how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

18. cobain & satan

Michael's sitting quietly at his circular dining table, a wet rag pressed to his red and sore eye and a little frown on his round face. I pace around the kitchen, running my fingers through my wet hair and clutching my phone in one hand. My knuckles are porcelain white, my grip almost snapping the device. I keep glancing down at it, despite the screen being solid black.

"Who texted you?" Michael asks.

I bite my lips together, looking at him, then back at my phone. There's a horrible feeling stirring at the pit of my stomach, and my thigh tingles. It's like I can already feel where Maggie is thinking of stabbing me, the exact twist of the knife.... I shudder, pacing a few more steps. She was inside Michael's house. She retrieved her wellington boots -- they were definitely the pair he brought in, I checked. What else had she done? Did she watch us sleep?

"Someone, " I tell him.

"Must've been ridiculously important, as it almost cost me my eye." He sounds strikingly bitter.

I give him a pained look, and his expression softens.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean for it to come out like that."

I dismiss it with the wave of lazy hand and move to the porch door. My thumb rubs along my bottom lip while I stare outside, seeing his porch swings sway gently and the shrubs quiver beneath the deck.

My heartbeat paces.

Shrubs don't quiver.

I drop my phone with a clatter, the back knocking off and skidding across the floor. Michael gives me a quizzical furrow of the brow, but I gesture for him to get down, numbly finding the shutter cord and tugging it down with me. I sit with my back pressed against the cold porch door, and I can see the shifting shadows of something emerging behind me in Michael's garden. I can't breathe. Everything's a waded glow of distorted images. I can barely feel Michael crawling beside me and holding my hand -- only softly. My mind spins and I look up.

The frickin' window is open, and something's shuffling beneath it.

I close my eyes, feeling the tremor rack my shoulders and ribs. I can't even swallow -- I keep thinking about the red wellington boots and how I swear I can hear them moving around the wooden planks below Michael's window. I keep thinking about the gun, and how I felt the metal disc pressed between my stiff shoulder blades, the coolness of Maggie's hands, the harshness of her nearly sing-song voice. I can hear it now, tender and crooning to something small, like an animal -- or is it just me imagining things? My ears are ringing so furiously and blood is rushing so loudly through them, I can't decipher what's happening around me. I feel Michael squeeze my fingers tighter, and then release me in the most abrupt way possible. I don't open my eyes. My pulse thrums unsteadily under my skin. Why isn't anything happening?

Open your eyes, Maricruz, okay? Three, two...

I inhale slowly.

One.

I pry my exhausted eyes open, and Michael's sitting at one of the chairs, a tom cat perched proud on top of the dining table while he licks the back Michael's hand. The cat is an elegant white, a dark patch around its mouth. I rub my eyes, standing up and walking over.

"I feel like I passed out." I bring my hand over and stroke the cat. He blinks at me with slitted green eyes, nudging my fingers with a curiously wet nose. "Who's this?"

"Cobain." He draws away from the cat -- from Cobain -- and takes my arm, easing me onto his lap. I comply without hesitation. "You were having a panic attack. I didn't want to make it any worse, considering I don't know what to do when someone's having one."