There's not much to say about the end of this. Sheena's friends buried her. I was not invited. By then, I had already been shipped off to a sister of my mother's I had never met, three states away. They wouldn't turn on the news, so everything I knew was garbled, filtered through miles and miles of gossip, rumor, and innuendo. When a girl in the new middle school's cafeteria solemnly informed me that my father was a Satanist who had been sacrificing his wives and his patients to the devil, I tuned it all out. I didn't talk about it.

I took my familiar place on the outskirts with my camera. I didn't show anyone the videos that I had taken already. What was the point? We were all gone. There was nothing left to do or say. I kept my distance from everyone. It's easier to see the world through a lens.

That's what I did with my life. I went to film school. I bounce around from crew to crew, making documentaries and reality shows, anything to pay the bills. I'm nobody you would know or recognize. I've never been to a red carpet or in a tabloid. I spend most of my free time alone. I don't really have what you would call "friends." Mostly, I just know people from work. No one who asks me about who I really am, or where I'm from. I prefer it that way.

I don't think much about what happened. It's too much to pick at these wounds that have no real hope of healing. I work around them. It's not really a part of who I am now.

Except.

Yesterday, I was going over the dailies for my latest job, some little throwaway project about a true crime obsessed grandmother who builds dollhouses based on unsolved crimes. It's a sloppy venture, and sometimes, we end up in the frame. It's more of an irritation to our editors than anything. It makes us hard to cut around. This time, I was partially visible in the ornate gold mirror hanging behind the dotty old woman we were interviewing. I rolled my eyes and ran the footage back, already trying to envision a way to make this work without my face. I paused the old woman half a second into her rambling about the Torso Murders.

Maybe it was the bad lighting, but I could have sworn that my eyes were black and hollow. I watched the clip over and over, trying to be sure of anything. Even after ten viewings, I couldn't be sure.

I couldn't be sure of anything.

I said I don't think of this much.

I lied.

There's a part of this I think about every day--

Be still, I am with you.

Who are you?