THE REAL, UNQUESTIONABLE ME
flash fiction from 2022
**I wrote this story 2.5 years ago now. If you are a proud owner of double vision zine, you’ve probably already read this. It’s chronically online in a way that kind of annoys me now but has been feeling potentially relevant. I guess you can be the judge of that. as always, thanks for reading!
the real, unquestionable me
It didn’t seem unusual at first. It happens sometimes, unfortunately, to women: someone or something takes your photos, makes a clone social media account following all your friends and family, tries to get unsuspecting relatives to join a pyramid scheme or directs all your professional contacts toward a virus-ladened Onlyfans link. When I saw the first account, which pulled a photo from my birthday dinner in Newport and had my full name with “new account” typed after, I didn’t think much of it. “Locked out of my old one. Follow me here!” it said. I screenshotted the profile and added it to my story with a caption telling friends that the account was fake. I filed a report with Instagram and slept soundly.
The next morning, I woke up to a text from Jennifer: “Who’s the real you?”
The fake account had shared my real profile with the caption, “LOCKED out of this account. Someone’s holding it captive. UNFOLLOW and REPORT.” It read more sophisticated than the work of a bot at this point. After putting on my makeup for the day, I recorded a short video humoring my imposter. “Okay, proof! It’s me,” I said, ensuring the camera stayed fixed on my right jaw. I re-recorded the video three times before settling on a 15-second clip.
Scrolling that morning, I noticed a few additional identity disputes on my timeline. There was probably some sort of phishing scam going around. Out of morbid curiosity, I followed my digital double, just to keep tabs until the account would be taken down, hopefully soon.
I got a call from Instagram later that day, asking for my social security number, for identity verification purposes. I didn’t know they called people.
“I never gave anyone my social security number to begin with,” I say. “You’re probably trying to steal my identity.”
“The other account — we contacted the email on file — provided your SSN,” the metallic voice on the other line said.
“Well, it was probably released in a data breach anyway.”
“That’s how we got it,” they said, matter-of-factly. “You could whisper it.”
“I’m not going to recite my social security number to a stranger on the phone,” I scoffed.
“We’ll keep both accounts active, until you can prove that the other one is fraudulent.”
“Thanks for nothing.”
I hung up and immediately felt guilty for taking things out on the call center worker, who had no stake in the matter anyway.
My fake account posted photos from my girls’ trip to Cabo. I hadn’t posted them anywhere before. They were the ones of me on the beach, popping out my hip with my flesh spilling out of a tie-dyed bikini. Jennifer begged me to post them, but I couldn’t go through with it. I feared the thought of anyone other than my closest friends witnessing my body, my bare shoulders and ankles. How did they get my photos? I checked my cloud backup accounts to make sure my login information hadn’t been hacked into and changed, but all I encountered were alerts that I was almost out of storage and needed to pay an extra three dollars per month.
On Instagram the next day, there were more imposters. My follower count doubled in size: two or more accounts existed for every acquaintance, each vying for me to unfollow and report the other. Before my phone overheated, I noticed I had a new fake page that was fighting my first imposter for credibility: “It’s Meg for real this time,” read the bio. I stuck my phone under my mattress and went outside for a walk.
The accounts persisted: I had a new double every week. They expanded to Twitter, Facebook, even Linkedin. Things got so crowded, nobody bothered to fight for legitimacy anymore. I unfollowed everyone except for myself: all seven selves. First they posted all the things I kept hidden away in my camera roll: the shots of me at graduation that made my arms look weird, an uncomfortably emotional tribute to my dead dog, the karaoke videos I took of myself when I was drunk to confirm that I still couldn’t sing.
At a certain point, they started posting content I had never seen before. One of them got into law school and moved to New England, picking apples and posing with umbrellas. Another began writing embarrassingly specific poetry implying unrequited feelings toward my childhood best friend. I thought about calling her up, the friend, to explain the situation, but it turned out she herself had an impersonator who connected with my romantic double. They went on vacation together, to the Maldives. One of the accounts became a spin instructor. Another started a small business for hyper-realistic crocheted mice.
I started going on walks for hours at a time. I called my mother. I started going to the bar on Wednesday nights and laughing loud, playing pool with strangers. I started caring about gum health and taking multivitamins. I wondered what made this life any more legitimate than the funhouse mirror versions of it I saw on my tiny shining screen.
I told Jennifer I was thinking of deleting everything. I didn’t see the point anymore. I didn’t follow any of my friends or family. How could I tell what was real? Did real even matter?
Jennifer laughed, “I don’t mind it. I like seeing what they’re up to. It’s like I’ve gotten to do everything I didn’t have time for before. I’m living so many lives.”
There are hundreds of mes now, trying to make sense of it all in pixels, trying to make money, be watched, feel seen. I wonder if they should envy me for being first, or if I should envy them for having bigger imaginations than me. I like to think maybe there’s no envy at all. Maybe there’s room enough for all of us. I think of them often, though I’ve stopped watching. I dream they get everything they hope for and need.
This is so well written!
really enjoyed this - reminded me of “Los Angeles” by ling ma or especially “the angelines chan of pokfulam road” by rosemarie ho!