Page 139 of Cackle

“Just guy stuff . . . Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Miss you, too. Tomorrow night? Yeah, but make reservations. They’re always crowded. . . . Okay . . . Me, too. Bye.”

“Who was that?” I ask. But I already know.

He’s standing in the kitchen with his phone in his hand. Guilty.

“Annie,” he says, “are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Actually, I’m feeling pretty incredible.”

For the first time in our relationship, I’m in control. And what makes it extra sweet is that he knows it. He’s squirming in the corner.

“Ow,” he says. “What’s happening?”

His legs give out from underneath him, and he falls to the floor.

“You’re still with her, huh?” I say “Shannon.”

“Annie, what’s happening?”

I ease up, and he stops his wriggling.

“You didn’t break up with her before coming to see me, did you? Tell me the truth,” I say, reaching out my hand and pinching the air.

He screams, clutching his kneecap.

I release my fingers.

“No,” he cries. “I’m sorry.”

“Insurance,” I say. “Smart. In case things didn’t work out with us, you wouldn’t end up alone.”

“I wanted you,” he says. “I wanted things to work out between us— Ahhh!”

This, this I’m not doing intentionally.

He’s writhing around on the floor, his limbs twitching madly, his face gravely distorted. There’s blood coming out of his eyes. Not in neat drops, not in tears, but in a steady stream.

“Annie!” he screams. Blood begins to spray from his mouth now, too.

I close my eyes and take deep, unhurried breaths. If I can calm down, maybe I can make it stop. But . . . it’s hard to let go of my animosity at the moment. It’s hard not to torture him when it’s so easy. When I can.

I open my eyes, and he’s turning a pale blue color. I admire it for a second, the color, before realizing he might be dying. I might be killing him.

With that, he scrambles to his hands and knees, wheezing.

I allow him to catch his breath. He manages to pull himself up and prop himself against the fridge.

“What the fuck?” he keeps saying. “What the fuck?”

“I gave you so much of myself,” I say, “and you wasted me.”

His face. Such pure, exquisite horror. Such fear.

I don’t mind. He fears me because he is small. I will not meet him there. I will not shrink myself down to his size, or anyone else’s, for their comfort. For their appeasement.

I actually find it kind of amusing, his fear. Kind of funny. It’s making me laugh.

I laugh.