Page 62 of Peak Cruelty

Back out.

Scroll again.

I don’t linger.I don’t stop.

I just move through them.

Face after face.Profile after profile.Shuffling a deck I’ve already memorized.

Not looking for anyone in particular.Not really.

It’s just something to do with my hands.My head.

Baseline behavior.Familiar territory.

It feels good to return to something that doesn’t ask questions.

One profile loads slower than the others.

Red hair.Freckles.A kid in one picture.

A quote in cursive under the bio:he who angers you controls you.

I click past it like it’s a quiz I already failed.

Click again.

Another woman.Another smile practiced in a mirror.

A caption under one post:kill them with kindness.

I back out.

Her light’s still on.

I check again—this time I see the reflection in the microwave door.Half a glow stretched across the tile.

I close the browser.Not because I’m done—because there’s still work to be done here.

There’s a mug from this morning still sitting in the sink.Hers.The coffee stain faint, as though she thought she scrubbed it clean and didn’t.I rinse it.Dry it.Put it back exactly where it was.

Handle facing outward.Rim checked for chips.

Not because I care.Because it’s what I do.

There’s something intimate about it.Not the mug.The failure.The fact that she didn’t catch it.Like no one taught her to be careful.

The towel on the counter has a wrinkle in it.

I smooth it flat.

Then I check the back door.

Locked.Deadbolt turned.I twist it once to make sure.Then again.

Garage door next.Locked.

Stairs.Window to the right.Doesn’t open.Never did.But I test it anyway.

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