Page 21 of Make Me Scream

I spend most of Saturday making my outfit while Joel and Martin spend some time together. Apparently Martin did not love my idea, as expected, but he always encourages others to chase their dreams, so he gives Joel his blessing to help me out. He even lends us his Bluetooth microphone and helps us program it. I thank them with a sumptuous chicken fettuccine Alfredo dinner made from scratch, then Joel and I go over the plan over and over. We discuss what we’ll do if things go wrong, and where we’ll rendezvous if we get separated. By the end of the night, we’ve got it down from top to bottom.

On Sunday, I watch YouTube tutorials on video editing and practice on old recordings until I’m confident I can do a decent job. It doesn’t have to be Oscar-worthy: just good enough for the Internet. At the same time, a little technical learning serves as a good distraction for my nerves. By the end of the day, I feel ready.

In the early afternoon on Monday I emerge from the subway in Union Square wearing a thrift store wedding dress split in several places and splattered with fake blood. I’ve darkened my face, especially under my eyes, to simulate bruises. I haven’t seen myself in a mirror, but the looks I got on the R after taking off my poncho told me I’d achieved the look I sought.

At first I simply stand still, letting the flow of foot traffic wash around me. New Yorkers have seen everything; there’s plenty of space in the square for people to slip past, so most of them pay no attention to me. A few tourists stop and stare; some take pictures.

I don’t consider myself an actress, but I’ve imagined doing this performance so many times. I’ve had the dress for years, and I’ve rehearsed. I’m as ready as one can possibly be.

At the start, my biggest concern is the police. This whole show could be over very quickly if any approach and ask me to leave. A few eyeball me, but as long as I don’t cause a disturbance, they keep their distance.

When I catch sight of Joel taking a seat on a nearby bench, I whisper, “Can you hear me?”

Martin’s microphone, now sewn into my dress, has a short range. Joel has to stay somewhat close, or this won’t work. Thankfully, he flashes a quick thumbs-up, his phone charged and ready to record, so I begin.

I start turning toward men in suits, staring them down as they go by. Most ignore me, some laugh. A few walk faster.

When one gets so close he nearly brushes my shoulder, I say to him, “She remembers.”

“Excuse me?” he asks, turning around.

“She remembers,” I repeat.

The man shakes his head.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he mutters, then keeps going.

His reaction isn’t unexpected. There will be many who won’t have any clue what that’s supposed to mean. I get three more like him before my first success.

“She remembers,” I tell an old man walking at the pace of someone half his age. His black briefcase matches his suit, and he wears his hair slicked back.

He freezes in place, then eyes me up and down.

“What did you just say to me?”

“She… remembers.”

He grunts a laugh, his upper lip rising in a sneer.

“No shit, she remembers. I told her what would happen if she didn’t shut up.”

Fucking hell.

Is he making a sick joke, or is he serious?

As much as I’d like to find out for sure, I hold back, glaring at him until he grunts and leaves.

For more than an hour, I continue the act.

“She remembers,” I tell dozens of men. Several get angry.

“Do you want to remember, too?” a middle-aged man says, balling his fist. “You should mind your own business.”

There it is, the cue to up the ante: a threat.

“She remembers!” I growl, loudly enough for passersby to take notice. I hold my ground, chasing away all thoughts of running.

Alistair Rat wouldn’t run.

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