Page 1 of The Slug Crystal

To be frank, I don’t think it’s having any effect, mostly giving off burning wax, and doing nothing to stem my desperation rising from loneliness and heartbreak. I’m cross-legged in my desk chair, knees practically touching my chin, left foot numb against the cheap, uneven hardwood.

I have work tomorrow, an event-planning gig for a downtown law firm, some supposedly meaningful team-building exercise that involves hurling axes.

Which honestly just sounds like a bunch of dudes that need therapy congregating in one place, but tonight my full attention is on a website called witch-webshop.com.

The header blinks neon magenta and acid green.

Below it sit two sad anime girls. One in pink with pigtails and one in green with a gas mask.

They are both hugging a banner that says: Magical Solutions for the Modern Broken-Hearted.

The whole thing is so on the nose that I want to close the tab out of embarrassment, but my last three hours have been spent mainlining Netflix with a slow drip of boxed wine, and my better judgment is now on holiday.

I flick the touchpad, scrolling past endless rows of crystals, powders, and strange ceramic toads in various lewd poses.

I know I’m not going to buy anything. Retail therapy is just cheaper when you do it with pixelated trinkets online instead of real ones in the store.

Still, I feel the same little tick of hope that I used to get searching for discount codes or waiting for a Tinder match.

I think maybe this time, the universe will give me a sign and send me what I’ve been looking for.

Maybe this time I’ll feel something besides restless disappointment.

A notification pings on my cell. I ignore it.

If it’s from Mom, I’ll have to pretend everything is fine, and if it’s from my ex, I’ll have to resist replying with anything that involves the phrase gutter troll.

Instead, I click into the Hexes and Jinxes tab.

A pop-up jumps at me: DO NOT USE FOR EVIL. The close button is a heart with fangs.

I continue to scroll, and then scroll some more.

There’s a spell kit to Banish Unwanted Visitors, which contains a mirror, four pins, and ethically sourced hair clippings.

A kit to Freeze Their Intentions, which requires moonlight and a working freezer, and a charm labeled Crush Control featuring a Barbie-sized whip.

I can’t help it. I snort out a full-bodied giggle that echoes off the water-stained ceiling of my apartment.

Then I see it, buried at the bottom of the page.

The Vermis Transformo Crystal. The product photo is a thumb-sized pale green cylindrical object, it looks like a shell carved from opal.

The description reads: “Tired of being haunted by your ex? Turn them into a harmless garden slug! The ancient tradition is back, now with improved results. Simply recite the incantation while holding the crystal and visualize the subject. (Note: works only on those you’ve kissed at least once.) WARNING: Not intended for use on pets or immediate family. ”

I click the image, half-expecting a Rickroll, but it just zooms in on the crystal. There’s a single review: five stars, “Best $150 I ever spent. My ex-girlfriend has not posted a single thirst trap since.”

I mutter, “This can’t be real.” But my fingers are moving across my screen, tracing the curves of the glassy crystal, a pale green cylindrical object.

I picture my ex-boyfriend’s face, round, smug, and always a little sweaty, on a slug.

It’s hilarious, but not in a healthy way.

A laugh bursts from my chest, but it’s the kind of laugh you get after a night of crying.

This whole page feels like salt on an open wound.

The Add to Cart button glows green, though, recapturing my attention.

I hover, then tap, and the cart icon bounces like a taunt.

Another popup flashes. Need It Faster? Rush Your Curse for Only $7.

95! I click No, but only because I am not, technically, insane.

Standard shipping is only 3-5 business days, and this isn’t a matter of life or death.

Checkout is a gauntlet of shame, as I simultaneously berate myself for wasting money and fill in my email, phone number, and credit card information.

My hands are unsteady, but the light of the laptop is the only thing holding the darkness at bay, so I type slowly and carefully, double-checking each field I do fill it in.

The autofill remembers every place I’ve ever lived, so I don’t actually type anything into the address field.

The pre-populated information also somehow makes me feel like this is a sign from the universe telling me I need this crystal.

Under Special Instructions, I almost type, “Please don’t judge me,” but settle for leaving it blank. The website’s FAQ is full of legalese, but one line stands out to me. No refunds if you misuse our products. I snort again. Who’s to say what counts as misuse when you’re buying a slug crystal?

At the bottom of the page, there’s a checkbox that reads, I acknowledge that all spells are for entertainment purposes only. I click it. In my head, I say, “Worth a shot, right? ”

But out loud, I murmur something softer, more like a wish, “Please work.”

The confirmation page flashes: ORDER RECEIVED!

Your item will arrive in 3-5 business days.

Thank you for shopping with us. The brightness of the screen hits my eyes like a slap.

I close the laptop with a snap. The whirr of the fan suddenly turns off, leaving me in the dim candlelight with just the sound of my own pulse in my ears.

I stare at the digital clock: 10:38 PM. Time never moves quickly when you want it to. I rub my eyes, already regretting everything, but it’s too late, the order is in. The die is cast, and there’s nothing left to do but wait for the mailman to deliver my package of shame.

The candle is almost spent, its flame guttering low, so I blow it out and let the darkness settle. It’s quiet enough to hear the blood rush in my own head and my heart pound in my chest. In a few days, I’ll get a tiny box and a magical crystal, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally feel better.

Or I’ll just have a useless crystal and one more dumb secret to keep.

Either way, it’s a plan.

Friday, 7:52PM. I’m already pacing. I have vacuumed every inch of my living room, decluttered the coffee table three times, and rearranged my throw pillows with the compulsive precision of a woman trying to manifest order out of chaos.

A brass bowl sits on the mantel, filled to the rim with old 4x6s and photo booth strips, all of them featuring my ex in various states of smirk.

The box from witch-webshop.com arrived this afternoon, small enough to fit in my mailbox, which almost felt insulting with its hefty $150 price tag.

It’s on the windowsill now, with the slug crystal inside, glinting faintly like a fossilized tear.

The doorbell rings with three quick peals.

I check my reflection in the TV screen. My hair is decent, and there are no mascara smudges.

I’ve even swapped my pajamas for leggings and a giant t-shirt with barely legible words in silver block letters.

I open the door to Alina, who barrels in with a bottle of merlot, a frosted cupcake container, and the energy of an entire cheer squad.

“Okay, first, what’s with the aroma?” She wrinkles her nose and sweeps through the apartment, setting her offerings on the kitchen counter. “Are we casting magic spells or trying to clear out the entire building with a fire scare?”

“It’s sage,” I say, shutting the door behind her. “I read it’s good for, uh, spiritual cleansing. But I think it, uhh, burned a little too long.” My eyes flash to the garbage bin in the corner, where the completely burned-to-a-crisp sage sits just under the lid.

“Please tell me you haven’t joined a cult.

This whole thing feels like something people do when they join a cult.

” She grins, already plopping herself onto the futon and propping her feet on my coffee table.

Her blonde hair is perfect, even in a ponytail.

Her skin is clear, and her eyes are bright.

She probably woke up that way, which I cannot relate to.

“If this is about the breakup, I’m all for cathartic fire.

But if you make me wear a robe, I’m out. ”

I laugh, half because she’s ridiculous, half because the choice genuinely feels like laugh or cry these days. “No robes. I promise.”

There’s a shuffling in the hallway as Jake arrives.

He’s always exactly two minutes behind Alina, as if they coordinated their arrivals to the second.

Either that or it’s because they are both Type-A freaks who think they’re late if they aren’t at least ten minutes early.

He knocks once, then steps in, hands in pockets, eyes scanning the room with the wary alertness of someone braced for an emotional fallout.

“Hey.” His voice is deep and careful. “Should I take off my shoes? ”

“Nah, you’re fine,” I say, and he steps in, instantly making my apartment feel smaller with his tall, muscular form.

He’s in black jeans and a hoodie, hair perfectly neat except for the stubborn bit above his right eyebrow.

He has a scar right above the same brow, visible under the harsh overhead light streaming from my kitchen.

He nods at Alina, who raises her cupcake at him like a toast.

Jake’s eyes land on the brass bowl and stay there. “We’re doing this, then?”

I nod. “We’re doing this.” I herd them to the living room, where I’ve set out three mismatched mugs for wine. No one wants to risk glass near an open flame.