Page 117 of Cackle

I take off running.

The air is freezing. I swallow big gulps of it as I book it down Main Street. Violent shivers rattle my whole body. Panic combs my veins.

I don’t stop to look behind me, to check if anyone came out and is now watching me flail into the night. I keep going until I’m home. I lock my doors.

There’s so much anxiety rioting inside me I’m afraid my body can’t contain it. I pace around the apartment. I peek into the bedroom. Ralph is there asleep, snoring lightly under his washcloth blanket.

I go into the kitchen and get a glass with trembling hands. I fill it from the tap.

I take a sip, wishing it were whiskey.

And it is. Suddenly, it is.

I wish it wasn’t just a glass. I wish I had a bottle.

And suddenly, I do. It’s there, just chilling on the counter. A full bottle.

I take it into the living room. I sit down on the couch, where I promptly begin stress-eating the chocolate cake and drinking the magic whiskey and wondering what the hell I should do.

What did Tom mean, there can’t be two? Are he and Oskar going to try to run me out of town? Would Sophie allow it?

And on the subject of Sophie, what did Oskar mean when he said that thing about her enemies ending up dead? About making tonics out of bones?

I wish I had some evidence to exonerate her from these accusations, but I don’t. Because who are those ghosts in her cellar?

Because what if . . . ?

What if the people aren’t wrong to fear her? What if I’m wrong to trust her?

I mean, she’s magic. She has power. So far, she’s used it only for me, I think, but she could just as easily use it against me, couldn’t she? How have I overlooked that?

Could Oskar be right? Could Sophie be manipulating me? Corrupting me?

Am I just an oblivious idiot? Someone who will buy into anything that provides her with an ephemeral hope, a respite from her pain. Someone who will throw herself at anyone who pays her any attention. Someone so desperate for acceptance that it doesn’t matter who’s doing the accepting. Am I someone who would enjoy their time in the socialist utopia before ending up dead with a Kool-Aid mustache?

Yeah, probably.

But I’m also the kind of person who lets fear conquer her thoughts, her actions, rule her life like a callous boy king. My whole life, fear has made me cautious and small. It was only when I met Sophie that I started to feel like I could be brave. Like I didn’t have to sit on my hands all the time being polite, swallowing my own needs and desires so as not to bother or inconvenience anyone else. That I felt like I didn’t have to tolerate a flat, unobtrusive paper doll existence. That I could want more and not feel wrong to want it.

I remember what she told me in the ballroom on the solstice: Surrender everything for everything.

I’m too scared to get bangs. How am I supposed to surrender everything for everything?

It’s all too much.

I crack.

I text Sam.

Do you think I’m the kind of person who would participate in the Peoples Temple Agricultural Project?

As soon as I hit send, I remember it’s still Valentine’s Day. I realize he’s probably with her. Shannon.

“This is the longest day of my life!” I shout into a pillow.

I need to put myself to bed. I shovel a few more forkfuls of chocolate cake into my mouth and take another swig of whiskey.

When I’m setting the bottle down, my phone brightens.