Stupid

Stupid
Maggie’s face splits into a grin the moment she then stepped deeper into the room. Her heels click sharp on the tile like a metronome counting Susan’s heart.

“Came to welcome you back into the house,” she says, voice sweet and cold.

Susan wheeled closer to her. Her jaw is tight. Her eyes narrower than blades— it was a fucking face-off.

“And why is that? There’s no need to pretend we’re friends. We are not. And you want me gone.” Her words come out hard.

Maggie’s smirk widens. “I never said we are.” She takes a step closer, slow, sure. “Chill. No one wants to be friends with a loser like you.”

Susan spits back the next line before she can stop herself. “I feel the same about you.” She rolls her eyes. “Then why the fuck are you here, standing in my room and smirking down at me?”

“Because I can. And I enjoy it.” Maggie’s grin does not fade. She hunches her shoulders like a cat about to pounce.

Susan’s palms press into the wheelchair arms. Her fingers whiten. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you here? Is there anything I can help you with? This is an invasion of privacy. I need my privacy.”

Maggie scoffs and takes another step in. “Invasion of privacy?” Her voice laughs the phrase. “You have no privacy here.”

“Yes I do — this is my room.” Susan’s voice shakes. There is anger there now, raw and hot. “And I won’t allow you to bully me in here.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Maggie’s tone snaps like a leash being pulled tight. “You have no privacy here. This is my son’s house and whatever I say goes.”

“Maggie.” Susan’s mouth curls. The word is a hiss. “Please. I don’t have your fucking time this morning. If you’ve nothing tangible to say, get the fuck out.”

“How dare you?” Maggie’s face hardens. Her hands ball into fists at her sides. “How dare you address your mother-in-law like that?”

“How dare I what?” Susan cuts across her, voice rising. “Tell me. How dare I what? Huh?”

“I am the mother of the Governor of this fucking state — the state of California. I won’t allow you to address me like this. I won’t. You have to put some fucking respect on my fucking name, you hear me?” Maggie leans forward as if the words themselves can push Susan back.

Susan watches her for a beat. Then laughter slips out of her — short, bitter. She does not try to hide it. “Respect?” The word drips. “You’re so funny. You’re your son’s fuck-body, and you’re here demanding respect from his wife? You’re the embodiment of shameless.”

Maggie’s smirk tightens into something harder. She steps close enough that Susan can smell her. “I know you’ll bring this up again. I know it’s killing you to know my son only married you for the media, and I’m the one he truly loves. Tell me how does that make you really feel inside?”

Susan’s chest hurts and a strange, icy anger blooms. “I feel nothing,” she says. “All I feel is sorrow and shame for you.”

“You’re crossing the line.” Maggie’s voice is flat now, a dangerous calm. She gestures at Susan — slow, deliberate — as if pointing at something broken. “It’s better you watch your mouth before you feel sorrier than you feel right.”

“And what if I don’t?” Susan dares, breath coming quick. "What if I don’t watch my mouth, huh? What is your stinking ass gonna do about it?"

Maggie claps one hand lazily — a mock applause. Her palm strikes Susan’s cheek in a hard smack. Susan blinks, stunned, a wet sting forming on her face.

“I’ll just have to break more than your legs,” Maggie says. Her grin widens until it hurts.

“What?!” Susan whispers, the word ragged.

“You heard me right.” Maggie’s voice rolls slow, cruel. “Yes. I hired people to help me break your legs as retribution for twisting my ankle when I fell off the fucking horse.”

Susan’s hand shoots for her phone, which rested on her lap. Her fingers fumble. Her lips part. “You did what?” She reaches for the device with shaking hands.

"Do you think I’m that stupid, to let you record me off guard?" Maggie scoffs, turning to move towards the door. “I’m not as dull as you. I’m the smart one.” She said and left in a swift before Susan could get the chance to film her.

“Come back!” Susan screams. The word rips out raw. Her phone slips and drops from her hands. It hits the tile and shatters with a sound like a small gunshot.

Maggie pauses only long enough for the scream to roll through the hallway. Then she looks back. Her eyes are bright, amused. “You can tell my son. I am not begging you not to. But let’s see who he believes — since it’s my word against yours.” She smiles. “Let’s see who he listens to.”

Susan wheels after her as fast as she can, pushing with the small strength she has. Her hands find traction and she surges forward, the wheelchair humming down the polished floor.

Maggie is already ahead, moving down the wide staircase that leads to the lower halls. Her heels click like a countdown. “Don’t run!” Susan shouts, voice spiking with panic and pain. She pushes harder.

The stairs arrive too fast. Susan misjudges the incline. Her front wheels catch on the edge. The chair tips. She feels the world lurch.

Time fractures into a handful of noises: the scrape of rubber on tile, Maggie’s heels still taunting the room, the sick thud as Susan’s body hits the steps.

Pain blooms — white and hot — in Susan’s side, in the place where the hit had already left bruises. She gasps. The wheelchair sails a few feet away, tires still spinning like a beaten animal.

For a second she sees Maggie standing above her, hand on the railing, hair in place, face calm as if watching a play. “Stupid,” Maggie breathes, victorious, almost tender. She straightens, smooths her dress, and turns away without another look.