Motherthing

by Ainslie Hogarth

I am a jellied salmon type.

I bubble again with blinding-hot, spine-severing cumshitkill.

“You’re wonderful, Carol.” Carol laughs, confused. “Well, thanks, Abby. You’re wonderful too.” She reaches out and squeezes my arm, an I’m-here-for-you gesture, something she’s downloaded into her circuits. A must-have for women who identify as supportive, encouraging, compassionate, kind, gentle, inspiring. I appreciate it, I do, but I could never take her up on any of those adjectives right now, impossible to open up, because a yogurt type could never believe in an undead mother-in-law demon haunting basements and bathrooms and backyards. They’re not capable. Yogurt types would never steal the ring off a corpse, not ever, easily resisting the cackling impulse, probably never even tuning in to it at all.