Wife Cakes

White light reflects off traffic signs; streetlights paint the uprooted grass and her skinned knees a faint orange. The wind bends the trees west; rain pelts her forehead and the car in front of her. When she wakes up, the pedestrian smells nickels and tastes dimes. Cold and damp, she wiggles her toes and realizes her feet are bare. Where are her shoes?

“Holy shit,” the driver says. His voice sounds like static. He is only a silhouette, a phantom left over from a dream. ”Are you okay?” 

Pedestrian stands, then continues walking home.

In her bedroom, she squeezes the wound on her elbow as she scrolls through her phone. TikTok keeps her swaying back and forth, in a stasis akin to deep sleep. Bing! A notification pops up. Someone just followed her on Instagram. She looks at the profile: a private page with an all-black profile picture and a YouTube link in the bio. Curious, pedestrian clicks on the video. 

A man's scratchy voice begins to sing “Soon And Very Soon” as multicolored lyrics flash on a black background. This was her mother’s favorite song, and pedestrian chuckles at the coincidence. Her mother died earlier that afternoon from a postoperative infection. Oddly enough, everyone thought the cancer would get to her before anything else, so the call confirming her mother’s sudden death left her stunned, unsure about how to move forward from this moment.

Even more curious than before, she Googles the man’s name to see if she can find his LinkedIn or Facebook account. Only one result appears, and it leads to a website called Wife Cakes that sells domain names. Their tagline reads: “We're different, we're easy. Use us, you won't be sorry. If you don't use us, we'll be sad, but we'll still love you.”

Pedestrian feels the words sink into her stomach, yet she keeps reading: “Keep your private contact information hidden from prying eyes with our privacy service. Most registrars charge for this service; we believe your privacy shouldn't cost anything. Security matters, so we offer certificates at no charge for all supported domains. We'll even auto-renew them for you!”

Now, this whole situation feels less like a coincidence and more like a sign. Someone’s watching her, and they’re using this website to warn her. Of what? She’s not so sure, then remembers that she threatened to sue the hospital over her mother’s death. But she’s a nobody, practically powerless. The concept of a billion-dollar hospital coming after her over a threat is absurd. She’s about to turn off her phone and go to bed when—

Bang! Bang! Bang! 

She rushes to her window. Below her apartment, two boys play hacky sack against the lobby door. One of them looks up at her and waves. Every part of her being feels this gesture, her whole body vibrating. The open field around the corner would’ve been a better option, so she deduces that they must be after her. Doing street theatre. Pedestrian learned about this technique on a subreddit full of people who thought the government was targeting them.

Closing her blinds, she looks at her phone again. A pop-up page urges her to sign up for Wife Cakes’ newsletters, and she obliges. “You made a great decision, nicely done. Now you'll be first in line for our sweet deals, enticing info, and maybe even the occasional limerick or sonnet,” the website says. 

For the remainder of the evening, pedestrian sleeps in her closet. Clothes on hangers become a shield, while shoeboxes become a bed. The memory of her mother’s pale, limp hand and swollen blue feet replays in her mind; the brown spider skittering from underneath the hospital sheets replays in her mind; the casual conversations of the nurses just outside the room, laughing and shouting, replay in her mind; her sister’s wails replay in her mind. Her own screams replay in her mind. 

The next day, late morning, a tiredness that sleep could never dispel clings to her as she gets up. With it comes a throbbing at the top of her head that seems to grow more intense every minute or so. 

Bing! Wife Cakes just emailed her. Wetting her upper lip, she opens the message:

“Is this a dagger which I see before me,///The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.///I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.///Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible///To feeling as to sight? or art thou but///A dagger of the mind, a false creation,///Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?///I see thee yet, in form as palpable///As this which now I draw.” — William Shakespeare

They must be mocking her. 

She stumbles into her kitchen for some water. The fridge is empty except for a can of ginger ale and some bread. Pop will have to do. Maybe takeout could work, but only twenty dollars are left in her bank account, so she'll have to walk to McDonald's. A hoodie is thrown over bruised shoulders. Sneakers cover a swollen ankle and a scabbed one. Last night’s leggings remain donned. 

Outside, smog from the wildfires tinges the sky red, making her throat scratchy. Engines roar, tires burn against asphalt and the occasional honk ignites civil disputes. Swathes of people cross roads whenever a gap opens in traffic; she is alongside them.

A tall man wearing a duster loiters by McDonald's. “Can you get me something?” he says. His voice sounds scrambled, and when she replies, he stares at her, confused. 

Pedestrian orders a double cheeseburger meal, which costs a little under fifteen dollars. While she waits for her order, everything blurs, as if a fingerprint’s been pressed against her eye. Someone’s meddling in her head. Once her vision clears, she notices a mother and daughter staring at her. They don’t look like the usual culprits. The usual culprits look like that tall man, who's still standing by the McDonald’s and now staring at her too. Eating quickly, sparing glances at him, she makes a beeline for her apartment. 

“Wait,” tall man says, trying to catch up. To her ears, his voice sounds like the grating churn of a dryer, so she assumes he’s chasing her.

She considers crossing the busy intersection, but the whizzing cars and motorcycles make her nauseous, so she takes the first right turn to escape tall man. Wrong turn. She finds herself in an alleyway, and he’s closing in. 

Think, think. 

Jump the wall.

Hide behind the garbage bins.

No, no, that’s not right. 

There’s something wrong with her brain; they’re still messing with it. They’ll pay for this. For taking her mother, for taking any chance at her having a normal future.

Fight. 

Apartment keys bared like brass knuckles, she faces tall man.

“Whoa,” he says, pulling out her wallet. “You dropped this.”

Her mouth hangs open as the double cheeseburger meal she's just devoured rushes up her esophagus and sprays all over tall man.