“Adios, Wordpress”

Date: 10/25/2025

Alex is young again. No older than six. He sleeps beside me, mouth slightly ajar like a baby bird waiting for crumbs of air. His cheeks are flushed, soft as peaches, hair sticking up in tiny static crowns. I can’t stop looking at him — the miracle of him. My chest hums with that warm, aching love only mothers know. Before I can pull him close, I remember there’s one last thing I need to do. My phone screen lights up, blue and cold against the dark. The WordPress app sits there, smug and silent, waiting for me. I’ve been inundated with messages from strangers: beggars asking for money, perverts asking for nudes, people who think I owe them something because I once existed online. I scroll to Deactivate Account. My finger hovers. “Adios, WordPress,” I whisper. The instant I press it, I feel lighter. Unseen. Unburdened. As if I’ve peeled my skin off and set it down somewhere safe. I put the phone away and turn back to Alex. He stirs, sighs, and settles again. The smell of his hair — sweet honey and sleep — pulls me under. My eyes close. “Wake up!” Mat’s voice crashes through the room. I jolt upright. The morning light cuts through the curtains in hard, cruel strips. I turn to Alex. He’s still, mouth open, eyes shut — too still. His lips are blue. His skin paper-white. “Alex?” I whisper. No movement. No breath. Panic grips me by the throat. I shake him. “Alex! Alex!” Nothing. My stomach drops into the floor. Maybe I rolled on him in the night? Smothered him with love? And then — a sound. A breath. His chest rising, falling. Relief floods me so fast it hurts. Mat bursts in, wild-eyed. “Buddy, you scared us half to death,” he says, kneeling beside the bed. I stroke Alex’s face. “What happened?” “The cat tried to kill me,” he croaks. I blink. “Monkey? The cat?” He nods faintly. “That’s not possible,” I say too quickly. “Cat’s don’t kill people!” “Don’t undermine him, Mandy,” Mat cuts in, voice sharp. “If he said the cat did it, then the cat did it.” That tone — the one that turns everything I say into a crime. Alex coughs, then whispers, “No… I said Mat.” Time stills. Mat’s face drains of colour. “I heard him,” he mutters, standing abruptly. “At least I know where I stand.” He storms out. I stumble after him, dizzy with confusion. He’s outside, throwing clothes into his too-small car like he’s stuffing himself into his own coffin. “He’s lying, Amanda,” he spits. He only calls me Amanda when he wants to make it hurt. “No birthday. No Christmas. Consequences.” “That’s ridiculous,” I say, but the words come out paper-thin. Monkey the cat struts past, tail high, eyes glinting. I swear he winks. The world folds in on itself. I’m outside Toni’s house now. She must sense me before I knock. “Maaandy!” she calls, her voice childlike, bright. Inside, the air smells faintly of musky perfume and tea. Toni looks wonderful — glowing, even. Her red hair frames her face like a flame refusing to die. “It’s so nice to see you,” she says. Guilt washes through me. I should’ve kept in touch. I should’ve called. We talk, but the words don’t fit anymore — too many years between syllables. Then Dionne and Fran burst in, old colleagues of mine, with pursed lips and pity in their eyes. “Doesn’t Toni look amazing?” I say brightly. They exchange looks. “Amanda,” Fran says carefully. “Toni’s dying.” The air leaves the room. “Dying?” I whisper. “But she looks so well.” Toni smiles and takes my hand. “It’s okay,” She says softly “I’ve made peace with it.” The TV flickers on. A black cab. Celebrities screaming at each other over nothing. And then — a puppet, Muppet-style Margaret Thatcher, bursts out from the seat cushion and starts singing Dancing Queen. I laugh, even though my throat aches. “Bloody celebrities.” The scene shifts — they’re on a massive playing field now, dealing cards the size of tombstones. Sheridan Smith cheats, she’s sliding a stack of hearts under her now comically-sized arse. Kim Kardashian Circa 2015. When the bell rings, she fumbles and pulls out the wrong card: the Ace of Spades. The death card. “It’s not fair!”, she screams, pounding the ground with her fists. The Thatcher puppet grins, victorious. Then — static. The TV dies. Now I’m in Morrisons with Bully from work. His name’s ironic — he’s about as intimidating as a damp sponge. The trolley’s overflowing with groceries — tins, bread, fruit tumbling over the edges. Bully’s twitchy, watching the trolley like it might confess something. “You okay?” I ask. He shrugs. “Cost of living, innit.” “Let’s go halves,” I say gently. He perks up. “Thirty-Seventy?” Before I can answer, a stranger appears, rummaging through our trolley like it’s a lost and found hamper. “Excuse me!” I snap. “What are you looking for?” “Lazzy bands,” he says, Liverpudlian twang as thick as treacle. “For me circumcision.” I blink. “I’m sorry?” He thrusts his phone at me — a DIY circumcision video no eyes should ever see. “Jesus Fuck!” I yell. “Get that away from me!” He looks genuinely wounded. “So you think I shouldn’t go through with it, then?” I sigh. “You do you.” He nods solemnly, as if I’ve given himself permission to mutilate himself in aisle 7. “Aye. That’s what I’m afraid of.” He leaves whistling Stayin’ Alive. Beep. The world skips again. Home. Quiet. Too quiet. “What a bloody day,” I mutter, peeling off my coat. I find Mat sprawled on the bed, wearing leopard-print Y-fronts. The absurdity makes me laugh out loud. “Nice undercrackers,” I tease. “Come here, Mandy.” he grins, patting the bed. I leap on him, laughing. The bed creaks. The laughter fades. His skin is cold — not cool, but cold. “Mat?” I whisper. His eyes stare at the ceiling, blank and glassy. I sit up. The room is buzzing with silence. My phone vibrates on the nightstand. I glance at it. WordPress account successfully deleted. Below it, smaller text: Username: Amanda_Lives — account inactive. Last login: 9 years ago. The words don’t make sense. I blink. The screen wavers. From the hallway, Alex’s giggle drifts in — the same high, six-year-old laugh, sweet as sugar and echoing like it’s coming from a tunnel. Monkey’s tail flicks past the doorframe. On the TV, static hisses — then Thatcher’s puppet voice cuts through, faint and tinny: “The winner takes it all…” I look at Mat again. His lips are faintly blue. The same shade as Alex’s were. The puzzle pieces click, one by one: Alex waking but not alive. Toni dying but looking fine. Sheridan pulling the death card. The stranger whistling Stayin’ Alive. My own account marked inactive. My chest tightens. The edges of the room blur. It wasn’t my profile I deleted. It was my pulse. The last thing I did before I “fell asleep.” I deleted myself. The relief I felt wasn’t peace. It was the soft, anesthetic quiet of after. I look at Mat — or what’s left of him — and whisper, “Adios, WordPress.” Somewhere down the hall, a child laughs again. Then the sound folds in on itself, like a file closing. And the world — deactivates.