Page 138 of Cackle

Suddenly, he’s on top of me. His hands are quick and busy.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he breathes into my ear.

I take a deep inhale to calm myself and clear my mind, but Sam interprets this as an indicator of pleasure and grabs a fistful of my hair.

“Stop.”

“What?” he asks.

The old me would have just gone with it, done whatever he wanted. Endured, hoped for enjoyment or, if that didn’t come, for it to end quickly.

I wonder how much of a woman’s life is spent this way. Enduring. Waiting for enjoyment or, fuck it, death.

“Stop,” I say. He lets go of my hair, not quite understanding my demand. I pull my arms out from under him and push him back. “Stop. I don’t want this. It’s not what I want.”

He gets off of me. His hair is messy, his eyes stark. It’s an alarmingly similar feeling to that of staring directly into the sunken eyes of a ghost.

Sophie was right. It’s too late now.

I know what it’s like not to have to endure. I know what it’s like to manifest things through sheer force of will. I’ve smashed teacups, broken glass, forced bones into someone’s mouth. I’ve made these things happen with my mind. Manipulated the physical world with my thoughts, with my desires.

There’s no going back to Sam. To sitting at the kitchen table in the morning eating eggs and joking around, all the while wondering what he wants from me, how I can make him happy.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“I don’t understand,” he says, literally scratching his head.

I stand up.

There’s something new pulsing through me. Or not new. Awakened. An electricity. A vibrance. There’s glitter in my veins.

“I don’t want this,” I tell him. “I don’t want you anymore.”

The look on his face is so delicious I could eat it. I could eat it in one bite.

“I think you should go,” I say. “I’ll give you a minute.”

I walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me so I can take a moment to admire myself. I linger in a reciprocal gaze with my reflection.

We’re smiling.

“Tell me the truth,” I say to her.

She does.

You must surrender everything for everything.

“I’m ready now,” I tell her. “I surrender.”

I surrender, she says back.

It’s transcendent. An injection of straight sunshine. Pure fucking gold. It binds bone and sinew. It’s in me; it’s of me. It’s me, it’s me, it’s me, it’s me.

—

I don’t know how much time passes, but when I open the bathroom door, Sam’s no longer on the couch. I don’t see him, but I hear him.

He’s talking to someone.