By Sophie Crocker
A few months ago I had to go into witness protection. I had a small role in mob activity – really small. I was, like, the tall macchiato in a crime ring of venti lattes… an orange slice in a mafia bento box… the bookkeeper for a company perpetrating a series of international Ponzi schemes… whatever you want to call it. But after one night of casual drug abuse I ended up in police custody, told a few stories, and soon I had a fake passport, fake name and was on my way to a tiny city in Northern Canada. I can’t say what boss I was working for or what my old name was. I can’t reveal any details about my old life. But I wish I could.
To go into witness protection, I had to delete all my old social media. I still don’t have a Facebook or a Twitter for my new persona – but I did make a new Instagram. I’ve begrudgingly had to set it to Private, which is no way to gain followers… but that at least gives me enough peace of mind that I only stay up in a cold sweat hoping they don’t find me for three hours a night, instead of four or five.
It gets worse, though. I’d studded my old Instagram with colourful photos of me surrounded by cool people: my squad saucily eating ice cream and winking at the camera; a blurry picture of me and my best friend laughing at something out of view in an A&W parking lot at 3AM. Now I can’t even follow my friends, let alone post enigmatic, cryptically captioned pictures with them. If I posted them, my friends might find horse heads in their beds or dead cats on their doorsteps. Besides, I don’t live in the same city as them anymore. I’m alone and terrified to meet new people.
Another Instagram loss I’ve taken: I can’t post pictures of myself anymore. Since witness protection, I can’t have any recognizable online presence. No candids, no reposted Snapchat screenshots, and definitely no selfies. The Boss could find my Instagram, follow with a fake account, and send his own followers – a much more sinister type of follower – to find me.
Two nights ago a semi-platonic (it’s complicated, okay? I’d post about it on my Finsta if I could still have one) friend of mine (his name is Aaron and yes, he’s cute) took a tasteful but risque photo of me. In this picture, I’m sitting on rumpled bedcovers smirking down at my off-the-shoulder shirt sleeve. My bare legs (my caption would mention that yes, I’m totally wearing shorts) dangle off the end of the bed. It’s such an adorable picture. It shows a vulnerability I’ve been scared to reveal since my last relationship (and since the mob began their slow, sure hunt for me). I’d probably get over 200 likes and at least 15 comments if I posted it. But I can’t, or I’ll blow my cover.
Maybe I should get plastic surgery to make my face completely unrecognizable. Maybe then I would feel safe. Maybe then I wouldn’t sleep with triple-locked doors and a gun under my pillow. Maybe then I could, in secret, speak to my mother and father again without fearing for their lives. Also, best possible excuse for a nose job.
But I can’t (this town doesn’t even have a Whole Foods, there’s no way they have decent rhinoplasty) and I won’t (with my assets frozen I can barely afford a decent scone right now). Besides, I can always go back to Tumblr.
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