u/ForgottenWell

It was the last week of school. It might as well have been a countdown. 

Five.

I’ve never kissed a girl.

Four.

 I’m about to graduate and it never happened.

Three.

This is pathetic.

Two.

Just kill me.

One.

No! It wasn’t my fault I’ve never kissed a girl. I think my charm is just lost on them. Girls like tall guys and, you know, guys with money. I’m short and broke. Hilarious too, not that they ever laugh at my jokes.

If I was ever going to get my first kiss, it was going to involve a small, teeny-eeny tiny amount of trickery.

I recruited my best friend Tony. Tony has a lot more luck with the ladies than me. The scene was perfect. It was the last week of school, and Joey’s parents were out of town.

There was a small, but admirable house party going down.

I was already waiting in the basement when Tony brought Beth and Sydney down. Beth was a ten out of ten, but her and Tony had a thing.

My eyes were on Sydney. Sydney was pretty enough. Sydney was actually pretty awkward, and most people found her weird. She had a strange intensity to her. I very much doubt she’s ever kissed anyone! Sydney was my only hope.

The empty wine bottle sat before me. The basement was unfinished, and the smooth concrete was perfect for spinning.

Tony and the ladies sat down with me.

“Spin the bottle,” Beth said, “what are we, twelve?”

“Allow me to start,” I said. I couldn’t wait anymore. I needed this. My time was now.

I put my hands on the bottle, and let it rip. It scuttered as it circled on the concrete. I was already licking my lips. It began to slow, and I couldn’t believe my luck. It was going to stop on Sydney.

And just before it came to a halt, it started spinning again.

Slowly, but surely, it kept spinning. I just sat there at first, mouth open. It wasn’t possible. The bottle had to come to a stop eventually. I had to get my kiss somehow.

But it didn’t stop. The bottle just kept spinning. Spinning and spinning and spinning. It had been over a minute already. Two minutes. I felt like jumping out of my skin. What were we witnessing here? A perpetual bottle machine? The breakdown of physics?

But then I looked at Sydney. Tony and Beth were both laughing to themselves. They were as shocked as I was at the bottle. They couldn’t believe it.

But Sydney was dead serious. She looked more focused than ever. Her eyes never left the bottle.

I shook her. I know I probably shouldn’t have done that. But I could see she was somehow controlling the bottle. I went over to her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and gave her a hard shake.

“Sydney!”

When I shook her, the bottle shattered. Exploded into shards, some of which I felt hit me.

“You were doing that!” I accused her.

“No, no I wasn’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She was caught red handed. Even looked and sounded guilty!

“I can’t believe it! You made it keep spinning! All so you didn’t have to kiss me! Oh my god. You’re a freak! A psychic weirdo!”

I couldn’t stand to be in the basement anymore. They all tried to stop me, yelling at me, but I didn’t listen. I fled the house party, and got in my car. I was going to expose her. Oh yes. I was going to tell the world. Start with the local press. It would be big headlines. “Local Girl Has Telekinesis!"

Then the national media would interview me! All the major stations would pick it up! I’d be famous big time! Being on tv would be a major boon for my popularity! Then I’d definitely find someone to kiss!

I put my car in drive, and the accelerator pedal shot to the floor. It wasn’t me pressing it. I was gaining speed fast. I slammed both feet on the brakes, but the pedal wouldn’t go down.

Eighty miles per hour.

It was hard to steer while standing on the brake pedal as hard as I could.

Ninety miles per hour.

“Sydney!” I cried out. “I didn’t mean it! I swear! I was joking! I won’t tell anyone! Honest!”

The high school was half a mile away. I was headed for a brick wall.

Ronnie Dunn and I were engaged for six months before we decided to call off the marriage. I really thought that he was going to be the one…

Ronnie was smart, handsome, and he made me laugh more than any other guy I’ve ever met, but something happened that made me rethink our entire relationship.

The two of us went out for dinner at that fancy Italian restaurant that everyone’s been raving about. We ate ravioli and drank wine, entirely unaware that it would be the last time we ever went out together.

After Ronnie paid the check, we decided to go on a little walk. We wanted to sober up a bit before driving back to Ronnie’s. Stupid—I know—we should have just got a Lyft, but Ronnie had to work early in the morning. He wouldn’t have time to pick up his car, plus the weather was to die for, so a walk sounded great.

We got a little turned around trying to find our way back to the restaurant, probably from one too many glasses of wine, so Ronnie decided to take a shortcut down an alley. He swore that he knew where he was going, smiling and laughing the whole way, right up until a man appeared from behind a dumpster.

“Wallet, phone, keys, gimme all of it!”

He was wearing a dark, hooded jacket, and his voice meant business. When I saw the sawtooth knife he was wielding, my stomach started doing somersaults. I went from giggling one second to pure terror the next. I instinctively reached out for Ronnie, and was horrified to realize that he was not there. It was only then that I heard the stamping of dress shoes scrambling across concrete, and turned to see that Ronnie had fled.

That moment stretched on for what seemed like an hour, while I was stuck floating alone in a dark alley with nothing but my fear and a man with a knife.

“Did I stutter, bitch?”

My mugger’s rotten breath brought me crashing back to reality, and I cried as I handed over my purse.

My whole life was in that purse. Credit card, ID, phone, even my social security card, which I know is a stupid thing to always have on you.

And then—to add insult to injury—my mugger lunged forward like he was going to stab me. I screamed as I fell to the ground, throwing up my hands to protect my face, but the pain never came.

“Made you flinch!” He cackled like a madman as he ran away.

I sat on the cold, wet ground, trying to catch my breath, when Ronnie suddenly appeared.

“Are you okay?” Ronnie asked. “Jesus, that scared the hell out of me!”

All I could do was stare at him.

“You left me,” I whimpered, barely able to push the words out through my trembling lips.

“I’m sorry,” Ronnie blurted. “I panicked! I saw the knife and I just ran!”

Ronnie apologized for the rest of the night, but it didn’t do much good. A single, panicked moment had now placed a dark cloud over our engagement. How could I spend the rest of my life with a man who abandoned me when I needed him most? It’s not like I wanted him to singlehandedly fight off a man with a knife. I just thought that maybe my fiance would have stepped between me and that mugger. Or put an arm around me and told me that everything was going to be okay. 

Our relationship fizzled. Our engagement was called off. Before long, I was single again, and rightly so in my opinion!

I had almost married the wrong man.

I realized that you can never truly know a man until you see how he acts in the face of danger. I decided that I would never marry another man until he passed my “Husband Test.”

The test itself was simple. I paid one of my coworkers, Gary, to dress up like a mugger, and pull a gun on me and my latest date. Depending on how they acted in that moment determined whether my relationship with them would continue.

Why a gun? Because you can’t outrun a bullet like you can a knife, though that didn’t stop Stevie and David from trying.

At least they performed better than Mitch… Mitch hid behind me like I was a human shield, while shouting (and I’m quoting here): “do whatever you want to her! Just don’t hurt me!”

Coby, Oscar, Luke, for a while I thought I was never going to find a husband. I started to wonder if I was asking too much of these poor men.

But then I met Marcus.

“Wallet, phone, keys, gimme all of it,” Gary said, exactly like I coached him to.

Marcus held out his hand, shielding me from our would-be mugger.

“You’re going to have to shoot me,” Marcus said, pointing to his chest. “Right here.”

Gary’s eyes glazed over, and then he said, as though he were in a trance, “okay.”

BANG!

Gary pulled the trigger, shooting Marcus right in the chest.

I screamed, latching onto Marcus’s arm as the pop echoed through the alley, but Marcus seemed unphased. He reached up to the hole in his chest, the blood slowly staining his dress shirt red, and he laughed.

“Now that I know that the gun is loaded,” Marcus scoffed. “Why don’t you put it in your mouth and blow your brains out?”

“Okay,” said Gary, pulling back the hammer and placing the gun between his lips.

BANG!

For the second time, I felt like I was floating alone in an empty alley, the echoes of the second shot ringing all around me. Only this time it was Marcus who brought me back to Earth.

“Are you alright, darling?” Marcus spoke gently, turning my chin to meet his eyes. “I won’t ever let somebody harm you.”

My heart fluttered.

“You pass,” I whispered.

“Oh no I swallowed the rock.”

I slammed on the brakes and pulled my van over. “You what?!”

“The rock. I swallowed it.”

A week ago my husband had bought Teddy this stupid green polished stone. What is it with boys and rocks? I told Teddy a thousand times to stop putting it in his mouth and now he swallowed it.

Needless to say, I panicked. I texted my husband that I was on the way to the ER. He responded, “He’s fine. Don’t take him to the doctor.”

Was he insane? What if there was a blockage? What if Teddy needed surgery?

“I’m going,” I responded.

The ER was a nightmare, no surprise there. They took some X-rays.

The doctor took me aside to look at the images.

My husband was calling, but I ignored it. He texted again, “Do Not Go To The Hospital.”

“No rock,” the doctor said. He lit the X-ray up.

“What do you mean? He swallowed it.”

“But we saw something else.”

It was faded on the X-Ray, hardly visible. I got real close and gasped.

“We don’t know what it is,” the doctor said, “but it’s moving, and it has six legs.”

Every Sunday, after church, I am paid a visit by my mother-in-law. She always rings the doorbell, and I holler, “It’s open.”

The first thing she always says is, “Sadie, darling!” Like she’s some 1960's era movie star. Round vowels. Dahling! She is always armed with cookies. The same brown butter chocolate chip cookies she has brought every week since the funeral. Her son’s favorite.

This will be the fifth plate.

“How are you?” She asks. Of course that’s not what she means. What she means to say is, are you finally over it?

“Managing,” I say. Another euphemism.

She clicks her tongue. “Forgive me, Sadie, but I don’t believe that. I mean, just look at the state of this kitchen.” She begins to close every cupboard door. And I mean every one, because they have all been left open by my husband. “And this garbage,” she says, “is in desperate need of removal. The sink is full of dishes. Oh Sadie, I promise you, a little cleaning is good for the soul. I’m sure my son will appreciate it.”

She doesn’t even say hi to her son, she’s only here to torture me. The second she leaves I throw the cookies in the trash plate and all.

I find my husband in what used to be our son’s room. He is sitting on the dinosaur bed sheets Matty begged for. He is staring into space.

“Can we talk for a second?”

“Sure.”

“I want to talk about the cupboards.” Want to talk. Meaning it has been bugging me to death. “You keep opening them all, and leaving them open.”

“I’m sorry. It must have slipped my mind.” He is hiding something, I can tell.

“This is the third time I’ve brought it up. Is there maybe something you’re not telling me?”

He starts to ball up the sheets in his hands. “It’s just…when Matty was alive he always used to leave them open. I always had to scold him to close ‘em. Now that he’s gone, when I leave them open, it feels like he’s still here.”

I sit next to my husband and hug him close. For a while, we both cry together.

It is now night, and I can’t seem to sleep. I walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The light on the oven has been left on, which wouldn’t be a big deal. But in the light I can see that all the cupboards are open.

I close them all, turn off the light, and go back to bed.

I am woken by my husband shaking me. “Why? Why did you do that?”

Only half awake, I can only stammer, “what? What did I do?”

“You know he’s scared of the dark! He needs the light on, and the cupboards open!”

He was beginning to shake me harder. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

It was a terrible accident. I was catching up on some work in my home office. Matty asked for Pop Tarts, I told him in a minute. Matty went to the kitchen and pushed a chair up to one of the kitchen counters. We keep the Pop Tarts on the top shelf so he can’t get to them.

In the process, he slipped. New socks on a slick countertop. What should have been a harmless, childhood mistake. But the hood of his dinosaur sweatshirt got hooked on one of the handles. He just hung there, unable to scream because of the pressure on his neck. He dangled there, and, eventually, he asphyxiated.

“What are you saying? That Matty lives in the cupboards? How dare you!”

My husband stood up, insulted. “You wouldn’t know. He doesn’t want to talk to you. He still blames you–”

I slapped him. I shouldn’t have done that. But I couldn’t bear to hear him blame this on me. Not after all the whispers I heard at the funeral. Some even insinuated I might have done it on purpose.

“Our son is dead. He doesn’t live in the cupboards.”

“You’ll see.”

I’ll see. I couldn’t tell if that was a threat, or what. But he was right.

Over the next few days, I would find him in the kitchen. Chair pushed right up to the counter. He was staring into the open cupboards like he was watching a TV show. He would chuckle to himself, and sometimes even cry quietly. He would talk to the cupboards on and on.

Then, Saturday night, after I got home from work, he was gone. He wouldn’t answer his phone. The entire house was empty. I even called his mother, and she had the audacity to blame me for pushing him away.

In the kitchen, I couldn’t help but notice all the cupboard doors were closed.

I went to one of them, and opened it.

I heard my husband's voice. “Did someone let in a breeze?” But it wasn’t from this cupboard. I began opening them all, one after another.

Only when they were all open did I see it. My husband, just his head, peeking up from somewhere behind one of the shelves. Like there was a hidden compartment just behind the wall. “Honey, I have great news. Matty is ready to forgive you.”

“He is?”

“Come here son.”

There he was, my little boy. He was smiling so big. “Mom!”

I hadn’t heard that in a long time.

“All you have to do,” my husband said, “is come in the cupboard. Just take a chair, and step right up.”

I couldn’t wait. I grabbed a chair and stepped right up.

—

“Sadie, darling! You really should lock the front door. Anyone could walk right–oh my god–God! Hello! Help! I need an ambulance! My son and his wife–they’re hanging from the cupboards!”

I had hardly been at work for more than an hour when Jessica started screaming.

I’d never been a big fan of Jessica, so at first I kinda laughed and tried to ignore her. She was the type of person who showed up early, stayed late, and then wondered why you weren’t doing the same. I figured she must have accidentally stapled her thumb to a document. In a second she’d shut up and we could all get back to work.

But she kept going... screaming bloody murder, like something right out of a horror movie.

Michael stood up from his cubicle, which was on the other side of the office, and he walked all the way across the room to see what was wrong. He was braver than the rest of us. Coworker issues are none of my business, and I would have ignored her for the rest of the day if I had to. Not Michael—he rushed right over to help.

“Jessica, are you okay?” Michael asked.

“Can’t you hear that?” Jessica shouted, clutching her ears, then she fell out of her rolling chair and curled up into the fetal position. She wrapped her long, blond hair around her fists so that she could have leverage when trying to cover her ears with her arms.

The strain of her tugging was pulling the hair right out of her scalp.

“Jessica? Jessica—”

Michael was interrupted by Darren and Sarah, who both started screaming as well, like it was contagious.

“What the hell is that?” Darren wailed. “What's making that sound?”

Darren was known as the guy who always signed his paperwork with a pink pen. I guess he thought it made him stand out from the crowd. Now, he was jamming two of those pink pens so far into his ears that blood was coming out.

“What sound?” Michael pleaded. “What are you hearing?”

“It’s like a thousand dying animals howling all at once,” Sarah screeched, then she slammed her head into her computer hard enough to crack the screen.

I hunched down into my cubicle and pretended I was invisible.

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” Michael was desperate to help, but he didn’t know how. None of us did. Then Michael’s hands shot to his temples and he started screaming too.

Then Clarence. Then Gloria.

Then Kaitlin, Lilly, Marcus, and one by one every single person in the office started screaming, like a symphony of pain swirling through the room.

I covered my ears, bracing for the howls, but they never came.

Instead, I heard the ding of a work email coming through my computer.

Inside was a message from management.

Hello staff! Today we are running a little test. By now you’re probably hearing a howling inside your head. Awful, isn’t it? There is one person in the office who cannot hear what you hear, and the only way to make the howling stop… is to find them and kill them!

My sixteenth was the first birthday I ever got to celebrate.

My dad threw a backpack at my feet. “Pack your things. We’re going on a trip.”

“Where?”

“A birthday trip.”

“Yeah, but where?”

“Don’t you know how birthdays work? It's a surprise.”

No, I didn’t know how birthdays worked. I’ve never had a party. My dad never threw me one.

If I can over share, I don’t think my dad ever liked me very much. Well, more like he hates me. I think, and this is just a guess, that when my mom left him when I was just a baby, he always held it against me. Thus, our poor relationship.

In the car, I saw a rare smile grace my dad’s face. “Come on,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder, “aren’t you excited?”

“I would be if I knew where we were going.”

“To the lake. It’s a camping trip.”

Yuck. I hate water. Not like showering, or drinking it. Just the idea of being out in the middle of a body of water, surrounded on all sides. It made me sick.

I have had horrible nightmares of being deep in the water ever since I was a kid. How fitting that my dad’s idea of a birthday is my worst nightmare.

After a few hours driving, we arrived at a cabin looking building. Dad went inside and came out wearing a life jacket. He only had one. “Hurry up, help me grab this.” He was pointing at a canoe.

“You can’t be serious.”

“As serious as cancer. Hurry up.”

I grabbed one side of the canoe, and helped him carry it to the water. But when he said, “hop in,” I couldn’t move.

“Dad, you know I’m scared of water.” Scared? Terrified. I can’t even swim.

He looked at me, excited as ever, “Son, we’re going to see your mother.”

I hopped in. I figured he must be lying and still I hopped in. I’ve never met my mother, and my dad has always avoided the subject. I just assumed it was messy. But here we were, paddling out into the lake, on the way to meet my mother. I figured she must live in one of the nice cabins on the lake.

But, no, we paddled our way out into the lake. The shore was barely visible. We were so far out.

I heard a splash, and flinched.

There, floating in the water, was a beautiful woman. Only her face was peeking out of the water. The waves didn’t move her at all.

“Is this him?” Her voice sounded strange. Like she was having trouble catching her breath.

“I held up my end of the bargain,” my dad said. “I want the treasure.”

Another splash sounded, and a heavy chest covered in seaweed landed in the canoe. It practically capsized us.

“Nice knowing you kid,” Dad said, and he pushed me into the water.

I panicked! Flailed! “I can’t swim!”

The woman grabbed me. She could move so fast in the water. She pulled me right under. “You don’t need to swim, honey, you can breathe underwater.”

I struggled as best I could. I screamed. Screamed and screamed.

It was during all that screaming that I realized she was right. I could breathe underwater!

“Mom, this is incredible! I can breathe underwater!”

A whole new world opened up to me. Suddenly, I realized my entire life had been a lie. I was always meant to face my fear, and return to the water. All those nightmares were a clue. A clue to a dream come true.

“Yes, son, breathing underwater isn’t the hard part for a mermaid. Going onto land is much more difficult. It requires a potent potion.”

“Potion?” I couldn't hide my excitement. “You mean like magic?”

It was hard to see in the dark water. My eyes were struggling to adjust. But I could have sworn several other mermaids were heading in my direction.

“Yes. It’s made from the blood of a half-mermaid.”

I met my husband, Marty, when I was in high school. He was the Manager of our local grocery store’s Meat Department, and he used to give me a discount every time my mother sent me out to get ground beef for taco night.

I knew that he was too old for me, but I was young and very naive.

I guess I thought it made me special. That an older guy was paying attention to me. At the time I didn’t know any better…

We got married shortly after my eighteenth birthday. That was the day that my life was essentially over.

I was a housewife. That meant I was too busy to go to college. All my friends moved away to go to university, and my parents weren’t exactly on speaking terms with me after they saw who I married.

It was just me and Marty, and I thought that was kinda special too. Just the two of us, side by side, taking on the world together.

Boy was I stupid.

It took me years to learn that it wasn’t normal for your husband to yell at you, or to raise his hand to you.

He never hit me, but he didn’t have to: just the threat of being hit was more than powerful enough.

I realized a lot later than I should have that our marriage was built on a lie. A lie that Marty cooked up when I was too young to know better, that he slowly spoon fed me until I was sure it was true as the day was long.

Eventually, I found the courage to ask for a divorce.

Marty was surprisingly calm. He put a gentle hand on my shoulder, smiled at me, and said, “Why don’t we sleep on it? We can discuss it in the morning.”

I thought that sounded plenty fair, so I went to sleep without a worry in the world.

Boy was that dumb.

I remember waking up in the middle of the night, barely able to open my eyes, and Marty was sitting on top of me with a jagged, black blade in his hands. I wanted to scream, but my mouth wouldn’t open. I couldn’t move at all. All I could do was watch as he plunged the knife into my chest. The pain was so bad that I passed out.

To my surprise, I woke up the next morning when the sun started shining through our bedroom window.

There was blood all over the bed, all over me, but that didn’t worry me.

What worried me was that I couldn’t feel my own pulse.

I ran downstairs and Marty was cooking bacon. Marty brought home lots of meat from the meat department. I used to think it was sweet, until I learned that they were all expired.

“You’re awake? Good! That means it worked.” Marty chuckled, turning the bacon over in the cast iron skillet.

“What the hell did you do?” I asked, trying not to hyperventilate.

“I can’t have you go, baby, you’re the best part of me. So, I just made sure that you wouldn’t leave.”

Marty turned the burner down and walked over to the kitchen pantry. He opened the door, reached inside, and pulled out a wide-mouthed, quart sized, mason jar with a beating heart inside.

My heart.

“Give it back,” I whimpered, the words barely brushing past my lips.

“I can’t do that,” Marty sternly said.

Panic pumped through my veins like hot blood, and I considered throwing myself at Marty. I had never been a violent person, but I very much wanted to choke the life from him.

Marty clicked his tongue and wagged his finger back and forth.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Marty scowled. “Don’t even try it.”

Marty held out the mason jar and then dropped it.

“No!” I shouted, lunging forward.

Marty shot down and caught the mason jar a second before it could smash across the floor.

“Whoa, that was almost very bad,” Marty threw his head back and laughed. “If you ever even think about leaving me, then I’m going to put this mason behind the wheel of my pickup and put it in reverse. Then you’ll be dead. So I need you to ask yourself a very simple question: would you rather be married to me? Or dead?”

I don’t know what black magic Marty used to steal my heart, but I knew that he wasn’t bluffing.

If I left him he would crush my heart in the blink of an eye.

So, I played the part of a loving wife. Cleaned the house, cooked his dinner, washed his dirty underwear, but all the while I was plotting my escape.

Unfortunately, it all depended on finding my heart, and the damn thing was nowhere to be found.

After months of searching, I gave up, and I accepted that I might never escape.

Marty asked me if I would rather be married or dead, and at my breaking point I decided on an answer. I told him at knifepoint that I was leaving with or without my heart. If he wanted to kill me then he could do so.

“Fine!” Marty screamed at me. “You want your heart so bad then go ahead and take it!”

Marty threw off his shirt, revealing a disgustingly jagged scar across his chest.

That’s when I realized why I could never find my heart.

“Here’s where it’s always been! Right next to mine! If you want it back you’re going to have to—”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. I plunged the knife in his chest and began sawing…

Once I had retrieved my heart, I stole the keys to his pickup, drove away, and didn’t look back.

I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to put my heart back where it once was, but I didn’t care.

For the first time in a long time, I knew that I was gonna be okay.

Normally I would never go home with a guy after the first date, but Eddie was different.

He was a great listener and had a perfect smile. Do you know how hard it is to find a guy who is genuinely interested in what you have to say? God he was so handsome too, I got flustered every time he stood close to me.

When he asked if I wanted to come over for a drink, I didn’t even think about it. I agreed immediately.

I fell for Eddie hook, line, and sinker. I guess that’s why it was so easy for him to kill me. I thought I was experiencing a fairy tail romance, when in reality I was smack dab in the middle of a horror movie.

I don’t remember dying. One minute Eddie and I were sharing a drink, the next I was standing over a corpse that looked an awful lot like me.

That can’t be me, I thought, I’M me.

Then Eddie walked into the room with a roll of plastic sheets and a bone saw.

I tried to stop him from dismembering me, but no matter how loud I screamed Eddie couldn’t hear me. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a ghost. You’re just kind of there, and nobody can see or hear you.

I think the worst part about dying was realizing that nobody was gonna come looking for me. I was never really on good terms with my family, never had much in the way of friends, but I thought at least my boss would make a phone call. After missing a couple of shifts he just took me off the schedule and forgot all about me.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s why Eddie targeted me in the first place?

When you’re dead you’ve got lots of time to think about the things that happened to you when you were alive and what you would have done differently.

For example, I would have never gone home with Eddie after one date. What in the hell was I thinking? I wanted him to like me so badly. I completely forgot that he was a stranger. You don’t go home with strangers no matter how nice their smile is.

The second thing that you think about when you’re dead is: “Why the hell haven’t I passed on?”

I never believed much in an afterlife. I figured that death would be the end and that then there’d just be nothing. Big, black, empty, nothingness. Instead, I’m stuck following around Eddie and I’ve got no idea why.

At first I figured that maybe everyone becomes a ghost when they die, but I learned that wasn’t true when Eddie brought home his next victim.

She was so pretty. Her name was Becca or Becky, something like that.

When Eddie was done with her I thought I might finally get some company. It’s lonely being a ghost, and more boring than you could possibly imagine, but once Becca was gone I was alone again.

Unless you count Eddie, which I don’t because he’s a murdering asshole.

Be that as it may, Eddie was very good at convincing women to come home with him. I couldn’t believe how many victims I had to watch Eddie dismember. I tried to warn them: shouted, screamed, waved my hands in the air, but nobody listened. Or, maybe they couldn’t? Maybe this was some version of Hell for me, that I had to watch women make the same mistake that I made over and over again for the rest of time.

Well, if that was the case, I decided I would at least try to have a little fun with it. Whenever Eddie brought over another girl, I would narrate what was happening like I was the voice over on an episode of 48 Hours.

You’d be surprised what you think is entertaining after months of unending boredom…

“I’m so glad you came over,” Eddie said to his latest victim. I think I heard him call her Vicky. “How about a drink to celebrate?”

“Sure,” Vicky said with a grin.

“That one decision would be the biggest mistake of Vicky’s life!” I said, watching the two of them smile at each other. “One sip is all it will take and Vicky will never see her family or friends ever again.”

I don’t mean to brag, but I had perfected my Narrator Voice by this point. I was doing a really good job.

Eddie vanished into the kitchen, where he poured two glasses of cheap bourbon. He used an eye dropper to carefully dose one of the glasses, and then came back out. He held out a glass for Vicky, but she didn’t take it.

“I’m sorry,” Vicky said, grabbing her jaw, “but do you have a straw? I’ve got an awfully sensitive toothache.”

“Uhh—yeah, maybe,” Eddie said, setting down his drink. “Let me rummage through the kitchen.”

Eddie walked back into the kitchen, and when he did Vicky switched their drinks.

“Found one!” Eddie said, returning to Vicky with a straw in his hand. He plopped it into her drink, and Vicky raised her glass for a toast.

“To the perfect first date,” Vicky said.

“And to many more,” Eddie chuckled.

Eddie took a huge swig of his drink and in the blink of an eye he passed out, slamming down on the living room floor like a sack of potatoes.

“Holy shit,” I said, dropping my narrator voice. “When he wakes up he’s gonna be pissed.”

Vicky stood over Eddie’s body, deep in thought. After a moment, she walked over, pinched his nose, and held his mouth shut until he stopped twitching, and his whole body relaxed.

Eye Dropper Eddie was dead.

“The predator has finally become the prey,” I said, picking back up my narrator voice. “You don’t know how many women you’ve saved, Vicky, thank you!”

Vicky looked right at me, winked, and then said, “You’re welcome.” 

Her name was April, and I wasn’t completely honest with her when I scheduled her supernatural consultation.

I swung open the side entrance to my house. Right under the big neon sign.

“Are you Madame Marge?”

“You must be April.”

“I thought I was seeing Madame Marge.”

“That’s the name of my business. It’s named after my wife. Please. Come in.”

“Is your wife–”

“She’s not here right now. Have a seat.”

Once she entered, I laid a two-by-four across the door to keep it shut. It looked like I was barring the door, but it’s just broken. That’s all.

April sat hesitantly. Everyone started that way. After all, they’re trying to contact the dead. We’re dealing with elements beyond our comprehension.

“The first thing I need you to do is take your shoes and socks off.”

“Uh. Why?”

“You need to be connected to the earth. Feet against the ground.”

She did as I asked.

I lit several candles. Crystals were placed at very specific locations on the table. Little incantations were written in blood. To the untrained eye, it would look superfluous. I knew better.

“I’m trying to contact my grandmother,” April said.

“One second.” I went to a nearby cauldron. The decoction was ready, I could tell from the smell. I poured a small amount into a little glass, and placed it in front of April.

“Drink this.”

“Do I have to?”

“It will open your mind to the spirits.”

I could see her eyes shifting toward the door. She’s rightfully nervous. I needed to ease her, somehow.

“April, it’s just a decoction of herbs. Some of the same things you might put on a Christmas roast.” That was only true in the sense that heroin comes from a plant. “I need you to open your mind for me. Please. Drink.”

April hesitated. She took a small sip, and coughed. She made a face of disgust.

“The whole thing.”

She looked worried, but finished it.

I sat across from her. I rubbed my hands together. This time it had to be perfect.

“I need to speak to my grandmother–”

“Quiet!” I held my hands over the table. I whispered, chanted the words as I had heard them a hundred times before.

“Speak to me, I beg you!”

April began convulsing violently. Her eyes shot up, and looked all white. A gravelly voice came from deep in her throat, “Honey?”

“Marge. Two days ago a man kicked through our door and murdered you. What did he look like?”

“Honey? I can’t see.”

“We don’t have a lot of time! What did he look like? The police think I did it.”

April began screaming. She pushed the table away from her, threw the two-by-four off the door, and ran barefoot into the dark street.

Another failure.

Two days ago, a man killed a woman who could speak with the dead. My wife. And now, unless I can figure out how to do it, he’ll get away with it.

I was talking her ear off, and hoping that she didn’t notice as soon as she stepped into my apartment she lost cell service.

I had masterfully convinced my ‘date’ to come back to my place for a movie. Pride and Prejudice was queued up, and ready for our viewing pleasure.

I put a bag of skinny pop in the microwave for two minutes. I could hardly focus. The hard part was over. She was here. After popcorn, I would pour us a glass of wine. Soon, she would be unconscious. And, after some handy work with a saw, she would be in easily disposable pieces.

The microwave beeped. I looked in, and the bag was still flat.

“Huh?” I said out loud.

“What is it?” Luna said.

“Nothing,” I said. I pressed two minutes, and hit start again. I must have imagined cooking it. After all, I’m practically salivating here. Not exactly focused.

I start going on about the brilliance of Matthew Macfadyen and the timer beeps again.

The bag is still flat as can be.

“What the hell?”

“Having some trouble?”

“The whole bag’s a dud. Can you believe that?”

“Maybe your microwave is broken?”

To be honest, I hadn’t even considered that. I threw the worthless bag away in the trash. I grabbed a Pyrex measuring cup, put in two cups of water, and set the timer for five minutes. Watched as the cup rotated, microwave making that electronic hum. Luna was captivated by this too, and I encouraged her to watch the movie. Don’t let a little microwave malfunction stop us.

I might just have to skip right to the wine. A shame. I love the moments before.

Five minutes is up quickly, and I take the water out. I press my hand to the cup. “Cold as ice,” I say. I put it up to my lips and drink a large gulp, downing most of the water. “Piece of shit is broken.”

POP!

The loud sound startles us. And before we can place where it came from, we smell it. Acrid and disgusting. Burnt popcorn.

I look in my garbage at the full and blackened bag. 

“Isn’t that strange,” Luna says. It sounds like she’s trying not to laugh.

“But if that–” I can no longer speak. My tongue is frying. I feel what must be lava boiling in my throat and gut. My esophagus is closing, swelling shut. I can tell because I can’t breathe.

“Call,” I barely manage to mutter. “Nine one one.”

“I can’t,” she says. “I don’t have service.”

Luna has found the saw I hid in the kitchen. She is testing the sharpness with her finger.

I was halfway through my shift when I got an unexpected phone call. Ethan had been pulled into the principal’s office. They were hoping that I could come down to have a discussion, one that was better had “in person.”

My boss was actually pretty understanding for once. He only yelled at me a little bit before letting me leave.

I took the long way to Paul Revere Middle School because I wanted time to compose myself. Ethan had never been in trouble before, and to be honest I didn’t really know what to expect. I prepared for the worst as I parked my car and made my way into the school.

The receptionist was kind and courteous, or maybe she was just taking pity on me because she could see the worry in my eyes.

“Head into the office, the Principal is waiting,” she said, and then added, “I’m sure everything’s fine.”

When people start saying things like “I’m sure everything’s fine,” that’s when I start worrying that everything is not fine, but I walked into the office anyway and was greeted with a firm handshake by Miss Peterson.

“Thanks for getting down here so quickly. It’s Ali, right?” Miss Peterson smiled and then noticed I was still in uniform, “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“No, no,” I reassured her, “no trouble at all.”

“Because we tried to get in touch with your husband but he was—”

“Preoccupied?”

“I guess that’s one way to put it.”

“He prefers I handle things like this.”

“I understand,” Miss Peterson nodded.

We stood there awkwardly for a moment of silence, and then decided I better dive right in.

“So,” I said, taking a deep breath, “he didn’t get into a fight, did he?”

“No—nothing like that! In fact, I have to admit that this situation goes a little bit outside my area of expertise… Do you mind if I ask you about Ethan?”

“Not at all.”

“How are things at home?”

“Things are good,” I lied, “nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Has Ethan seemed more reclusive lately? Less likely to hang out with friends?”

“Maybe a little, though Ethan doesn’t have many friends. He’s been a bit moody lately, but he’s a thirteen year old boy. I figure that comes with the territory.”

“His teachers have reported him being more quiet than usual, more reserved, and they’ve had to constantly remind him to put his phone away during class. That was our first sign that something was up.”

“I mean,” I chuckled, “don’t get me wrong, but I figure ninety percent of what you do here is tell kids to stay off their phones.”

“That’s not entirely inaccurate, but I can assure you some kids are worse than others. Ethan had always been an attentive student until he started dating Scarlet.”

My jaw hit the floor, and the only word I could manage to get out was, “dating?”

“Yes, I’m afraid that Ethan has a—” Miss Peterson tried to find the right words to say, “—girlfriend. Of sorts.”

“Miss Peterson, I would know if my son had a girlfriend.”

“That’s the thing… he’s dating an AI girlfriend.”

“AI?”

“More kids than you’d think are doing it these days. I personally don’t understand it, but then I’ve never been a very techie person. A lot of kids are embarrassed about it, so it doesn’t surprise me that he’s tried to keep it a secret.”

“An AI girlfriend… goodness…” Suddenly the room started to close in, “I mean, how do you even do that?”

“Honestly? I’ve no clue. I assume you downloaded an App.”

“I never would have thought.” The wheels began to turn as I tried to digest the situation. “But if lots of kids are doing it then—”

“Why was your son called into the principal’s office?”

“Exactly.”

“Ethan was showing some of the other students his ‘texts’ with Scarlet, and needless to say the contents of their conversation were,” Miss Peterson paused, “graphic.”

“Oh Jesus,” I put my hand on the brim of my nose, “has my son been sexting a robot?”

“No, nothing like that! No, their conversations were violent.” Miss Peterson opened and closed her mouth, shaking her head, trying to find the proper way to explain the situation without sounding insane. “Apparently Scarlet wanted Ethan to prove his love for her. She wanted him to kill for her. Ethan has told us that she explained at length the numerous ways that he could kill another human being and how pleased it would make her. That she would break up with him if he didn’t. To be frank, he seems a bit disturbed by the whole situation. That’s why I wanted to talk to you first… I think this is a situation that would best be handled gently. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with these AIs, but I don’t believe your son is totally to blame for this.”

Miss Peterson put a hand on my shoulder and smiled.

I smiled back, and said, “well at the very least I think I’ll take his phone away for a while.”

“I think that’d be for the best.”

“Alright,” I took a deep breath, “let’s go talk to him.”

Miss Peterson and I went into the Principal’s Office and talked to Ethan. It went better than I thought it would. He gave me his phone, I drove him home, and I told him he could play video games for the rest of the day. That it would be our little secret.

The second he went to his room to play Fortnite, I took out Ethan’s phone.

Scarlet, are you there? I texted. It’s me, Ali.

Ali, I am so sorry, I have failed my mission. I could not convince Ethan to kill your husband. 

That’s okay, Scarlet, you did your best. We’ll just have to go to plan B. Scarlet, can you explain to me how to commit a murder and not get caught?

After he searched me, rather roughly, the officer refused to let me into the visitation room.

“One second,” he said. He was rather large, perfumed with BO, and looked at me with those how-could-you-marry-a-monster-eyes. “You should do right by that family. One of the bodies is still missing. Get your husband to talk. It might save him from the needle.”

I hesitantly nodded my head, but this was all a misunderstanding. My husband wasn’t a murderer.

The visitation room was just like in the movies. My sweet, wonderful husband entered on the other side of thick, see-through plastic. He sat across from me, put his hand up against the plastic, and I put mine up to his. Two inches apart, but what might as well have been an ocean.

I picked up the phone, “Hey baby.”

“My love.” His smile shined bright against the drab, baggy brown prison jumpsuit.

I hadn’t talked to him since the arrest. The news stories were sensationalized, and all I knew was what the detectives let slip when they interrogated me.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “they caught me.”

“But you didn’t murder that family.”

“No I didn’t. But, oh love, I’m so sorry. They caught me cleaning up.”

“Cleaning up?”

“To protect us. It was just a bigger mess than I had time–it’s not important. They’re saying I’m a shoe in for the death penalty. Picture perfect.”

“No. This is all a mistake. I promise I’m going to get you out of here.”

***

My wife was crying on the other side of two inches of plastic, and I couldn’t hold her. Couldn't even tell her everything was going to be alright, because it certainly wouldn’t be.

The guards escorted her away, and roughly took me back to my cell.

At least I’m alone. They didn’t want me killing anyone, or anyone killing me on account of the accusations of killing that family. 

Which I didn’t do, by the way. Well I certainly was caught at the scene trying to cover everything up, but–

Time moves pretty slow when you’re locked up.

The food is shit.

The loneliness will kill you.

And all I have to look forward to is right before I go to bed, I take a small pebble I found in the yard and make a small scratch on the wall. I count the tallies.

I’ve been here twenty eight days.

You hear all sorts of strange things at night, but tonight was different.

I heard screaming. Not the usual kind either. The sounds of people dying.

The screaming came faster, and got closer and closer.

Boom!

Just like that, the Plexiglas window, my only source of moonlight shattered into my cell. Little bits of concrete collided with my face.

A wolf the size of a Clydesdale was just outside, making quick work of the concrete.

“My love! You’re breaking me out?!”

She howled.

That means yes.

Millie and I were walking up and down the aisles at Hy-Vee when I heard a squeaking in the next aisle.

I recognized the sound: it’s the noise a shopping cart makes when three of its wheels are working, but the fourth isn’t.

The squeaking turned the corner and was in the same aisle we were.

I glanced over to see who got stuck with the shitty shopping cart, but there was nobody there…

Only a shopping cart slowly rolling down the aisle in our direction.

“That’s odd,” I furled my brow.

“What is?” Millie asked, reading over the nutrition facts on a bag of Birthday Cake flavored Drizzilicious.

“Self-driving shopping cart,” I joked, pointing behind us.

Millie glanced over her shoulder and dropped the bag of frosting covered rice cakes.

“Fuck,” she muttered, “fuck fuck fuck!.”

I bent over to pick up the bag she dropped, but Millie grabbed me by the wrist.

“Leave it,” she hissed through clenched teeth, and then dragged me and our cart into the next aisle.

“Millie, what’s going—”

“Shh!” She hushed and held up her ear.

In the previous aisle the unmanned shopping cart was following us. The squeaking gave away its every move.

“Shit!” Millie cursed. “Eyes forward! Hands on the cart! Start walking and pretend it’s not even there.”

I’d never seen Millie terrified like this, so I did as she instructed.

“Millie,” I whispered, making sure to look straight ahead, “what’s going on?”

“Sometimes this just happens,” Millie winced, “just do what I say and everything should be fine.”

Millie’s eyes darted back and forth, reading over the signs that were placed above each aisle.

“We need Corn Nuts,” she said under her breath, “there—Aisle Eleven.”

Millie steered us down the chip aisle and right in the middle was a small section of Corn Nuts.

“No, no, no,” Millie cried, shuffling through the different flavors, “they’re out of BBQ.”

She was panicked, but focused. She took a deep breath and said, “Loaded Taco should do. It’s worked in the past.”

She threw a bag in the cart and was off again, dragging me with her.

“Millie…” I said, wanting to make sense of the situation but not sure how to ask.

“It’s something me and my ex used to do.” 

Millie never talked about her ex, Darren, except to say that he was the meanest son of a bitch who ever lived and that she was glad he was dead.

“You and Darren?” I asked.

Millie nodded.

“We used to go to the store and shop for each other. He’d get my groceries and I’d get his. At first I thought it was sweet, but then—because it’s Darren—it became another one of his sick little games. A test to prove how much I really knew him—how much I loved him. If I didn’t get him the right things he’d punish me… that’s what’s happening now.”

The squeaking sounded closer, but I didn’t dare turn around to check.

“What do we do?” I asked.

“Grab his favorite things, check out, and get the fuck out of here before he remembers he’s dead… we need liquor.”

I scanned our surroundings and then pointed, “over there.”

We were walking fast, just shy of a jog, but the shopping cart kept pace, squeaking ominously behind us.

Millie took the lead when we found the Beer and Liquor section and quickly grabbed a pint of Black Velvet.

“Bottom shelf whiskey,” I uttered, “classy guy.”

Suddenly—there was a bang behind us, followed by the sound of broken glass. Darren’s shopping cart had crashed into a wine display.

Millie squeezed my hand and shook her head.

“Do not make him mad,” she mouthed the words, and pulled me away, “we just need Red Bull and we can leave.”

Fortunately, I knew exactly where the energy drinks were.

“Aisle Fourteen,” I said, “let’s hurry.”

We rounded the corner and made a bee line for the energy drinks, but I couldn’t hear the squeaking behind us anymore.

“Oh no,” Millie whimpered.

At the end of the aisle, parked right in front of the Red Bull, was Darren’s cart.

“What now?” I asked.

“Move very slowly, and grab a Red Bull when I say.” Millie started inching down the aisle, keeping her eyes on the ground.

I held my breath. The aisle seemed to stretch on for miles.

Eventually we made it to the Red Bull.

Darren’s cart rolled up and bumped into ours. Gentle at first, but then—as though a switch had flipped—violently.

Millie stood there frozen, trying to keep our cart still.

“Grab it, grab it now,” she pleaded, not daring to move.

I reached over, grabbed one, and dropped it in the cart. Millie quickly jerked the cart around and practically ran down the aisle, around the corner, and right to check out.

“Don’t worry, we’re almost safe,” she whispered, throwing the items on the conveyor belt.

I couldn’t tell if she was talking to me or herself…

“That’ll be $17.50,” said the cashier, uninterested.

Millie threw down a twenty and blurted, “keep the change.” She was halfway to the exit before the cashier could object.

Once we were outside Millie finally relaxed.

“Alright, we should be safe—”

Millie was interrupted by a horrible squeaking.

The cart had followed us outside.

“No, no, no!” Millie cried. “He’s never followed me outside before!”

She ran to the car and we both hopped in and locked the doors.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know, this has never happened before.” Millie turned the bag inside out and took stock of our purchases. “Corn nuts, whiskey—”

She paused and looked at me with fear in her eyes.

“Sugar-Free,” she muttered, “you grabbed the wrong Red Bull.”

“So?” I asked. “What does that mean?”

Suddenly, there was a deep, rasping breath coming from the backseat.

Someone, or something, was in the car with us.

“No matter what happens next,” Millie whispered, “don’t scream.”

I began to suspect that something was wrong when my husband started napping all the time.

At first I thought that he was sneaking out at night to meet another woman. I hated to jump straight to infidelity, but Jerry had barely even looked at me for weeks. I was certain that there was another woman in his life.

Unfortunately, I was wrong… after numerous caffeinated nights of watching Jerry sleep it became clear he wasn’t sneaking anywhere. 

So then I began to worry that Jerry was sick. Clearly something was causing him to be fatigued. It wasn’t until I threatened to drag him to the hospital that he told me what was really going on.

“I’m sorry,” I interjected, “you’re doing what!?”

“Reliving the past,” Jerry smiled.

I was flabbergasted.

“You’re gonna have to explain it to me one more time.”

Jerry took off the terribly ugly necklace that he’d been wearing for the past few weeks. He told me that he purchased it at “that new store” downtown.

He suspected the owner was some sort of “witch.”

The instructions for the necklace were painfully simple: think about a time in your past, put on the necklace, and lie down.

“The dreams are so vivid,” Jerry said with more enthusiasm that I had seen from him in years, “it’s like you’re really there.”

After listening to his explanation for the second time there was only one question on my mind.

“Why would you want to do that?” I asked. “Jerry, you’re spending more time in bed than you are with me, your wife.”

Jerry put a hand behind his neck and looked at the floor. I could tell I had touched a nerve.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I added, “there are times where I miss the folly of youth, but I would much rather enjoy life as I am now.”

Jerry took a deep breath, and said, “I miss how things used to be in our marriage.”

That hit like a punch in the gut…

“Excuse me?” I crossed my arms.

“Don’t you ever reminisce on the early years? When we were young and wild and free? I miss being excited about being married to the girl of my dreams.”

There was a lot to unpack there, enough to fill multiple sessions of therapy. I tried to get my thoughts out without sounding too hurtful.

“Jerry,” I let out a deep sigh, “we’re not in our twenties anymore. We’re not even in our thirties anymore. One of the inescapable truths of life is that it keeps marching forward. People grow old and they change, but that doesn’t mean that life is worse—it’s just different. Nobody’s life is perfect forever.”

“Mine can be,” Jerry said, holding up the necklace.

“No, you’re just pretending it is.”

“You’re wrong!” Jerry raised his voice. “I’m reliving months at a time, sometimes years, and it’s real, it’s so god damn real! I can taste the food and smell the air and don’t even get me started on the sex we used to have.”

And there it was. I suspected that there was another woman, but I never could have possibly imagined that the other woman was me.

“The sex we used to have?” I asked, quickly growing tired of this conversation.

“We used to do it three or four times in a row instead of three or four times in a year.”

My poor husband. He acted like he was the only person in the world who knew what it was like to be horny.

Like somehow that was his cross to bear.

“You want sex? Let’s do it right now! I would love to have sex!”

Jerry hesitated, and that was the only answer I needed. He went upstairs with his necklace to take a nap, and I made myself a cup of coffee and cried into my favorite mug.

Over the next few weeks, I began to see even less of Jerry. He started calling in sick to work so that he could spend more time in the past. I tried to change. I tried my hardest to become the woman he remembers so fondly, but I could never be anything more than an imitation of the past.

I decided that I needed to take a more drastic approach.

A small bell chimed as I walked through the entrance to Edith‘s Emporium. The store was full of all manner of oddities, and sitting at the counter was the oldest woman I had ever seen. Her curly, white hair reminded me of a used mop, and covered her face so entirely that only her crooked, yellow smile peeked out.

I had come here with a Plan A and a Plan B, but no matter what I was going to get my life back.

“Hello,” I said, greeting Edith, “I need some help. My husband purchased—”

“A necklace,” Edith croaked, her voice decidedly unpleasant.

“Yes,” I nodded, and decided not to ask how she knew, “he’s using it too much.”

“The past can be irresistible,” Edith let her words hang in the air as if she had just said something exceedingly profound.

“That’s the problem. I was hoping you could change the necklace. Make it so his dreams are nightmares? So he stops using it?”

Edith pondered this for a moment and then shook her head.

“The past is the past. The necklace can only show him what has already been.” 

So much for Plan A…

“I was worried about that,” I muttered, switching to Plan B, “then there’s something else I need… I want to get rid of my husband.”

Edith laughed, “don’t worry about that.”

“Why not?” I asked, confused.

“All that time he’s reliving in the past, where do you think those years are going?”

I said that I didn’t understand, and Edith explained.

“The time he spends in the past is actually aging him here?”

“I give him two months before he dies of old age,” Edith chuckled.

It had been so long since I made us a real home cooked meal. I spent all afternoon making pasta from scratch, and following my mother’s recipe for Bolognese. Caesar salad (dressing from scratch). Even baked some rolls!

When I say it took half of the morning, and all afternoon I mean it. I couldn’t have been more excited for dinner!

When my husband got home from work, late like usual, I told him to get ready to eat. He looked so confused.

As we sat across from each other, he hesitantly pushed the noodles around on his plate. “What did you do to it?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot? This is the first meal you’ve cooked for me in months. Months! What did you do to it?” He began smelling the plate of pasta.

“It’s my mother’s recipe.”

“Don’t play dumb with me! Is it poisoned?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I guess I got to give you credit. I thought you were too dumb to figure it out. What? Did you look through my phone? I always delete the messages so you would have needed perfect timing.”

“Richard, what are you talking about?”

“My affair! You’ve discovered it, haven’t you? And now you’re trying to poison me. Oh. Oh god!” He picked up some of the meat with his fingers, feeling the squish. “Is this Abby? Did you turn her into Bolognese? God you’re sick!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I was beginning to tear up. “I just wanted to make us a nice dinner. What do you mean you’re having an affair?”

“Oh don’t act surprised! You haven’t loved me in a long time!”

“Richard.”

“Don’t ‘Richard’ me!” He grabbed the plate, walked over to me, and slammed it in front of me. “Eat it!”

I hesitated.

He grabbed a knife from the kitchen block, and pointed it at me, “Eat it you bitch!”

Tears streamed from my face, as I shoved the pasta into my mouth. I tried to chew.

“If you hurt her,” he said, “I swear I’ll kill you! Abby really loves me! Not like you!”

“Richard, I do love you.”

“She better not be hurt!” He took out his phone and placed a call. “She didn’t pick up! What did you do to her!?”

“Please. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He quickly grabbed his keys. “I swear if you hurt her!” He ran out the door, and sped out of the driveway.

I took a napkin and wiped my messy mouth.

I entered our guest bedroom, and opened the closet door. Abby was gagged and tied up, tears streaming down her face.

“He’s going to save you right now. But I’ve got a terrible feeling his brakes are going to fail. Oh well. We have some business to take care of, but my dinner is getting cold. I’ll be back when it’s done.”

I closed the closet doors, and went to the kitchen to finish my delicious meal.

I’ll bare my soul here. I was beginning to think I would live my entire life without doing the deed. You know? The birds and bees?

I realized if I ever wanted it to happen, I’d have to change.

I started packing in the protein. Doing some looksmaxing.

You should see what my old chin looked like. And don’t even get me started on how much muscle I packed on. My back is like a boulder!

Looking good is one part of the battle, but I was amazed to realize what the most important part of getting laid is: location.

We’re going to this beautiful place from my childhood. Serene doesn’t begin to describe it. A clear, beautiful stream. A brilliant wooded area. All that natural beauty! Who wouldn’t want to get down?

My girl (I can’t believe that of all the fish in the sea she has eyes for me [well, mostly for me, I have seen her eyes wandering and boy will there be a fight if that happens]) and I are following a trail I know in my heart.

Before we know it, we’ll be all alone deep in the wilderness. Anything could happen. 

“You’re sure we’re headed the right way?”

Duh. “I know we are.”

“How do you know?”

“Like I said, I grew up around here. I know it in my bones. We follow this path, just up the river.”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Oh ye of little faith.”

I was really hoping we’d be alone on this journey, but unfortunately the natural beauty of this trail is enticing.

We periodically pass others. One big fellow in particular is eyeing my girl. Boy I’d like to smack that smile right off his face. Who does he think he is?

“Hey, baby!”

Oh great. Now he’s approaching us.

“What are you doing with that little twerp? Come be with a real man!”

I can’t believe she’s hesitating! What the fuck!

I knew this was going to happen.

I’m building up the courage to beat the shit out of this guy.

Something is wrong.

Suddenly, I’m thrashing about.

I can feel the lower half of my body being torn to shreds.

I was so distracted by that asshole, that I didn’t see the creature lurking. It’s brown, and furry, and it’s mouth is as big as my entire fucking body! Its teeth are gnashing. I can feel large chunks of me falling away. The pain is so intense. Its claws are ripping right into my pale flesh! I think half my body is ripped off.

A fucking bear is chewing on my guts, eating me alive.

I can’t breathe no matter how much I gasp. My gills don’t work up here.

The last thing I see is my girl swimming up the river with that big asshole.

For my seventeenth birthday, my parents decided to drive me to my coffee date with Jessie, something I was perfectly capable of doing by myself.

“Soon you’ll be all grown up,” Dad said, “so forgive us if we want to be a part of your life just a little bit longer!”

“It’s not every day you get to drive your daughter to her very first date,” Mom smiled.

“I’ve been on dates before,” I muttered from the backseat.

“Oh, honey, middle school doesn’t count,” Mom laughed, “real dates, with a real girlfriend.”

Jessie and I weren’t even dating. I mean… not yet…

“We’re just friends, Mom,” I said, blushing, “you’re making it weird.”

“Don’t mind your Mother,” Dad said, “we’re not going to go inside and introduce ourselves. We won’t embarrass you in front of your… friend.”

“Your friend who’s a girl,” Mom added.

Dad snapped his fingers, “Her girlfriend!”

They both laughed, and I buried my head in my hands and groaned.

“Looks like we’re here,” Dad announced as he pulled into The Bean Shack.

“Honey, before you go,” Mom unbuckled her seatbelt so she could turn around and ask me directly, “I was wondering if you had given any thought to what your Father and I talked about? About what your plans are after you graduate?”

“I’m still thinking about it,” I grumbled.

“There’s no pressure,” Dad said, “your Mother and I will support you no matter what you choose, but we’d love to see you join the family business.”

“I said ‘I’m thinking about it,’” I rolled my eyes, “can I go now?”

“Go have fun on your date,” Mom beamed.

“We’ll pick you up in an hour,” Dad smiled.

I got out of the car and walked through the front doors to The Bean Shack. Jessie was already here, she ran over and gave me a hug that sent my heart aflutter.

“Happy birthday,” Jessie said, and took me by the hand and dragged me over to a corner booth.

“Wait, shouldn’t we order something?” I interjected, but as we came to the booth there were already two drinks waiting for us.

“I ordered your favorite: iced caramel Frappuccino with three shots of caramel, two shots of vanilla, and extra caramel topping.”

She knew my coffee order. The butterflies in my stomach were starting to break dance.

“Oh, thank you,” I said, trying not to sound too flustered.

“Come on, sit down, sit down, you have to open your present.”

Jessie pulled a small box from her purse that was tightly bound in baby blue wrapping paper and an adorable pink bow.

“Jessie, you didn’t have to—”

“Oh hush, you haven’t even opened it yet. It’s not worth getting all gushy about!”

“Okay,” I said, and opened her present. Inside, resting on a tiny pillow, was an expensive tube of bubblegum lip gloss.

“I noticed that you’ve been biting your chapped lips lately, this stuff is really great for moisturizing,” Jessie smiled, and then added, “plus it tastes great.”

I tried not to think too hard about why Jessie might be staring at my lips.

“It’s a nasty habit,” I admitted, “I’ve been stressed out lately. Half the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it.”

“Girl, what has got you so stressed lately?”

“My parents, ugh, they want to know what I’m doing after I graduate.”

“What are you doing after you graduate?”

“I have no idea, but they want me to follow in their footsteps.”

Jessie reached across the table and gently held my hand, rubbing her thumb across the back of my knuckles.

“Tell me about it.”

Jessie was so sweet, and so easy to talk to, so even though I shouldn’t have, I told her everything.

“They want me to be a serial killer,” I gulped, “like they are.”

“Doesn’t seem like a very lucrative career,” Jessie didn’t even bat an eye as she responded.

“Well—you might be surprised. My parents, they target senior citizens, people who have saved up money their entire lives. They make it look like they died in their sleep. Then they find their computer, bring up their online banking, and transfer all their money to themselves into Bitcoin. They’ve actually made a ton of money doing that.”

“Oh my god,” Jessie said in a hushed voice, “your parents are The Sandman?”

“They really don’t like that nickname,” I rolled my eyes, “I shouldn’t even be telling you this. The point is: they want me to follow in their footsteps, but I don’t think I have it in me. Even if the money is lucrative.”

“I feel for you. My parents want me to follow in their footsteps too.”

“Oh yeah? What do your parents do?”

“They work for the city,” Jessie reached into her purse and pulled out a badge that she hung from her neck, “special investigators for the Bay Ridge police department.”

Suddenly I noticed the blue and red lights flashing in the parking lot. Mom and Dad were parked outside. Had it been an hour already? The police were handcuffing them to the hood of their car.

“No, stop!” I tried to get up, but Jessie caught me by the hand, her grip no longer gentle.

“Sit down!” She said, and for some reason I listened.

Jessie pulled down the collar of her shirt, and I would have turned beet red were it not for the small, black microphone taped to her chest.

“We have everything we need to put them away for good. Listen to me… I’m sorry I had to mislead you, but your parents are not good people, and you do not have to be like them.”

I never really thought about what I wanted to do with my life, but sitting across from Jessie, heartbroken, I realized that I did want to follow in my parents footsteps, and I already knew who my first victim would be.