Page 44 of Choke

He turns around as he reaches the door and reiterates, “Seriously, Lex. Call anytime. Stay safe.”

Then he is gone. Millie darts around as if nothing happened. The noise of the city below sounds more chaotic and violent. It was as if I could hear the darkness I had never realized existed. I return to the counter, open the drawer, and pull out his card. I inspect it, examining the embossed department logo and his name. I don’t put it back in the drawer. Instead, I set it on my nightstand—just in case.

When I come back to the kitchen, I register how warm it is. I peel off the sweater I’m wearing and look at the thermostat. It’s much higher than I typically keep it, but nothing happens when I push the button to lower the temperature. Frowning, I unplug it and plug it back in. It powers back on but still won’t lower.

Great. Of course, the fucking thermostat won’t work now.

I strip out of my jeans and walk to the window. I reach for the window latch, then hesitate. It’s stupid—I’m on the ninth floor, after all. No one could possibly…

I step back and leave it locked.

I can sleep naked.

Wine. I need a glass of wine.

I walk to the cupboard, grab a coffee mug, then fill it with ice.

Ice and wine. A true connoisseur’s pairing.

I fill the mug with the bottle of white I left in the fridge and curl up on the couch, sipping it and flipping through social media on my phone. A few minutes later, the day hits me. I’m exhausted. I glance around, my eyes feeling so heavy. The clock on the stove says it’s 7:47 pm. So early.

I’m so tired.

I stumble off the couch, my legs suddenly heavy, sluggish—like lead. My vision blurs at the edges.

Am I drunk? From one glass of wine?

I set my mug down on the table, looking in to see I didn’t even finish half of it.

Lex, you fucking lush.

I stretch and accept defeat in the battle to stay awake. I go to my bedroom, crawl across the bed, and flop onto my belly.

God damn, this bed is comfortable.

I drift off to sleep, nearly able to ignore the feeling that something is off.

Mashed Potatoes

Lex

15 Years Old

“MORGAN!”

The scream comes from the lower level of the house, between the sound of smashing dishes. I pull my legs into my chest tighter and cover my ears, my eyes locked on my bedroom door. I barricaded it with my desk chair under the handle and then loaded as many books and other heavy items onto the chair as I could find.

Another scream rings through the otherwise silent house. The sound’s almost demonic. It had been too quiet earlier. I came home from school to complete and utter silence. It felt foreboding—it’s never that quiet. I should have known. I should have come in, and gone straight to my room, and not come out until school tomorrow. But I didn’t. I figured I would see if she was okay. I left the safety of my room and wandered to the kitchen. Working to keep my footsteps light, she doesn’t like it when I’m too heavy on my feet. I found her standing in the kitchen, hunched over unnaturally, hands gripping the counter edge, her rage-filled gaze trained on the bowl of mashed potatoes as if they’d personally offended her.

The sound of glass shattering makes me jump. Then another crash, louder; whatever that was sounded heavy. Furniture scrapes across the floor. Her screams are warped, twisted. Words are there but tangle together into something unrecognizable—something inhuman. Now and then, I make out my name, ‘bitch’, ‘ungrateful.’ My skin prickles with sweat, and my stomach rolls, hearing her call me such names over and over again.

What the fuck is happening?

Tears fall freely down my cheeks. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might fly out of my chest. I scan the room, looking for the phone. It’s always in here, but where is it? I slowly uncurl myself and move across the bed, looking at the floor. Nothing. I shift to the other side. Nothing. Pressing the page button isn’t an option. She will know I am looking for a phone if the page goes off and the phone is anywhere but this room. I push my hands under my pillows, brushing something hard and plastic, and relief washes over me. Yanking the item out, I bite back a sob when I realize it’s the remote for my television; at the same time, a crash shakes the house, shakes my bones; it feels like a wrecking ball hit us.

I lower myself slowly onto all fours, crawling through the room and looking for the phone. This is why Dad left. He couldn’t take this shit. He stayed close enough to see me every other weekend but not here. He’ll come get me. If I can just find the fucking phone. A slam against the door sends me shooting backward, my hands clutching for my heart. A slow, deliberate scrape runs down the wood of the door. I stop breathing. The sound is unmistakable, sending shivers up my spine and covering my skin in goosebumps—metal against wood—a knife.

“Open the door, Morgan.” Her voice is warped—deep, unrecognizable. Not human.

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