Memories flash sharp and bright in your mind. Stacey was a blogger, compared to huge hits like Zoella.
She had come crying home and you had been so over-protective that you’d instantly thought she was hurt or upset. It turns out that they were tears of joy. Of course anyone being compared to such huge blogging successors like Zoella will surely cry.
You had sat there with her as she had whipped out her phone and got up the magazine article to show you. ‘New, Stylish Stacey Newan Takes Blogging Crown’. The feeling of your heart swelling with pride is something you can’t forget. Reading through the article it seems to keep talking about beating other bloggers, having a fresh and hip vibe, with good learning lessons for kids.
That night you went out and got her favourite dinner, burritos with extra cheese, and you sat watching America’s Next Top Model for three hours straight. For once you didn’t get mixed up between all the people. Usually they all seemed to have blonde hair, blue eyes, too big chests and too small stomachs. How were you supposed to tell the difference?
Desperately, you try to shake off the memories. You know what one is coming next. But despite your efforts, you can still remember it and your mind begins to project it as if it were a mini film.
Lights. Bright, flashing. Cameras. Blinking white flashes. Fans. Screaming, waving. You. Amongst the crowd, tall, waving proudly. Stacey. Strutting down the carpet, tight dress on, smiling for pictures. Red. The red of the carpet, of her dress. Soon to be the red of her blood.
Then the night starts to form. All the awards, Stacey having to run up onto the stage and try not to cry as she collects her third trophy. Her coming back to sit beside you, smiling and the scent of her mango perfume washing over you. Placing the trophy in your lap, smiling even more and waving at the camera. You smiling too, stretched and thin, but still a smile.
After that it is the after party. Somehow you received an invitation, probably because of your relation with Stacey, and almost immediately you bee-line for the alcohol table. Just one beer and perhaps a shot of tequila, but that will be all.
First off it is simply a stream of people coming in, the scowls of losers and grins of winners, fake congratulations and real hugs of joy. All sorts of bloggers and Youtubers streaming through the door, dressed in dresses or suits.
The night drags on. You have more than one beer, perhaps three or four, and far too many shots. When Stacey comes staggering over, you discover you are both drunk. You resolve to drive despite her urgent protests.
Together, you climb into the small Convertible after goodbyes and final congratulations. Slotting the key in, something tells you to stop.
Then it all goes wrong.