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We Had to Remove This Post

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So what kinds of things did you see?

It’s crazy how often people still ask me that, even though it’s been sixteen months since I left Hexa. People just won’t stop trying, and if my answer doesn’t live up to their expectations—too vague, not shocking enough—they simply repeat the question, putting it slightly differently. "But what’s the worst thing you ever saw?" Gregory, my new colleague at the museum, asks me.

So what exactly are we talking about here? That’s my Aunt Meredith, who for years I would only see on the anniversary of Mom’s death, but who has suddenly gotten into the habit of calling me on the first Sunday of every month to ask how I’m doing, and oh yeah, what exactly it was that I saw.

Why don’t you choose one video, one image, or one post that really affected you. And there’s Dr. Ana. Tell me what you thought and felt at the time. Go ahead and make it into an image in your head . . . Yes, a mental image of yourself sitting there and seeing that upsetting image—and then she pulls out some sort of rod with a light flashing back and forth inside of it.

And now you’ve joined in too, Mr. Stitic. You call me almost every day now. Please get in touch when you have a moment, Ms. Kayleigh. Do you even realize that Kayleigh is my first name? You don’t, do you? Of course you got a hold of my details from my former colleagues, who don’t know my last name, and now you’re asking me: So, Ms. Kayleigh, what kinds of things did you see?

People act like it’s a perfectly normal question, but how normal is a question when you’re expecting the answer to be gruesome? And it’s not like any of those people are asking out of concern for my well-being. Maybe that’s not so strange—maybe questions don’t stem from interest in the other person so much as curiosity about the lives we might have led (Gosh, Mr. Stitic, civil law . . . what’s that like?), but with Gregory and Aunt Meredith, and even with Dr. Ana, I can’t help but suspect a certain amount of lurid fascination, an urge that compels them to ask but that can never be fully satisfied.

I saw a livestream of a girl sticking a much-too-dull pocketknife into her own arm—she really had to jam it in there before a decent amount of blood would come out. I saw a man kicking his German shepherd so hard that the poor animal slammed into the fridge, whimpering. I saw kids daring each other to eat dangerously large amounts of cinnamon in one go. I saw people singing Hitler’s praises to their neighbors, colleagues, and vague acquaintances, publicly, unabashedly, out there for potential partners and employers to see: Hitler should have finished what he started below a picture of a group of immigrants crammed into a small boat.

But those are all cop-out examples—you know that, don’t you? Those things have all been in the papers, culled from accounts by other former moderators, though that doesn’t mean I didn’t encounter them too: the abused dogs, the Nazi salutes—and the girl with the knives is a classic, there are thousands of them, one on every street, or at least that’s how I picture it: That house where the bathroom light is still on at night, that’s where she’s sitting alone on the cold, hard floor. But that’s not what people want to hear. They want me to give them something new, things they’d never dare look at, things that are far beyond their imagination, which is why Gregory asks, "But what’s the worst thing you ever saw? rather than How is that girl doing now? Were you able to help her, by any chance?" God no, people have no idea what my previous job actually entailed, and that’s partly your fault, Mr. Stitic. After all the news about the lawsuit you’re filing on behalf of my former colleagues, people believe that we all sat there in front of our screens like zombies, that we didn’t know what we were doing, had no idea what we’d gotten ourselves into, that out of the blue we were bombarded with thousands of sickening images that short-circuited the synapses in our brains almost instantly—well, it wasn’t like that. At least not entirely, and not for everyone.

I knew what I was getting myself into. I knew what I was doing, and I was pretty damn good at it. I still remember all the rules from back then and I still apply them sometimes, it happens automatically, an occupational hazard—whether it’s TV shows, video clips, or just things I see in my everyday life. That woman getting knocked off her scooter—can you put that up online? Not if you can see blood. If the situation is clearly comical, then yes. If there’s sadism involved, no. If what’s being shown serves an educational purpose, yes, and ding ding ding, we have a winner, because that exit to the museum parking lot is a hot mess. They really need to fix that, as long as I put that in the caption, it’s allowed—see, that’s the kind of thing I’m thinking about as I tear off four tickets for a visitor. And no, it’s not always pleasant having those rules rattling around in my head, but you know what? Part of me is still proud of how well I knew the guidelines. That’s just not what you want to hear, is it?

I haven’t replied to any of your emails. I haven’t returned any of your calls, either—I thought you would have gotten the message by now. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to join the other plaintiffs. I don’t want to be involved in your lawsuit. But you just keep calling and calling, and today I received your second letter (very elegant handwriting you have, Mr. Stitic).

It’s not that I don’t understand. You’re a lawyer, it’s your job to keep insisting, and you’re pretty well versed in the art of persuasion—don’t think I haven’t noticed how your tone has gotten a little chummier with each message. You know I’m listening, you know I’m getting used to the sound of your voice, so you’ve stopped calling me Ms. Kayleigh and are suddenly talking about the prospect of a decent sum of money, and to be honest I think it’s pretty creepy that you know how badly I could use a decent sum of money. I’m sure my former colleagues have told you about my debts, and I wonder how that comports with the applicable privacy regulations, but hey, I’m sure you know that better than me.

Two more years at the museum and I will have paid it all off. That is, if I work overtime during the holidays, when the pay’s better, so here’s hoping I get shifts on Easter and Boxing Day too, because no, there’s no way I’m going to join in with this thing, though I understand why my former colleagues have.

I read that Robert sleeps with his taser these days, afraid that terrorists will come and kidnap him at night (the names in that newspaper article had been changed, but Timothy can only be Robert, I’m sure of it). That Nataly can’t handle loud noises, bright lights, or sudden movement in her peripheral vision (there were a bunch of people who struggled with that, so I’m not sure who Nataly is). I know that many of my former colleagues flinch when someone comes up behind them in the supermarket, that they lie in bed until after dark and then stay up till it’s light—too exhausted to start a new job, they see things, day and night, the same things I don’t like to talk about either, and I’m sorry to say that some of those symptoms aren’t exactly foreign to me. And yes, just like many of my former colleagues, I left Hexa of my own accord—so again, I understand why you’ve come knocking on my door.

But for you to understand why I