Chapter 9: Natasha

I am neverand I mean never buying a magic spell from some social media bitch posing as a witch ever again. Sorry for using the b-word, but I am pissed off, tied up and ready to file a class action lawsuit. Of course, I can’t sue over a goddamn spell…

But I can stay mad.

That trifling ass hoe was faker than her barely-secured AliExpress wig and I swear I am going to commit a real life motherfucking crime once I get free from this captivity. I scream again, even if no one has heard me for hours and I am losing my voice. I hate this shit.

This is some bullshit. Tate should be dead right now. Instead, I’m drunk, half naked and he left me tied to the bed overnight with my ass in the fucking air. My body hurts. I feel ten years older than my age and my voice is hoarse from screaming and crying and trying to activate Siri and Alexa. These bitch ass fake females left me to rot. If I had an ounce of moisture left in my body, I would be crying by now.

I’m not the only one fucked up because of Tate’s irresponsible ass running away in the middle of the night to save townsfolk from a stupid ass fire. What about Terrorist? He called that dog our baby and what does he do? He abandons both of us. He is fucked up in the head and I am tired of it.

Tate probably got off work hours ago and he’s getting drunk at some bar looking at some whore named Carla’s bad boob job. I know, I know. That’s way too specific. But it’s possible. I have all the time in the world to conjure up the worst case scenarios. Tate might have married the whore and now, he’s never coming back. It serves me right for calling her a whore.

“HELP!” I call out helplessly. My voice comes out like the last squeak of a mouse caught in a trap. I’ll die in this bed. The curse backfired and I’m going to be the one dead.

Terrorist only barked intermittently throughout the night, but now that it’s morning time and his tiny chihuahua body has burnt through all his previously consumed calories, he is acting the fuck up. I thought he might get tired of barking, but he doesn’t. He wants his fucking food and he wants it now.

I have never heard an animal make that much noise in my entire goddamn life. The barking ends up sounding like human screaming and I wonder if his lungs are going to give out.

The more I call out to Terrorist, the more he just keeps barking like crazy. He wants me to save him and feed him, but there’s nothing I can do. Tate is the worst roommate ever. Now that I’m sober, I have a clear understanding that this is the worst thing the stupid bastard has ever done to me and it’s unforgivable. I’m going to starve to death with Terrorist. I don’t know which of us starves first. I hope it’s me.

I can’t tell if my luck improves or gets worse when I hear the doorbell ring. It can’t be Tate or he would just walk in through the front door, so it must be someone else. After this many hours tied to the bed, I can’t give a shit about some stranger seeing me in a compromising position.

“HELP!” I yell with all the required shamelessness. “HELP!”

I don’t hear a voice, but I hear a promising sound as the person on the other side of the door jostles the handle.

“PLEASE HELP ME!” I scream, considering for a split second that I ought to give the person walking through my apartment some type of warning that I’m tied up to the bed and looking a hot mess. They still haven’t announced themselves, but I hear unnervingly heavy footsteps that make me think the person who just walked in to save me is probably a man.

Maybe it’s our landlord or something. Who else would have a key? Maybe Tate left the door unlocked… Oh my God… I just invited a rapist or criminal into our apartment and I’m tied to the bed!

The curse backfired. My ass is cooked like a Thanksgiving turkey.

“What the hell is going on here?” I hear a gruff voice saying on the other side of the bedroom door. Terrorist stops barking. I don’t know if I should scream again or just quiet down. A cop would announce themselves, right? So this isn’t a cop. What random man would feel comfortable walking into our apartment?

My imminent death feels closer than ever before now. I can’t breathe. I have never been so screwed in my entire life. Is this really how I’m going to die? Lowkey, I thought I was going to die at a Beyoncé concert at age 37 after she dragged me up on stage leading to a fatal cardiac event.

I didn’t plan on getting stabbed in my bedroom. Oh hell no.

My lungs tighten as I’m about to let out a pathetic, blood curdling scream, but then my bedroom door opens, immediately killing the suspense, but unfortunately making my shame fifteen times worse. I recognize the guy who just walked into the bedroom, which you would think is positive, except he’s Dylan Callahan.

I yelp and try to cover myself, but stupidly end up poking my ass in the air and exposing my whole bare butt. Dylan screams like a girl.

“I AM RESPECTFULLY LOOKING AWAY,” he screams. “I HAVE TO FACETIME ANDI-MARIEE.”

I know he is not about to do that shit. My cousin is going to have a lot of questions about why her boyfriend is with me in my bedroom while I’m tied up with my ass in the air.

“DYLAN UNTIE ME! THIS IS HUMILIATING!”

“IT’S NOT CHEATING IF YOUR EYES ARE CLOSED,” he says, backing out of the door with Terrorist barking up a storm again as I hear the familiar FaceTime ring in the background, leading to my sure humiliation. I hear Dylan explaining something in muffled tones and then I hear Andi-Mariee’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Well let me see! I need to document for evidence.”

My cousin does not need to document my humiliation. I never thought I would go back to wishing for my death, but here I am.

“I just need you to know that I called you right away,” Dylan says nervously as he re-enters the room.

“UNTIE ME!” I scream. “And why are you here?”

Dylan is a firefighter. If he is here, Tate definitely should be. Dylan shatters my delusion right away.

“Because I’m on paternity leave, so I didn’t have to answer the call across town. Could you calm down? Andi wants to document everything.”

“Do not document me tied up with my ass out!”

“It might be helpful in case you want to press charges,” Andi says.

“If I have to show my ass in court, I will not be pressing charges!” I yell back. “Now put the damn phone down and set me free!”

Terrorist trots into the room and barks at Dylan’s feet a few times. Dylan for some damn reason sets Terrorist on the bed as he reaches into his pocket for a Swiss Army Knife to cut me free. Dylan sets up the phone on the dresser so Andi can see me as he cuts me loose. This might be the worst humiliation I have ever suffered. Terrorist yaps and scampers around the bed like he’s about to race. Is now the time for the zoomies?

“Where is Tate?” I ask, once Dylan cuts my arms free and I groan like a broken donkey trying to move them for the first time in over ten hours. Terrorist hops onto my lap and barks loudly, nearly blowing out my eardrums.

“At the police station,” Andi says. “I guess you didn’t hear but the media caused a huge frenzy at the site of the fire last night and there was an eighteen car pile up as the fire engines tried to get out of there. Too much snow.”

I wouldn’t believe her, except this town seems to attract snow-related tragedies like none other.

“How does this stuff always seem to happen in our town?” I groan, setting Terrorist on the ground, where he sprints towards his food bowl.

“Global warming, maybe,” Andi says.

Dylan scoffs in disbelief. “Global warming? Does it make sense that global warming would cause enough snow to wipe out every motorized vehicle in a ten mile radius?”

“Well you’re not a scientist, babe,” Andi says. “So maybe you just don’t know.”

They almost start arguing, but I clear my throat dramatically to make sure Dylan finishes untying me because my ass is not getting stuck here for nothing so those two can bicker senselessly and drive up their crazy sexual tension in front of me. I love myself enough to plead for my freedom first.

“How did you get tied to the bed?” Andi asks me, and I consider starting them back on the damn global warming argument now that we have to discuss my personal business. Fuck.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. For the court case,” Andi asks.

“I am not pressing charges.”

“Was it a cringey Tinder date gone wrong?” Andi yells, like her man hasn’t seen me in enough of a humiliating position. Once I’m free, he throws a blanket at me, like I’m somehow in the wrong for my state of dress in my own damn bedroom.

“It was an everything gone wrong,” I say.

Dylan scoffs. “It’s pretty easy to see what went on here.”

What is he now, a damn cop?

Terrorist runs back into the bedroom, and barks at me, so I put him back on my lap. Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought… I stroke his ears and apparently, that’s taking it a little too far because the dog pisses all over me. I scream as the warm puddle erupts from his little pee pee and I am officially being used as a doggy pad.

Dylan springs into action and grabs Terrorist off my lap before I leap off the bed and accidentally yeet him across the room.

“I HATE TATE WHITMARSH!” I scream impulsively at the top of my lungs. Why am I such a dumbass? “I HATE HIM!!”

There goes my secret.

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