Page 11 of Who The Hell Are You?

Storming the rest of the way, I'm only momentarily cursing myself for scooping up the box after I've already picked the thing up. It could be a bomb or some shit. I should know better than touching an unidentified box. I just know it's from him though, so I shove it under my armpit whilst I dig for my keys and get the door open.

Harris and Em decided to grab a drink with some of the guys before coming back, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved they are not here for this, or nervous because they could handle whatever is inside. Well, Harris could–Emery would be clinging on to him until our big bear of a friend took care of our problem. I have to be pappa bear now. Sort my own shit out.

Dumping the thing on our small dining table, I tear into the box and hope to god I'm wrong and it's not actually a bomb. Fuck, what if it's a human heart or something? A head like on Sevin? I need to stop being an idiot and just get it open. Taking a pair of scissors to the tape, the lid pops open and I'm confused by what I see.

Pulling out a number of smaller boxes, I hold up a packed tripod, a suction wall holder for my phone and the last flat box is a ring light. What the hell?

Discarded in the bottom is a note and I'm starting to shake with a blinding emotion I've not felt before. This guy's fucking audacity. Snatching up the note, I have to take a couple of deep breaths before unfolding it. I can feel heat bubbling up in me like a pot going over its calm simmer.

Play with me. Join the dark side.

Shoving all the contents back into the box, I take my phone from my rugby shorts and take a picture of everything. Pulling up my social media, I find his account in my recent search and see in the space of days he's gained a ridiculous amount of new followers. There are more posts. Last night I found myself looking over the comments on the video he posted and they are fucking feral. Men and women, both declaring they'd let him do pretty much anything he wanted to them. Has the world gone crazy?

I send him the photo.

@cass.cowbells: Why did you send this?

His reply is immediate, making something go tight in my belly.

@yourghostboy: I want you to play with me.

I tap the side of my phone aggressively, chewing on my thumb whilst I walk through the living room and make my way up the stairs. Before I can reply, another message comes through.

@yourghostboy: Make a masktok account. First one to 100,000 followers wins and the loser unmasked themselves

@cass.cowbells: I’m not doing that

@yourghostboy: ok, the winner decides what prize?

I think about it as I enter my room and strip my dirty sports t-shirt off. I'm trying to shake myself from this insane delusion, because I can't really be considering this? What if someone I know sees it? Fuck, what if they figure out it’s me. Again I can’t help but think about the guys on the team. I'm enabling an insane stalker, but I’ve already thought of a cool alias. Despite most of his videos comments being criminally worrying, I wonder how it would feel to be given that much praise. To have that many people have any sort of reaction to your body. I work hard on myself and Grace is constantly telling me how hot my muscles and tattoos are, so maybe the internet would too? If I do this, I do it for me. Wearing a mask will help the embarrassing rejection in case people hate me and I get zero likes. I don't reply, but see I have a few notifications from the masked stranger before I throw it onto my bed. The entire room needs a tidy and it wouldn't kill me to open a window, but that's what a free Sunday is for right?

Showering first, I trudge into the ensuite and lean heavily into the scorching water as it soothes out all my aches from practice.

What would I even post first? What song would get me attraction and fast? Because I won't be the one to unmask myself. I know I said that wasn't the deal on the table, but if I win, that's my prize. I want this over with, so if this helps me figure out who the hell is fucking with me, so be it. Jesus Christ. I just have this really bad feeling that I’m falling into his trap. I’m a mouse starting at square one, but he’s already ten steps ahead with looming pits above each move I’m about to make.

With a towel slung around my hips and beads of water still dripping from my hair, I make my bed and discard dirty clothes into the wash basket. Harris has a rule we don't eat or drink in our rooms, but it's more for Ems sake who would hold up in his like an art gremlin. I bet he wouldn't ever sleep, wash or use the toilet if we let him. My space is lived in for sure, with a lot of rugby memorabilia, memories from the farm, adventures with Dad and my computer set up for when we want to game, but no one wants to put on actual clothes to chill in the living room. The desk is cluttered with my course books, but apart from that my room is relatively clean.

I can't believe I'm even considering this.

Slipping into fresh underwear and a pair of black sweats, I nudge the side of the desk with my hip until it moves, leaving a clear fraction of white wall. I don't want anything identifiable if I do this. Dragging the gaming chair until it's in front of me, I stubbornly refuse to use the tripod he sent me and place some books against the seat. This is my choice, if I post anything on social media it won't be with his help.

Will this angle even work? Ducking around, I grab my phone off the bed and ignore all notifications. Infact I turn on do not disturb mode and balance the phone on top of the books against the back of the chair. Turning my camera on, I stand up straight and analyse myself, the shot a little slanted and the lighting could be better.

Fuck my life. A tripod and lighting would make this so much better.

Cursing him and myself–life at this point, I slam my feet down the stairs and swipe everything off the table, before minutes later slotting my mobile into the easily set up holder on the tripod. The ring light was a breeze too, only fueling my anger. Something ignites in my blood at the thought of beating this guy; but was I thrilled at the prospect of teasing the internet? Shocks danced along my lower belly and settled there between my hips. Jesus. I guess I did.

I'd kept the mask I had bought for Grace in the bottom of my wardrobe so no one could stumble upon it. I can't stop pinning the blame of this entire situation on that stupid piece of heavy plastic.

It actually fits really well.

My glistening hair is starting to curl and fall onto the face of the mask as I bend forward. The little circle button on my phone flares red, as the video counts up and I lean forward, peering into it. All my thoughts turn blank as I film, but intimidating the camera feels right and as I lift my bare arm to show my muscles, I tap my finger against the switch on the mask, causing the soft lilac neon to come to life. The lighting on camera immediately wavers, the crosses over the eyes and stitched mouth illuminating the frame until my tattooed torso comes back into view. Naturally I flex, each groove up my body tensing as I stand to my full height and peer down at the screen. Yeah that should do it.

Switching the mask off, I rush to end the recording as blood pounds in my ears. I’m flushed, wanting to regret even playing into this crazy delusion but my body is practically buzzing right now. Turning the ring light off, the new equipment now feels marginally bigger than they actually were in my room. I was too aware of them, like when you stare down one of those dolls with the unsettling eyes that follow you everywhere. Em’s mum used to have those porcelain things in their sitting room, it was disturbing.

I take my phone and bound out of the room—opening the video editor I downloaded and make my way to the living room. The guys will still be out for a while yet, so I can probably get this edited in good time, think up what I need for my social media profile and then pretend like everything is normal before they even return. Grand. Sorted. Perfect.

Throwing myself down on the corner sofa, I open my social media app, dodge the icon on the right side of the screen that my fingers itch to press, heading to my profile and finding the right settings to set up a new page. It's tedious, filling out information that I don't really want ever getting back to me, so I dodge adding my actual name and even change my birth date. I’m probably insane, because I actually smile when the social handle I want is available to use. What the hell is wrong with me?