I'm her best friend, so I see it all. I was there after the crash when she lost her leg. I was there at her brother’s funeral. It doesn't matter that he was driving; she still misses him everyday.

And I'm there now. After she gets the texts, I'm always there. The ones that make her cry. Or just scared. 'Cause some of them say: 'You're the one who should have died. And you will. Because I'm going to kill you." But it's the ones about sex that upset her most. "How's it feel doing it with only one leg, you whore?" That's what a lot of them say: "Whore, slut, tramp."

"I'm still a virgin," she said, just yesterday. And she fell into my arms, weeping her heart out. I tried to comfort her, stroking her hair, "I know you are," I said, "Don't you think I know that?"

The worst thing is, she can't imagine who could hate her so. She's tried guessing, telling me all the people she might have made mad. But she just can't think who would want to hurt her this much. She flinches when a text comes in, because she never knows if it might be another one. Another mean one. But it never is, not when I'm there. Still she gets so upset, trying to figure out who it might be. And the whole time I'm right there. I see it all, her terror and her tears, and she never dreams, never for a moment suspects, that this whole time the person sending the texts has been me.

Copyright 2011 James B. Chevallier