Something Real

Cassandra woke up to find a man watching her from the end of her bed.

After a quick mental review, to make sure she had not hired a new butler or manservant of late, she permitted herself a brief moment of panic. She considered screaming, but quickly ruled it out as counterproductive. Either he had already disposed of all local means of assistance, or he hadn’t needed to since no-one was here. Either way, she was on her own.

“Good morning, “ said the intruder, in a gruff baritone. “I was beginning to think you would never wake.”

“Well,” said Cassandra. “One does need one’s beauty sleep.”

“Does one?” responded the intruder raising an eyebrow wryly, and Cassandra realised that she had been foolish to even consider that he might be one of her household staff. She had a strict dress code for the staff, and it involved neither balaclava, turtleneck nor guns. The all black look was a bit of a faux pas too, she would never have allowed any of her staff to arrive to work without at least a splash of colour. On account of the gun, Cassandra decided to let it pass just this one time.

“So,” said Cassandra, raising herself artfully on her pillow, so that her hair fell just right, and the light hit her just so. “What do you want from me? Money? Jewels?”

The intruder sighed, and laid his gun across his lap. “Is that what you think this is all about? Money?”

Cassandra pursed her lips in confusion. “Well, of course. Isn’t everything?”

The intruder said nothing.

“Well then, what is it about?”

“Likes,” said the intruder.

Cassandra paused. “Oh,” she said. “Are you a fan?”

At that, the man stood up and began pacing the room. His gun, which he now held in one hand, he began slamming repeatedly into the other palm, slapping out a staccato rhythm.

“No,” he said, to the punctuation of his weapon, “I am not a fan. Not a fan at all. In fact, you could say I’m an anti-fan.”

“Look,” said Cassandra, “could you take off the balaclava. It’s very distracting.”

The intruder whirled on her. “It’s meant to be distracting. I’m being a terrorist. Why are you not being terrored?”

“Oh,” said Cassandra. I’m terribly sorry. “She shifted herself on her pillows until she was in more of a supplicating position, widened her eyes, and put on her best expression of pure fear.

The intruder glanced at her and let out a grunt of both anger and disappointment.

Cassandra felt let down. “Look, I’m doing my best,” she protested. “It’s very hard when I have to do this all without a filter.”

“Oh for gods…” Suddenly, the terrorist whirled round and pointed the gun directly at Cassandra. Her hand flew to her throat and her eyes widened with genuine emotion.

“There,” said the terrorist triumphantly, still sighting down the barrel. “I knew it. There is something real in there.”

“If you shoot me,” croaked Cassandra, “I’ll have you know I have ten thousand followers who will hunt you down and make your life very difficult.”

“Well, there’s the crux of it, isn’t it,” said the man. He grunted, then lowered the gun. Cassandra felt inordinately relieved.

“What do you mean?” she asked, as the blood returned to her extremities.

“I mean that having followers is all that matters to you, isn’t it. You post your pictures on Instagram.

You pose with beautiful people, in beautiful locations, which you’ve travelled to on free tickets, using free luggage and drinking free cocktails. All because you know how to look good in a selfie and like the right people.”

“Oh,” said Cassandra. She hesitated for a moment, looking at the gun in the man’s hands. “So you’ve seen my blog then?”

The man threw his hands to heaven, the gun barrel making a disconcertingly random tour of targets, and let out a dissatisfied cry.

“Seen it? Of course I’ve seen it. Everyone on the planet has seen your blog. You and all of your cronies, liking each other’s sites and promoting each other’s pointless products. While the rest of us just sit on the outside, watching your amazing lifestyle and not knowing how to break in.”

“I see,” said Cassandra. “So you thought you’d break in?”

The man looked confused. Then he caught Cassandra’s pointed expression.

“Oh, yes. Well, I see what you mean. But I had to come see you somehow.”

“And what do you want? You said you didn’t want money.”

“I told you,” said the intruder. “Likes. I want likes. Specifically, I want you to tell your fans to like me.”

Cassandra thought about this for a second. Then, she threw back the covers, leapt out of bed and stalked angrily towards the intruder, gun or no gun.

“Is this what this is all about?” she yelled. “All of this? Breaking in? Just to be another wannabe.”

She sounded almost disappointed.

The intruder backed up.

“I’m… sorry?” he said.

“You should be.” Cassandra was inches away from the intruder now. She held a daintily manicured finger up to he balaclava enshrined head. “You go to all this trouble? You break into my house. And do you know what I thought? I thought, for once, this was something real. Someone real. But you’re not, are you? You’re just another follower. No opinions of your own except what you’ve read online.”

“I’ve got a gun, you know,” pointed out the intruder. Cassandra ignored him.

“You know that none of it matters, don’t you? The fame, the likes. It’s not real, and it doesn’t last. What has being famous ever done for me?”

“You live in a mansion?” pointed out the intruder.

“Oh, mansion,” scoffed Cassandra. “That’s just a big house. Did you see how many rooms I have?”

She paused, and it took a moment for the intruder to realise she was expecting a response. He nodded.

“Good,” said Cassandra. “And did you notice how many people are using them?”

The intruder nodded again, then realised this wasn’t enough. “Um, one?” he said.

Cassandra smiled and patted him on the arm like a good boy.

“Exactly right. Here I am, with a million followers online, and I spend my time on my own, surrounded by beautiful things, working out how to take the perfect selfie without anyone to hold the camera for me. I have a million friends, and none of them are real. Even you’re here because of who you think I am. You know what, sometimes I just wish I could give everything up.”

She paused. Then she looked shrewdly at the intruder.

“What?” he said.

Cassandra smiled. “You want to be famous?” she asked, thoughtfully. The intruder paused, then nodded.

“And I want to experience something that isn’t through a camera lens.”

Cassandra stood back, looked the intruder up and down.

“Right,” she said. “I want you to kidnap me.”

The intruder half coughed, half choked.

“You want me to do what?”

“Kidnap me. Me giving you a promo on my blog – that’ll get you maybe half a day of attention. But kidnap the famous Cassandra White – you’ll be famous for the rest of your life.”

“I’m a terrorist, not a kidnapper,” protested the intruder. “Those are two very different skill sets. Where would I even take you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Cassandra. “Do I have to think of everything. Just stick a pin in a map and we can go there. As long as we make a post every now and then showing me tied up in some grotty basement, we can keep the views and retreats coming in. Meanwhile, I get to do something in the real world, that’s driven by what I want to do, rather than what I think my viewers would like.”

“You want to be tied up in a grotty basement?” asked the intruder.

“Don’t be silly. We don’t need it to be that real. That we can fake. The rest of it – well, we’ll be free to do what we want.”

The intruder thought it over.

“And I get to be famous,” he said eventually.

Cassandra nodded. “More than famous. Infamous.”

“Is that better,” asked the intruder.

“Oh, yes,” said Cassandra. “Much better. It’s got an in at the beginning.”

“Right,” said the intruder. “Okay, then.”

Cassandra smiled widely.

“Okay, then,” she agreed. “Come with me. We’ve got some packing to do.”

She whirled around a swept out of the room, leaving a bemused and slightly uncertain man in black trousers, a black turtleneck and a balaclava. He waited to see if she was coming back. When she didn’t, he gently laid his semi-automatic rifle down and headed off to find her.

“Come on.” Cassandra’s voice echoed through the empty hallways. “Let’s get going. No more faking it. I want to get started on reality as soon as possible.”

In the empty room, the gun lay discarded on plush white carpet. For a cheap, plastic toy, it looked incredibly real.