Chapter 1 #RealityMature

The Rewrite of Christabel Mordsa. It's so different than what I expected but, I hope you like it.

What happens when you discover a dark secret?

 “Is this thing on?"  The light from the webcam was green.  “Hi guys, I hate videos, yet here I am.  What does that say about me?  I don’t know.  I’m the Heretic Heart.  I’m 18.  Yeah so, how are you, random internet viewer person.  Female? Male? Yeah.  Shit this is a awful way to begin! Should I have said an? ‘This is an awful way to begin.’ I don’t know! Do you? I guess leave it in the comments, down there.

Her fingers moved downward.  It was a awkward gesture, as if she was one with the page.  She soon would be, she supposed.  Once you sent data across the web, to a v-log site like this one, you were part of something bigger than yourself.

“Look at me, asking for English advice on a v-log.  Well, this couldn’t get any less awkward could it?  As you can see,” Her hand pulled a few strands of hair down to the lens, “my hair is purple and blue.  Why? Because I can motherfucker!  This is my V-Log.  I can have any color hair I want!” The last two words were sung out as if she was celebrating a great achievement.  Why was she doing this?  Were a view views worth degrading one’s self in front of strangers?  Then again, what are strangers but new friends meant to be found?

            “So random person staring at me.  Yes you, don’t look at me like I’m crazy.  We’re having a conversation here, right?  I mean, you’re here, well not really, but, you’re like, looking at me, and for the first time.  That’s what a video is when we first view it.  A first time encounter.  As long as it is your first time seeing this, everything I say to you is new and unique.  That’s exciting isn’t it?  Have you ever thought about the experience of watching a video, of reading a new work for the first time.  It’s great but we make so many assumptions of the person. This is the problem with the net.”

            A pause, meant for effect really.  Christabel Mordsa knew what she was going to say.

            “I cannot see you, but you see me.  I can’t look at your room, but you have a bird’s eye view,” She moved her head to show off the posters on the door, “of mine.”  A smile crossed her lips.  “You can see a lot about me.  So are you making any assumptions?  Am I a rocker?  Does my hair make me look gothic?  Who am I?  Do you know simply through these images who I am?  Be careful anonymous viewer.  Reality is subjective.  Bye!”

The End

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