Cackle

by Rachel Harrison

She performed an earnest cover of Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn.”

I brush my teeth and take three Advils instead of the recommended dose of two, because I’m hard like that.

Narratives change when someone dies, especially young and tragically. Their history transforms. It transcends reality, into something more romantic.

I miss him so much I could scream.

And every time it happens, it’s like a sip of hot tea. It’s macaroni and cheese; it’s cozy slippers; it’s cashmere. It’s comfort.

He’s attractive, but I’m not attracted to him. I want him to adopt me. Teach me how to make a solid cappuccino and tell me he’s proud of me.

“you’ll discover for yourself soon enough the things that devastate us most in the moment are always the things we look back on with such gratitude.”

Is this how it happens? Is this how you make friends as an adult? You stumble upon someone wonderful, and all of a sudden, you’re close?

I’ve been puking for some time when I realize I’ve been puking for some time.

“Fate is just another invention to trick us into complacency. Inaction. If one assumes that they cannot change their circumstances, they won’t try.

I stop at the Verizon store in Aster to get a new phone. The guy who sells it to me seems annoyed by my very existence, and to be honest, I find it deeply relatable.

What if he chews with his mouth open or watches golf for fun? What if he owns a red hat?

And through this lifelong cycle of validation and fortification, his ego has transformed into something large and dangerous. I picture a Godzilla-like creature with an enormous, destructive body and a teeny-tiny brain. Terrorizing those smart enough to recognize it, entertaining those too stupid to realize they’ve created a monster— and monsters can’t be unmade.

It’s astonishing what you’ll accept when you want love. When you need it. You’ll welcome it in any form, from anyone, anything, regardless of circumstance, however peculiar. However fantastical.

I never realized how much bullshit is bound to the bottom of your hair. How it carries with it the years and experiences, all it has witnessed, has endured. The reason you can’t let go of your past is that it’s still attached. That weight on your shoulders, the strain on your back and neck. It’s your dead ends.

I can’t tell if I’m crying because I’m angry or crying because I’m scared or if this is my default reaction to everything. Tears.

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

I actually find it kind of amusing, his fear. Kind of funny. It’s making me laugh. I laugh. No. I cackle.

It’s best not to be specific with wishes. Otherwise, you end up getting what you think you want instead of what you really need. How dangerous.