Page 23 of Make Me Scream

I wait five minutes in silence, then head for the subway and make my way home.

Aside from almost getting assaulted, that went really well. Regardless of how the footage looks, I got a reaction out of a lot of people and didn’t get arrested. That’s a win. More importantly, whether or not anyone appreciates what I did, it was fun. It felt like something I was supposed to do.

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I don’t even bother showering or changing when I arrive. Joel’s already downloaded the video; I hug him, then start editing. Joel picks us up a pizza for dinner and is the first to find photos of me on Twitter. I nearly scream when I see the hashtag: #SheRemembers

Hundreds of New Yorkers have posted pictures. As far as the Internet goes, it’s nothing — barely a surface ripple. However, that’s just the beginning.

By midnight, I have a completed piece. Joel and Martin don’t say much after seeing it.

“What, you don’t like it?” I ask, confused. As far as I’m concerned, Joel did an amazing job filming me. The audio came through perfectly. I think I did okay editing, for a beginner.

“I’m just not sure I really understand it,” Martin says. “Like, are you expecting these men to confess to something?”

“Maybe? They’re supposed to know that we haven’t forgotten the things they’ve done. Whatever that means to them.”

“I guess. I’m just not sure it’ll come off that way.”

Martin could be right about that, but it’s for the public to decide. Alistair never told anyone what to think of his art — he let it speak for itself. I opt to do the same, and post the footage online with dozens of fake accounts I’ve created across Twitter, Instagram and TikTok. I include a spree of hashtags in each one, every variation I can think up for #SheRemembers.

Then I let the Internet do the rest.

I try to sleep that night, but I’m too wired, wondering what I’ll do next.

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The video builds steam on Tuesday, gaining dozens of views in the early hours, then hundreds of views around lunchtime. By the end of the working day, thousands have watched. Joel and I even see people showing it to their friends and coworkers at Cafe Vitolo.

Most importantly, it’s all over my feeds — people I know and follow have engaged with it through reposts, comments and likes. I can’t tell how far outside of the New York City art scene it’s spread, but the people who I care about most have seen it or will soon.

Wednesday morning brings an e-mail that I should stop by Professor Mundell’s office during afternoon office hours to pick up my portfolio. To kill time until then, I help fulfill my arrangement with Joel and pose for a painting.

Standing still for hours, my mind wanders. Usually I dive into plans for my graphic novels: plots, characters and especially the illustrations. I imagine specific scenes and how each panel will look, and as soon as we’re done I rush to sketch them out. It’s a huge benefit to my process. Today, however, it kills me not to be scrolling social media. I could spend all day reading comments — even the negative ones.

Is this supposed to be art?one user asked.

She looks like a Walking Dead extra got drunk and wandered off the set.

You think she remembers what it’s like to have a job?

Everyone’s a critic, I guess. At least some people appreciate what I was trying to do.

This was a haunting reminder of how many people suffer in silence, one wrote. I hope this artist keeps going.

Another said,I can think of a few men who ought to hear that #SheRemembers…

Who is this? Does anyone know where to follow her?

Damn.

I need a pseudonym. Alistair Rat had the benefit of producing physical artwork at the start of his career; he could sign it. Reading through the posts turns up several crowd-sourced ideas, some better than others. The Bloody Bride isn’t bad. Ghost of Girlfriends Past makes me laugh. I might call the performance that, but it won’t be my name.

Figuring that out, as well as what my next piece will be, weighs on my mind over the next few days. Between working at the cafe and posing for Joel’s paintings, I have plenty of time to brainstorm, but my thoughts turn to Lane Porter and his upcoming art show.

I feel a little selfish, but I can’t help wanting to know if he saw my video, and if so what he’ll say about it. This is his show, and maybe I’ll like it, but in all honesty it’s not the reason I’m going.

When Friday rolls around, I pick out the same sea-green dress I wore to the Rat exhibit — it’s the nicest one I own, and it should help Porter recognize me.

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