Selfie Harm

There was once a little girl. Well, she wasn't really little, she was about 21, 22 years old. But she was just a girl, rather than a woman say, and far from a lady. She was one of these YouTube stars, had a channel called CelebItch with her best friend. On screen, off screen, everything revolved around her.

This centre of attention was called Monroe. The name was her mother's choice, after the movie star Marilyn Monroe. But not because her mother had taste or a hard-on for old movies. No, she just wanted Monroe to be famous, and picked a name she thought would help her offspring get there. Her wish was granted.

                                                                    *

"Hi-ya, celeb-bitches! Today we've got a high-street haul inspired by the freshest threads from last night's MTV Video Music Awards. But first we're going to show you how to get killer lashes every. single. time."

"That's right," said Sorrel. "This tutorial will demonstrate how to use an everyday eyelash curler to get those Kardashian lashes without robbing a bank."

"So, take your liquid eyeliner and gently, without tugging the skin, drag a thin line across your upper eyelids." Monroe leant forward, towards her laptop screen and its camera, doing just as she narrated. Her face was framed by her gleaming red hair and again by the black square of the screen's edge. "Starting from the inner part of your eye, staying as close to the lash line as possible and bringing it out in a gentle flick at the end... liiike so."

Sorrel chimed in. "Before you use your eyelash curler heat it up for like ten to fifteen-seconds, by blasting it with a hair dryer." Her YouTube voice was bright and breezy, enunciating her words with a warm, upbeat energy. "This will help keep your lashes curlier for longer. Bring the warm wand as close to your lash line as possible without touching the skin." Sorrel brought the eyelash curler up into frame and towards her eye, clamping down over the lashes. She felt the hot metal singe her eyelid, burning the thin, fragile layer of skin. It sizzled, she swore it sizzled. But the pain didn't show in her cool performance. Looking straight down the lens, her eye was held wide by the metal curler clamped at the bottom like a piece of surgical equipment.

"Clamp down on the lashes and hold for 20 to..." Sorrel's voice trailed off. She released the clamp and flicked a strand of glossy chestnut hair out of her eye with a fluttering sigh.

"What's up, bae? Script's right there," said Monroe, pointing an immaculately painted lilac fingernail at the screen.

"I know the script's right there," said Sorrel. "I put the script right there. I wrote the script, edited it. I know the script, Money, off by heart."

"So what's with the sad-face emoji?"

Sorrel bit a finger nail, weighing her argument. Unlike her best friend's, Sorrel's aqua blue nail varnish was chipped, a coral outcrop eroding away. After a minute she said,

"Not only do you have the best words, and the opening again. You're positioned front and centre. You're always front and centre."

"Course I'm front an' centre, bae. I'm the face, you're the..." Monroe looked Sorrel up and down, squinting a thickly mascara-ed eye. "'Brains' is too strong a word. You're the, what do you call yourself in your email signature thingy?"

Sorrel hung her head and muffled into her chest, "Content architect."

Monroe laughed. It was sharp and bitter, not disingenuous but cynical and unimpressed, devoid of any true joy. The laugh of someone superior.

"That's it, content architect." The way she leant on that word as if to say, who the fuck are you kidding.

"You're in shot aren't you, Sorrel? We need you on the side, there, and me in the centre, here."