Page 32 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

H er light’s still on.

Door still cracked.

It’s not an invitation. Not really. She left it open like she leaves everything open—with the kind of calculation that passes for accident.

I watch from the hall.

She’s quiet inside. No shift in the mattress. No rustle of sheets. She’s already asleep, or faking it well enough that I’d have to make contact to tell the difference.

I walk past it. Don’t slow down. Don’t look in.

Pace the hallway twice. Cut through the living room. The kitchen. End up in the garage.

The bleach smell’s still clinging to the air—sharp, chemical, edged with sweat. I open the door. Let the night air in. There’s nothing left to see—tarp rolled, floor scrubbed, trash bagged and sealed. Still, I wait.

Wait ten minutes. Let the air clear out.

Then I shut it again.

Back inside, I wash my hands. Maybe the fifth time. Maybe more.

The rental’s too quiet. No neighbors. No traffic. Just the central air kicking on and off, and the soft tick of the thermostat behind me.

I flick on a lamp and sit at the small desk by the window.

The laptop wakes without prompting.

So do I.

No hesitation. No thought. Just keystrokes that know where to go. Muscle memory. Repetition. Routine.

I open a browser. Type in the usual.

New profiles. Filtered by location. Most recent first.

Photo grids load—blonde, brunette, overlit faces angled to perfection. Thirty-somethings with ring lights and too many secrets.

I toggle through hashtags: #fitmom, #mentalhealthmatters, #survivor.

Location tags bring up women at the park. Women at the gym. Women drinking overpriced coffee in minimalist kitchens with borrowed backdrops.

They write in lowercase. Caption their pain like it’s a brand.

Healing. learning. moving on.

They smile like they’ve survived something.

I click like that’s a challenge.

Scroll.

Save.

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.

It’s not about safety. It’s about sequence.

You do it all or you don’t sleep. You follow the order. You don’t skip steps.

Otherwise, you wake up at 3:17. Or 4:04.

And you won’t know what’s wrong—just that it is.

I pause in front of the laundry room. She left her shoes there—sandals, not even practical ones. Gold strap broken on the left one. She wears them anyway. I think about asking her why. Then I think about what kind of man cares about a broken sandal.

I move past it. End up outside her room again.

Her light’s still on.

I don’t check directly—just rest a hand on the doorframe.

Wood warm beneath my palm as if it’s been waiting.

She’s not asleep. I’d know.

There’s a kind of silence that’s earned, and a kind that’s faked.

This is the latter.

I don’t knock. Don’t walk in. I just stand there. One shoulder to the wall. Head down. Breathing in air that tastes like her and something older.

Like maybe this isn’t new.

Like maybe it never was.

She shifts. A creak in the mattress. Deliberate.

Letting me know she knows.

And I do nothing.

Because crossing the threshold would make it real.

Instead I count to five.

Then again.

And again.

Until the air changes.

Until her light flickers off.

And even in the dark, I stay.

Not because I want to.

Because I can’t break the pattern.