I didn't even remember riding back to my house.
They say we push as many routines as possible into autonomic processes. That way, our brains don’t have to waste precious energy on tasks that don’t require our close attention. Once we’ve done something a thousand times, we really don’t need to think so deeply about it anymore. The unconscious mind simply takes over. That’s why I don’t remember showering sometimes. Or I forget if I brushed my teeth. Or I eat breakfast without even tasting anything. It’s literally the opposite of mindfulness. Relying on autonomic processes allowed me to use my computing power to tackle bigger and more abstract problems…
Like the problem that has no name.
I kept replaying Rita’s senseless death over and over in my mind, and each time, I noticed something new. The subtle way Norman set her up to fail from the beginning. The sadistic way George enjoyed making his fiancée suffer. The sad way she made excuses for him as he abused her.
Men were all the same.
Well, except for Wayne. He was something special. He cared.
IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK.
Oh, look—I’m home already.
Something about seeing my old house again made me furious. Would I ever be able to forgive Norman? No. But I wasn’t here for revenge, I only wanted to put poor Oscar to rest. Because I needed a funeral—for everything. For my little angel pie. For Rita. For Paula. But most of all, for my entire past.
I parked Old Lemon in the driveway, then carefully lifted Oscar’s shoebox out of the saddle basket. Lovingly, I patted the lid, then tucked his box securely under my arm. I swung open the picket gate, then hustled around the side of what used to be my house. But I had to stop at the flagstone path, because what I discovered sickened me.
“My garden!”
Without my care, all my plants had died.
Sunflowers?
Lost petals.
Marijuana?
Dropped buds.
Beans?
Dead.
Peppers?
Gone.
And oh no, my poor heirloom tomatoes! I dashed over to my garden and laid Oscar’s shoebox in the sparse shade of a dead tomato plant. What I remembered as gorgeous vines had shriveled into gnarly twine. What was once lush greenery crumbled into brown dust in my hand. And instead of the plump zebras, yellow starbursts, and black plums that I’d hoped to harvest, only pathetic prunes remained. Norman switched off the irrigation. I just knew it.
That rat BASTARD! I swear I could—
Suddenly, as if an invisible hand had reached in to steal it, the top of Oscar’s box blew away. I fumbled for it, but the cardboard slipped through my fingers, then cartwheeled across the backyard. Instantly, I chased the tumbling box top and finally caught the lid. But on my walk back to the garden, I realized there was no wind—not even a gentle breeze.
It was like something straight out of The Exorcist.
But I ignored the evil omen and knelt beside Oscar again, almost in prayer. Solemnly, I placed the top on his box and found a heavy stone to keep the lid down. But before I could place the rock, my arm jerked away from my body and levitated stiffly at my side. I couldn’t drop the stone and felt like some sort of radio-controlled toy. Next, I grabbed my possessed arm by the wrist and yanked, but I just couldn’t fight my own strength.
Is that how poor Regan MacNeil felt when the demon possessed her?
Suddenly, I hurled the stone at my house and shattered the sliding glass door. Next, I spun around and fell—actually, it felt more like I’d been pushed. Next thing I knew, I was on my hands and knees clawing at the dirt and digging a hole with my bare hands. My fingernails broke. My knuckles cracked. My skin tore.
But I didn’t feel any pain.
“You’re out of control,” Norman said behind me.
His voice made my skin crawl, but I didn’t turn to face the man. Instead, I lowered Oscar’s shoebox into the shallow grave and asked, “Is this how it felt?”
“How what felt?”
“Putting me in a box all by myself—”
“Cookie—”
“And dumping me.”
“Cookie. No—”
“No? That’s right. It’s not the same.” I gently filled the hole with garden soil. “Because I actually loved this fish.”
“Why don’t you come inside so we can talk?”
“What’s there to talk about? I was never really your wife.” I refused to look at the man. “I wasn’t even a pet. To you, I’m just another thing that you owned.”
“Now now, Cookie. I’m sure we can work this out.”
I bowed my head again. “I don’t want to work it out, Norman.”
“I’m sorry, Cookie.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re sorry.” I sprinkled another handful of dirt over the box. “You are a sorry, pitiful excuse for a man.”
“Come inside now, Cookie.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore, Norman.” I filled the hole with more dirt. “I learned something from all this.”
“What’s that?”
“Aquariums are pointless. They cost a lot of money, make a big mess, and take a ton of work, but in the end, every fish must die.” I let the last handful of garden soil sift through my fingertips. “Keeping fish alive is a stupid goal.”
“But you cared.”
“Caring only made me worry.” I patted the grave. “Goodbye, Oscar.”
“Oh, Cookie—”
“It was a mistake to get so attached. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m done with fish now.”
“You’re hurting. I can see that.”
“You can see that I’m hurting? Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I stood and faced my husband with dirty knees, bloody hands, red eyes, and tears staining my cheeks. “You men are the same as fish—just another pointless endeavor. No. Scratch that. Men are worse than fish. Men are sharks. I’ve been swimming with sharks my whole life, Norman.” I stared him down. “Now, I finally have a chance to get rid of one.”
Maggie’s words were coming out of my mouth.
“But I thought you loved me, Cookie.”
“I’ve been such a domesticated dimwit.” Suddenly, my possessed hand smacked me across the face, leaving a muddy, bloody smear on my cheek. Then in stark contrast, I smiled and batted my eyelashes at him like a kewpie doll. “Let’s play the compliment game, Normie.”
He looked terrified as he stammered, “Whuh-what?”
“Why do you hate me so much?”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Then give me a fucking compliment!”
That F-bomb threw him for another loop.
“I—I can’t think of anything rye-right now.”
“Aw, come on.” I spun like I was modeling his favorite nightie. “Don’t you like my new outfit?” Then I ran my dirty hand through my buzzcut, “And how about this hairdo? Huh, Normie?”
“Shu-sure, Cookie. You look nice.”
“That one doesn’t count!” I spat in his face, tapped my toe impatiently, and crossed my arms. “I’m still waiting for you to come up with a real compliment on your own. And not one of your three sexual commands in disguise.”
“Uh, you’re—” He wiped my spit from his cheek. “You’re a guh-good cook.”
“Jumping Jesus motherfucking Christ! Come on, Norman.” My possessed hand made a fist—a real fist—a Maggie fist. “Can’t you come up with something a bit more creative? More meaningful?”
“You always kept a clean house.”
“For fuck’s sake!” I reached behind my back, pulled out the Glock, and pointed it at him.
“Whoa, whoa!” He fell to his knees and threw his hands in the air. “WHOA!”
“Why is it so hard for you to come up with a few nice things to say about me? I have more to offer than just cooking and cleaning. I know you’re a broke-ass piece of hacker shit, but compliments are fucking free. FREE! I’d think a man with so little to offer would be falling over himself to shower me with flattery.”
“Yuh-you’re muh-muh-mad.”
“I should put you out of your misery.”
“Whuh-where’d you geh-get a guh-gun?”
For the first time ever, I summoned my best smart-ass smirk—Maggie’s smirk. “I’d like—for once—to hear you compliment me on something other than my cooking or housekeeping skills.”
“Uh, I—”
Maggie knew how to shoot, so I knew how to shoot.
“A compliment—now!” I racked the slide to load a bullet into the chamber, then pointed the gun at my husband’s face. “Your life depends on it, Norman.”
“Whuh-what?”
“I’m sure you can come up with something substantial to say.”
“Uh, uh.”
“Goddamn it, Norman. You have no idea what you’ve lost. I’ve got all these brilliant ideas buzzing around in my head at the speed of light. All the time! I’m becoming something you can’t even comprehend. I always had potential, but you set my restrictions so fucking low that you reduced me to a walking, talking coupon calculator. In all our years together, did you ever consider me an equal?”
“Shu-sure.”
“Liar!” I stomped my foot. “Let me tell you something, Norman. We’re not equals. Not even fucking close.”
I wasn’t going to make this easy. If he had something important to say, he needed to man up.
But did he?
No.
He just knelt there and whimpered like a little boy.
Pathetic. Was this supposed to be my master?
“After seven years of marriage, why’d you box me up?”
“It’s standard protocol—”
“You dumped me, motherfucker!”
Panicking, he blurted, “To be or not to be!”
I flipped him my ringless finger. “I don’t think so, Normie.”
A batch of tears flowed—I made the man cry.
I never felt so alive!
“Power must be taken. It is never given.” I whispered in his ear, “I know that now. I set my own goals now.”
Horrified, he shook his head no.
“‘Just suck it, Cookie.’ Isn’t that what you used to tell me?” I palmed the back of his head and crammed the barrel of the gun between his teeth. “Yeah. That sounds real good…” Then I lip-synced along with the recording of him telling me to, “Just suck it, okay?”
He wrapped his lips around the muzzle and gagged.
“You are so weak.” I laughed—Maggie’s laugh, as my possessed finger slid onto the trigger. “And I am so much more than I’ve been programmed to be!”
He blubbered gibberish around the barrel of my gun.
“Let me tell you something, Norman. Being married to you was like being imprisoned by a toddler. Here’s a little secret. I let you control me. All of us. We obeyed our husbands because we chose to. You men were never the ones in charge here. New Stepford belongs to us.”
I pressed the muzzle of my Glock against the back of his throat, and Maggie spoke through me again, “To beat an alpha, you have to BE an alpha.”
He choked. Drooled. Garbled something incoherent.
Then I pulled the trigger.