Shortcake

by Lucy Watson

I’m not proud of the fact that when life gets tough, I curl into a ball and binge-watch movies, but it is what it is.

Sweet Benny. Except this Sweet Benny looks more like a hitman. A hitman who enjoys his job a little too much.

Ever feel like the universe is some greasy forty-year-old online troll living in his mother’s basement with his Cheeto-dusted fingers hovering the keyboard, just waiting for the perfect time to fuck with you? Yeah, me too.

When Ben’s heavy footsteps draw near, I take in a steady breath and remind myself that the door is locked. That he’s Rose’s grandson. That he may be pissed, but he’s not going to hurt me. Ice shoots through my veins when I hear the doorknob jostle. I was wrong. He’s going to kill me. I flash to my funeral. It looks like a Denny’s at three am on a Tuesday.

Lord of the Underworld is trying to trick me into spending eternity burning by his side. No, thanks. Been there, done that. Got the T-shirt.

This earns me an over-the-shoulder glare that I’m pretty sure is considered a felony assault in forty-eight states.

“Have fun, Shortcake,” he says, before he does the one thing that I didn’t even know would be the end of me. Benjamin Crawford reaches his rough and manly hand up to my head and… ruffles my hair. Like he just bought me a Happy Meal. Ruffles. My. Fucking. Hair. I’m dead. Here lies Emelia Anderson. Friend to one. Mother to none. Died from an unfortunate hair ruffle. While wearing a puffer vest.

We never really know how the rushing water of life will shape us, or what landscape it will leave behind.

The thing about anxiety is it doesn’t care that you haven’t had a night out in forever. It doesn’t care that you need to dance away all the bullshit weighing you down. It doesn’t care that you finally feel like you have it. Anxiety is a sneaky son of a bitch.

My fingers close around the door handle. Will I jump from a moving car? Probably not, but I’m not ruling it out. If I’m going to be trapped in a speeding vehicle with a man, it will be Keanu Reeves, not fucking Carl, the balding Uber driver.

Sometimes I think we’re all living in some kind of Matrix-like simulation game with somebody else calling the shots. I mentally flip off whoever’s playing my life. Fucking gamers.

before I can react, I’m up in the air and slung over his broad shoulder like he just pillaged a village and I’m his freaking prize. Well, jokes on him because he just kidnapped the village idiot.