Shame on You: The addictive psychological thriller that will make you question everything you read online

by Amy Heydenrych

  Holly’s not so sure. Her whole life has been driven by an impulse to edit the truth, only showing the things that are palatable. This stiff circle of almost-friends around her are the only people in the world who don’t know how vile and messy it all is just yet. Can’t she have this for a few moments longer? Can’t she too have the freedom to decide whoever she wants to be? She takes a deep breath, the way Ayo taught her, holding it in until it swells in her chest. Sometimes, in order to survive, we must comply and conform.

  Chapter 44

  Holly then

  Holly fastens the blue surgical mask tightly over her face. The blended cotton-like texture always prompts a rise of involuntary goosebumps. She pulls a hairnet over her bald skull and walks into the children’s oncology ward.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t our favourite volunteer!’ Nurse Carol steps out from behind the front desk and consumes her in a hug. That’s what it’s like here. So warm, so kind, everybody hugging one another like old friends. The nurses know how she takes her tea, what her favourite TV series is and who she thought was best dressed at the Oscars the other night. Not many people understand these little things about her.

  ‘Oh, come on, Carol. You’re not allowed to have favourites!’ She blushes. It isn’t a surprise, though. While many volunteers enter the children’s oncology ward with high, happy voices and good intentions, not many can stand the tedious reality. The day-in, day-out assault of medication on the body and the range of unpredictable side effects it brings. Not every cancer sufferer is a ‘fighter’ in the way the world sanctions, sitting serenely in bed bearing their pain with dazed eyes and a stoic half-smile. Many lash out, cry and insult those closest to them. This has caused many volunteers to cynically throw their mask to the ground and storm out, but not Holly. She is a fighter too.

  The patients like continuity. It gives them something to clutch on to as the world around them collapses. That is why she arrives at 10 a.m. every Wednesday. This is also when her family and friends believe she is at the hospital for her weekly round of chemotherapy: 10 a.m. Nobody can take time off work then and visit her, although some have tried to walk her to the ward once or twice. She’s always batted them off with fierce sadness, telling them she would rather they didn’t see her this way. It’s their support that matters most of all. This is enough assurance for them as they stand and wave at her from across the road.

  She walks over to Alice’s bed first. Like the nurses, she too has her favourites. She’s fast asleep, with her one hand reaching above her head like a child. At just fifteen, in some ways she still is. More patches of hair have fallen out, with only a few black strands left. It is so lovely how her beauty persists in the brokenness. A few months ago she was just a teenage ballet dancer hoping to make the school’s production of Nutcracker, running down the school corridors with friends and filling her days with food and sport and gossip. Now she passes every second here.

  As Holly reaches to touch her, she stirs.

  ‘Oh, Holly, it’s you.’ She whispers. ‘You’ve shaved your head again.’

  ‘Do you want to touch it?’ She bends down so Alice can feel the stubble of her shaven head through the hairnet.

  ‘Whoa, that’s so weird.’ She giggles, but there is something world-weary right behind it. ‘Why do you do it?’

  She smiles softly at Alice, ‘Because I want to show you that you can be beautiful and confident, no matter if you have hair or not.’ Holly feels a bit choked up saying it out loud, realising her impact on this young girl’s life.

  ‘I feel beautiful already,’ Alice says curtly. The edge in her tone is now unmistakable. Today is not a good day.

  It’s fine; nothing she is not used to. She’ll just rise above it. Holly reaches into her handbag. ‘I brought you some presents to pass the time. Here are the latest two issues of Heat, a new limited-edition lip gloss from Topshop and some glitter nail polish. Oh, and this cute unicorn cover for your phone.’

  Holly missed all this. The trends, the sickly sweet teen perfumes and the candy-coloured make-up. When she was Alice’s age, she never quite understood it. She felt like she had walked into an advanced maths class by mistake. Now, she gets it all. She knows what these girls want. She knows how to make them like her.

  ‘Uh . . . thanks,’ Alice mumbles. What is wrong? Does she have these magazines already? Does she prefer Grazia? Were the colours the wrong choice? Just like that, she is fifteen all over again, second-guessing herself after one sneer from a cool girl.

  Her dad in her ear whispering: Your friends don’t like you. They just like how you follow them around like a pathetic little puppy dog.

  ‘Is everything OK, sweetie? Has it been a rough treatment day for you?’ There have been bad ones before, where Holly has held her as she heaved into a bucket, pulling sheets of paper towels and smudging them across her face to wipe off tears and sick. She knows the lingo now that she shares the ups and downs.

  ‘As if you would understand,’ she sneers.

  Holly looks around her to check for nurses, then pulls part of the curtain around Alice’s bed shut. Something feels off about this. She can almost smell it, a rankness like meat that has been left out in the sun.

  ‘Talk to me – what is going on with you? I thought we were friends?’ How many times has she visited Alice in this ward? Eight? Ten? She’s been coming here for over two months.

  ‘I did too,’ she says, reaching for her phone, ‘That was until I joined Instagram. My friends thought it would be a good way to see what’s going on out there in the world and feel like I was doing stuff with them. I looked up to you so much, so yours was one of the first names I searched.’

  A loud ringing fills Holly’s ears. It can’t be. She couldn’t have. Alice pulls up Holly’s Instagram page on her mobile phone, showing a montage of illness. Holly showing her bald skull. Holly smiling next to a drip. Holly lying in . . .

  ‘That is my fucking bed. Look, you can even see one of my posters! You lay in my bed and took a selfie while I was being helped to the bathroom!’

  She’s shrieking now, sobbing. The horror contorts her tiny pixie face.

  ‘Alice, I can explain.’

  ‘Shut up! Please! We’re lying here, barely holding on and you came into our lives and what? Stole our stories? What kind of sick freak does that?’

  It wasn’t meant to go this far. It was only meant to be a few visits, enough to understand what the side effects of chemotherapy people were expecting her to experience felt like. Her initial lie had got out of hand and she needed the information to keep it going. But the stories were so emotional and the kids were so sweet, she just kept on coming back.

  Alice is wheezing now, rage spitting from her bloodless lips. ‘You win, Holly, you are sick. I have leukaemia, but I am not as sick as you are. At least I stand a chance of getting better.’

  Holly tries to reach for Alice’s arm, to feel once more the connection she did during all those visits. Surely she can get her to understand this was never about her.

  ‘Get away from me!’ she growls, primal and scared.

  ‘Alice, wait . . .’

  ‘I said, get away from me!’

  The screaming gets louder and the nurses come pushing past Holly to soothe her. She pulls off her mask and hair-net, throwing them to the ground as she runs along the corridor, down the stairs, out, out and away from the pulsing hurt within its walls.

  Chapter 45

  Holly

  Everyone is assembled in the living room, laughing and chattering. Ayo has laid out a spread of hot scones with dollops of fresh cream and jam. It could be the beginning of an afternoon tea. Holly stands looking in on the happy scene through the window, wishing she could stay here forever, without ever having to walk into the future. The second she steps through that door, she is responsible for snuffing out the evening’s glow.

  They don’t even look up when she walks in, and for that she is grateful. In this strange place of broken lives, sad
stories are painfully common.

  Ayo nods at Holly and addresses the room. ‘Hey, everyone. Hey! Good God – can we have some quiet please? Today our friend Holly was delivered some troubling news that relates to the reason why she is here. She has made the brave decision to watch a video clip of this news to decide what to do next. But before we do any of this, she’s going to tell us her story.

  ‘Before she begins, I want to say a few words on the distinction between guilt and shame. Most of us are familiar with what it is like to feel shame – this is a dirty, desperate emotion where we see our reputations smeared in the eyes of other people. You may think guilt is the same thing, but it is isn’t. Guilt is how we personally feel about our own behaviour, when we recognise that what we have done is wrong. The difference is clear in Holly’s case, where she is finding some things that she feels guilty about and some things she feels ashamed about. Through this process, she hopes to find a way forward and do the right thing. But let me step out of the limelight. Please give her a big, encouraging round of applause. You all know how daunting it was to tell your story for the first time.’

  She examines the faces before her. Alan looks ruddy-cheeked and relaxed, fresh from a day canoeing on the lake. Tara looks desperately beautiful without her make-up and her beauty-pageant smile. Verushka smiles encouragingly, with the knowing look of someone who has been here before. In all cases, there is a clear line between what was bad about them and what was good. The rot doesn’t run too deep. Nobody died as a result of their actions. Holly has nothing to lean on, no way to sugar-coat the truth.

  This isn’t a book launch where she can blush and thank everyone for filling the room to overflowing. It isn’t a media event where she can preach about her latest ‘obsession’ with goji berries and kale. Who is she really? She reacted to every show she watched and every album she listened to in line with what others thought about it. This is what she learnt from childhood: to be safe, you need to fit in, you need to reflect what the other person wants you to be. Has she ever been a person, or just an echo? She grinds her teeth and begins.

  ‘My story probably begins the first time I shared a picture, because that is when all this attention started. But for me its roots extend to before that. When I posted that first picture, I didn’t understand social media much. I didn’t get that one image could travel around the world and cause people to form an opinion of me based on a fleeting moment. Even though I didn’t know the power of Instagram and how it would change my life, I always knew I wanted people to like me. It doesn’t seem to happen often. I’ve never considered myself likeable or even pretty, so when my pictures started getting attention, I played up to it, giving people more of what they wanted.’

  Ayo gives her a sharp look.

  ‘But now, I know I must take responsibility for what I did. So I will say it out loud – I never had cancer. I had a benign tumour, but that was removed during a quick operation and only required one night in hospital. As my mother has always said, I have a strong mind that blocks out the things it doesn’t want to see. I was fooling myself just as much as I was fooling everyone else. But let me start at the beginning . . .’

  She looks around the room, expecting everyone to look shocked, but nobody even seems surprised.

  ‘When I was worried about the tumour, I was getting support and love from my family and new friends like never before. When it was confirmed that my tumour was not cancerous, I couldn’t bear to tell everyone and lose my new friends. So I made a decision to pretend that I had breast cancer and had to undergo chemotherapy. That way, everyone continued to gather round, and I continued to feel loved.

  ‘This meant some uncomfortable logistics. I researched the symptoms of chemotherapy and faking them became part of my morning routine. I shaved off my hair, and eventually my eyebrows. I cut into my skin to make it look like I had a drip and I drank disgusting concoctions sometimes to force myself to vomit at work. At this stage I legitimately began to research natural remedies and ways to change my diet, mainly because my father blamed me for getting sick in the first place. As much as I was getting something from being sick, I was petrified of being truly ill. Finally, I found something that I loved! Even better, I was good at it. Although I started out with simple recipes, they felt good and my family and friends loved them. I didn’t have any specific plans about all of this at the time. It was a simple little thing that was making me happy.

  ‘I muddled on, pretending to go to chemo, and getting deeper into my new diet. I focused less on cooked food and more on raw vegetables, as I just seemed to be digesting them better. Besides, my skin was starting to look great and people were commenting on my healthy weight. I was like a little scientist, experimenting with different ingredients and combinations to figure out what worked best.’

  And then, all of a sudden, going into the oncology ward wasn’t an option anymore.

  ‘When I came up with the Green Monster smoothie, it was my pride and joy. Something in the combination of peanut butter, banana, spinach and spirulina made me feel brilliant. So, one day, I snapped a picture of myself drinking it for Instagram. It was pretty cute, but nothing special. I mean, I hadn’t curated it the way I do with any of the pictures I post these days. I added a few hashtags . . . I’d just started doing that. For that post I used #smoothie, but it didn’t seem enough. I figured anybody going through chemo would enjoy it, so I added in #healing #radiation #cancer #survivor.’

  Act like it wasn’t planned, act like you didn’t mean for this to happen.

  ‘People started liking it, some started posting comments like “Get well soon” and “Stay strong”. Then this girl from a reality TV show found it. I should have said something then, sure, but it felt nice to have these total strangers willing me to get better. Well, for some reason that particular recipe resonated with a lot of people.

  ‘Suddenly I felt this thrill of getting noticed, and this pressure to perform for my audience. So I posted a raw pad thai that day. It was a recipe I was proud of after all. I’d say to myself each day, “Just this once, you can do it for a little boost during a bad day.” But I started to need a boost every day after that. Those little comments blossomed into regular followers, friends even. I got a better phone, then I got a proper camera. I started spending more time arranging my food and editing how I described it.

  ‘Now I know I must take responsibility. Nobody forced me to lie. Even when the temptation is there, it takes a seed of darkness within you to reach forward and grab it, to succumb to it. For me, that seed was wanting, no needing, people to like me. I wanted to keep it at any cost, and it didn’t take me very long to realise that the cost would be to haze over the truth. People needed to believe that I had cancer.’

  A look from Ayo again, burning into the back of her skull.

  ‘Sorry, I needed to believe I had cancer. If I didn’t, everything I was doing would lose its meaning. There was too much at stake. And, you know, I kept telling myself, “Well, surely everybody fools themselves a little on social media. Surely nobody’s pictures show who they really are in real life.”’

  Holly shifts on her feet. The practicalities of her lie, the pictures she has shared with the world flash uncomfortably in her mind.

  ‘Nobody sets out to fake something as big as cancer. It starts out small, and gradually adds up. For me, it began when I omitted to tell people that my tumour was benign. I neglected to tell people my treatment was over, and that I was now well. In a way, the incessant new focus on my diet made me feel as if my problems weren’t over, and that I still needed something else to be well.’

  There is always something else you need to be truly well.

  There is no turning back now. Here she is, facing up to what she’s done and presenting it to others. Usually when you tell a story, you edit it for your audience. You focus on the parts you think they want to hear based on how they murmur approval or shuffle in their seats. Holly can’t read her audience today. Everyone sits silently b
efore her, eyes blank. In some ways, this is the first time she has pieced together what has happened herself. In arranging the events of the past few years one in front of the other, with no thought of editing them, everything is worse than she feared. She carries on.

  ‘I felt like I needed to give my caring friends and my followers new stories to feed their interest. So I shared tales of infections, new tumours, new risks. I blocked out reality, and researched my new life online. Every single thing I said was medically possible and accurate, including the natural ways of treating it. The life I created became more real than any life I had half-lived before that. This was the real me.’

  She sees it then, clear as if it were the next room. Her old home with its oppressive leather furniture and forced family pictures. The hasty repair jobs over the holes in doors where a fist had smashed through, the bleached bloodstains on the carpet. They tried to forget, but the house vibrated with anger. Yet it was boring, so boring that nobody noticed the scratches on her arms or her hacking cough when she was forced to go to school even though she was sick. Nobody considered her broken enough to give her a second glance. That was the real her, lying to keep the peace, fake-laughing at sexist jokes and cutting the anger out behind the locked door of her pink bathroom. All she ever wanted was to create a new Holly, one that people acknowledged and saw. She never expected that they would see so much.

  She has promised to herself she wouldn’t cry, but large tears slide down her cheeks. Deep breaths, take deep breaths. If she surrenders to the crying now, she won’t be able to stop.

  ‘I was found out, of course.’ The telling of how or why is too painful to repeat out loud.

  She hasn’t touched this tender place in her heart for a long time. It is excruciating, and relieving all at once.

  ‘I moved to London soon after that, and widely publicised the fact that I had “healed” myself of cancer. During that time, I consulted with a natural healer called Dr Ray, who believed I did have “cancerous levels of toxicity” in my body. He mirrored my belief that my nutritional approach was the right one. I leant on his opinions and promoted him heavily, because he justified everything I had done up until that point. From then on, I felt as if I was free to do the one thing I really loved to do: make up recipes.