.

I started a degree, but I knew I wasn't the academic type, and those professors bored me to death. One day, one of my classmates invited me to create a social network profile called "TrueMe". I still remember her message, "this is going to ruin your school year; you won't be able to stay off it, LOL!". At first, I thought "TrueMe" was a total waste of time. I'd spend hours looking at photoshopped pictures of people eating their dinner in swimwear. But what became clear to me is that "TrueMe" was as much a figment of someone's dull imagination as it was a tool for making money. And because of that, I started posting on "TrueMe", and as more people liked my content, cash flowed into my account and I gave up my degree and focused on becoming an influencer with an enviable lifestyle.

Soon, I was posting more than any other person I knew, and because I was aware of what people liked and fed them right, my popularity grew exponentially. I went from being a lonely weirdo to the best-known girl in town, and it was all thanks to social media, red lipstick, my tighs in hot pants and tons of off-scene curational work. Made more money than I needed, so to speak, then moved to Aruba and rented a Spanish Villa by the sea. But after a couple of years of killing it on the web, my followers started moving to other influencers. There was nothing I could do to avoid their flight. It appeared as though I had exhausted that photogenic self of mine, and people no longer gave a damn about my hair, my legs or my eyelashes. I had reached the summit, and I was now falling like a shot bird. I knew the time had come for me to find something new and compelling to recapture my audience's attention, else I would be gone for good. I bought a ticket back to Toronto, and this is how the story goes:

One evening, I boarded the bus and stopped near Toronto's city centre. I walked past various streets looking for beggars. It did not take much effort; I walked towards a homeless shelter, and there they were, smoking at the front gates. I continued towards Queen and Spadina when I noticed a young man on the other side of the road; he was begging for money at the doors of a well-known coffee shop. I entered the coffee shop and ordered a cappuccino and a breakfast sandwich, and walked out. The young man asked me for some cash, but instead, I handed him my breakfast. He was hungry and snatched it fast as a wolf. I saw him going behind a petrol station, and I followed him.

I asked him if I could take a picture of him. He lifted his head slowly, and his glance alone pierced me in two; his eyes were green emeralds burning with what I recognized as acute fury, but he accepted. I took that first image of him, angry and starving. I uploaded it, and the response was immediate. Five minutes later, I had over three hundred thousand likes and comments such as " Feeling generous today ? " and "wow, he is hot. He should be a model". I took more pictures of him that day in exchange for a pack of cigarettes and wrote a few heartfelt captions to go with them. The web's response was mindblowing; it had never occurred to me that channelling Mother Theresa would be that lucrative.

A week later, I went back to Queen and Spadina, and the same beggar was there. He seemed to operate in that area. I approached him using the same breakfast technique; this time around, he was not that suspicious.

"Do you want a take a pic of me? " as he stroke a pose.

"I'll be your model if you take me to Starbucks for lunch," he added with a broad smile. That was the reason I got back to Toronto.

"I got something better for you. Come to my place ". I suggested.

We got to the suburbs and walked the next few miles to my mother's house. I asked him to come in; there was an extra room in the garage, and my mother was too drank to notice anyone home, so it was safe. I asked him to shower, which he refused at first. I then offered him ten dollars if he did. I also handed him clean clothes that belonged to my ex-boyfriend.

"You look like a different person."

"You mean, I look like one." He responded ironically.

I uploaded all that, and more likes started to inundated my accounts. Everyone bought into the story of the beggar turned into an influencer's muse. Turning him into my model was one thing, but now our audiences wanted to see romance too. To me, that was part of the deal I had made with my " TrueMe" persona, so I went all in. In no time we were widely known on "TrueMe" and quite frankly in many other places too. The magazine " NetAddict" wrote a few articles about us and we had contracts with various fashion companies. After all, who could be more authentic than a handsome beggar and his already famous patron? Our posts were widely viewed, commented upon, liked by the millions and I was ecstatic to be back on my throne and with the wind behind our back we were sailing the Caribean seas. Now that I was beautiful, rich and charitable, my fans loved me even more.

But he started getting sick of all that fame and hated being recognized as " the hot beggar" at every coffee shop and restaurant. So, he said he wanted to go back to his place; he said he prefered his freedom to all the riches in the world. That news travelled as thunder through my spine. I could not afford to lose him now. So, I had to come up with another plan to make him stay a bit longer. This time around, I offered him 20.000 dollars if he were to stay with me for a few months while I upload as much content as I liked. He didn't hesitate a single bit; for all I know, he had a winning ticket, a place to live, food and all the commodities the streets had denied him for so long.

To me, he no longer was a beggar who strode for a dollar; he was more like my million dollar muse. And he was mine. I made thousands the day I posted us kissing. I had more followers than Lady Gaga by then. Not bad. After a while, though, my million dollar muse had begun annoying me with his cheap street philosophy.

"Why are you doing this? What's your purpose?" he would constantly spit that same question at me.

"I do it for the money and the power too. I am not a loser like you. In this life, you got to show your worth every day, like an Instagram update or a twit, or a new post. Don't you get that I want to be rich, buy myself a Porche and a huge Mansion in Aruba, live like the queen I am? Is that so hard to see, you street smart ass?."

"How can so much fakeness make you happy? You ain't no queen. You are a self-made heiress to no one who thinks of herself better than others. Your world is like candy, sweet and alluring to the infantile minds out there, but it melts down just as fast "

"My world might be candy, but you live off it. So be quiet before I cut you off."

Arguments became more frequent until I decided I had enough of him. What was the use of his New Age crap about spiritual freedom and Mindfulness? What could he teach me anyway? The only thing that had given us freedom was the money I was making with my " new age" crap. All that time I had spent thinking of what could be appealing to ever-growing audiences of fans and what they wanted to be served. I had put all my skill into the skillet and squeezed in the juices of my brain for a tastier experience. My crap was as real as the fact that being someone else on " TrueMe" only made my bank account larger and larger. And here he was, this street ass, telling me all that was fake, worth a candy? That I should care for a world that only wants to see fakeness? Why should I care for a world that had never cared about me? For a world that did not want people to be real. Why should I shun fakeness, publicity and fame when those were the only thing that mattered? So, I cut him off, sent him away, and of the 20.000 dollars promise, all he saw was a note saying, "Get lost".

Of course, he didn't like that; he threatened to sue me and take me to court for stealing his privacy and using his unauthorized images. I could not deal with that. I had turned that poor bastard into a worldwide celebrity, and that was all he was giving me in return? He gave me no choice; I had to do it. After all, his profile, all his pictures and multiple videos I recorded, the life that I created for him is all mine. For all that I know, he is still mine. Though now, he is a little more like a shadow behind my shoulders. I feel him, as I write.