SHORT STORY: MANIFEST IT

I only have one goal this year, the same one I have every year—don't kill anyone. But when Callie asks me if I have any New Year's resolutions, in the breakroom in front of our colleagues, that hardly seems appropriate to share.

'I'd love to run a 5k,' I say.

'You don't look like a runner,' Brian says. He's about to put fish in the microwave, which tells you all you need to know about him.

Callie darts in front of him and barricades the microwave door. 'And you don't look like a selfish turd, but here we are.'

She's my favourite colleague, obviously.

'You need to start manifesting,' Lindsay says, talking with her hands. 'If you think about something hard enough, you can make it real with the power of belief. I dropped a whole dress size that way, didn't go to the gym once.'

Callie gives me a smirk. 'Well, I'm manifesting a puppy. My kids have been begging for years, and I've finally found a hypoallergenic one that doesn’t set my insides on fire. I should be picking him up next week, fingers crossed.

Callie, Lindsay and Brian reel off everything else on their lists. Traveling, marathons, promotions. My heart feels a little green. I don't mean it. Everyone deserves to chase their dreams. I just wonder what life would be like if I could do the same.

I excuse myself and return to shelf-stacking. I'm clearing out the last of the unsold Christmas perfume sets and putting the self-development books out. Then, I find a new box in the stock room, full of soft, pleasing pebbles that say: Manifest it – if you can dream it, you can do it! They're clearly made in a factory in China, but they're sweet, and I like them. I put one behind the till to take home later.

At the end of my shift, the others are heading to the pub.

'Sarah, join us,' Callie says. 'First round is on me.'

'Thanks, but I'm doing dry January,' I lie.

'They do mocktails. I might stick to those too; I'm trying to cut down,' she says in that lovely, soft way of hers. I'd so love to be her friend.

'Sorry, I can't. I've got to check on my mum,' I say, which is only half a lie because I really can't go to the pub. I can't take the risk.

 I get back to my cosy one-bedroom flat and close the door with a sigh of relief. It's on the top floor of a four-story block of flats with no lift, which is excellent because no one ever comes up here.

I don't check on my mum because she died thirty-five years ago when I was ten. I didn't mean for it to happen, but it was my fault because I didn't eat that stupid bit of string. It was Christmas day, and Uncle Joe was complaining about everything—music too loud, rubbish crackers and no pigs in blankets. Mum was already close to tears and then she brought out the turkey.

'Dry as a nun's—' he starts after the first nibble.

Mum jumps up. ‘Not in front of Sarah. And it's not dry, it's from the butchers.'

'Go on, Sarah, you be the judge,' he says.

Just in case, I pour on lots of gravy and start eating. I swear I meant to back Mum up completely, but I kept chewing and chewing, and the turkey would not go down. I tried to force it. I choked. My cousin had to do the Heimlich manoeuvre. It turned out to be the string from the legs, but before we realised that Uncle Joe said, 'Look what you've done now. You nearly killed your daughter with your cooking.'

Mum sobbed and took to bed. Later that night, I imagined Uncle Joe choking on the string. And I mean I really imagined it. Manifested it, if you will. We found him the following day, cold in his bed with a piece of string in his throat. Mum had a heart attack from the shock. Not because she liked him but because he was her only family, which still means something I suppose.

So that's why I live alone and can't go to the pub, because if you don't know anyone, then you can't hate them enough to kill them.

#

However, working at a department store during the January sales can make that difficult. People think the Christmas rush is the worst bit. Don't get me wrong, having Mariah Carey and Michael Bublé shoving festive cheer down your ear canal for a month straight is enough to make anyone snap. But for me, January presents a greater challenge. The discounts get bigger, people try to return all their unwanted presents, our temporary staff leave, and no one is excited about that special day anymore.

As usual, I'm taking refuge in shelf-stacking. Then I hear shouting. It's a customer at the till, wagging his finger in Callie's face.

'I'm sorry, Sir. I don't think this gift card is valid,' she says.

He slams it down on the counter. 'It was a present from my brother.'

I swoop in. 'Then you'd better complain to him because we stopped accepting these ten years ago.'

He glares at me with venom. Now I'm thinking about snakes. I'm picturing a big king cobra about to strike—No! Stop, stop, stop.

'I have to go,' I say, practically sprinting out of the store. And I don't stop running until I get home because I have to keep moving, and then when I get home, I put on an old sitcom I've seen a hundred times because it's the only thing that stops the thoughts. As soon as I wake up, I start it again. Just the audio, through my headphones, so I can keep listening at work. I'll claim I'm experiencing sensory overload and need them to stay calm. Not entirely untrue. I'll have to keep doing this for several days now, maybe longer.

I don't take them out until I find Callie crying in the stockroom one afternoon.

'Hey Callie, I'm sorry I ditched you on our shift the other day. I wasn't well.'

'Oh, that's okay. I know you don't like talking to customers, and he wasn't a nice one.'

People at work think I have social anxiety. I don't correct them. 'Are you okay?'

She wipes her tears with her sleeve. 'My ex-husband, Aiden, took our puppy and sold him.’

'What?'

'He found out what I'd spent on him—it’s more expensive to get hypoallergic ones, but I saved for it. He said if I could afford to waste money like that, then I didn't need child support. The kids are devastated about the puppy. Lily can't even sleep. But if he really stops paying child support, I don't know what I'll do.'

'He can't do that. Why don't you talk to the police?'

'Oh, Sarah, by the time the police and the courts get involved, I'll be evicted. Then I'll be left trying to prove to social workers that I'm capable of looking after my own kids.' She smiles and squeezes my arm. 'It's okay, I'll figure something out.'

#

I'm not thinking about that man dying by snakebite anymore. Instead, I’m obsessing over Callie's ex-husband and how much I wish he'd disappear. Thankfully, I don't know what he looks like. Otherwise, I think I would have broken my New Year's resolution already.

I remain in this state of limbo for the next two weeks until a man barks at me across the parking lot, 'Hey, you!'

I walk over to his car. It's got a sticker on the window that says, "Pussy Wagon."

'Can I help you?' I ask.

'I need to speak to Callie.'

Immediately, I realise who this is—Aiden. His face is annoyingly symmetrical but has a dog-like quality to it, like an Alsatian. I do not like it.

I don't know what comes over me, but I say, 'You need to leave Callie alone.'

'What are you, her mum? Stay out of it.'

'Who steals a puppy from their kids?'

'Ohhh, you're that anxious weirdo she works with, aren't you? You know she feels sorry for you, right? She doesn't actually like you.'

I don't believe him. Callie's always been kind to me. She constantly invites me to stuff, no matter how often I say no. She always asks how I am and really listens to the answers. It's him that's the problem. Even stationary, his car exhaust is leaking black smoke, and I can feel it settling in my lungs. He's unbothered, happily pouring pollution wherever he goes. Now I'm picturing him choking on it.

No, stop it. I don't want to kill anyone, not even Aiden. But what I want has very little to do with anything. Unfortunately, trying not to think about something makes it play on repeat in my brain. Snakeman is one thing, Aiden is another. I put my hand into my pocket to dig my nails into my palm, but I find a smooth pebble instead. I take it out: Manifest it – if you can dream it, you can do it!

And it gives me an idea of what to do with this dog-like man.

#

The next time Callie asks me to join them for drinks, I agree. We discuss our New Year’s resolutions. I tell them that for the first time, I’ve achieved mine.

Callie’s brought her puppy with her. He's adorable, a little chestnut teacup poodle. Brian and Callie are practically sitting on the sticky pub floor, cooing over him.

'I can't believe it. My ex wrote this long letter apologising and dropped him off last night. He said he's going to take some space to think about how he's been lately—finally.'

'You manifested it,' Lindsay chimes in.

Me and Callie share a wry look. Although little does she know, someone did. I'll have to figure out how to keep the alimony payments going, but it's like the pebble says—if I can dream it, then I can do it. Forty-five years terrified of my own thoughts. Now I've embraced them, the possibilities are limitless.

To my surprise, the puppy seems to like me. He licks my hand and lets me stroke him. 'What are you going to call him?'

'Alfie.'

He rolls over, exposing his fluffy belly, and Lindsay goes to town. Alfie's not too dissimilar to Aiden. He'll get used to the change.

Besides, he seems much happier as a dog, a whole new lease on life. As we sit by the fire drinking virgin spicy margheritas, I can't help but feel I do too.