A Disappearing Act.

You sacrificed a virgin?! Not “I”… Sunni! What?! She was just laying around! Oh my God—! Literally! You're going to Hell! That's where I met her! I mean really. I'm being serious. C'mon! What! It worked out. Did it, Sunnï? I don't know, ask her. What—wait—do I know her?! Uh— —Sunni— Yeah, whatever—someone's on line two. Who is it? I don't care. WHAT. It's a long story. They're all long stories! I meant lifelong! Ugh! “Agh!” More likely than not, that's what all the fuss had been about and that's what the Illuminati was playing at; they wanted Jessie, not anything to do with me and my outright niggerness—but given that it was at the very least proven so that I had some magical special abilities…perhaps not Beyoncè or Skrillex special, but still sort of special, in a way that I had a funny knack for making wishes come true, mind reading and passing judgement somehow on what people not only needed but wanted most, and almost-always coming just short of actually making myself happy, but at least doing something for someone else. I never really supposed any modern sacrificial practicies of virgin sacrifice to be anything as cruel as it once had, and instead opted for the more practical consideration that instead, Jessie would more than likely have been secretly auctioned off in some sort of back door, black market way—and sold to the highest bidder, or something; I assumed some wealthy man who scored petite and childlike mistresses who still slept with teddy bears and acted more like a child than an adult—after my experience in North Carolina, I knew at this point that men could be attracted to children, or the idea of child likenesses and “youthful” things about women, so long as they actually were technically women, without being considered sick. At least it no longer was puzzling or in any way a mystery at all how men were so easily ruled by skinny and petite women—they were easier to please, or, for the very least—knew how to fake being pleasured better