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Worse still, the goo coated my skin and hair.
As soon as I returned home, I stripped out of my dress before I needed to be cut out with diamond scissors, and tossed both the dress and my shoes into the trash. Careful not to touch anything in my cabana that I didn’t absolutely have to, I hurried to the shower, taking my magical bag with me, and turned on the water.
My eyelashes were crusting together, creating vertical bars across my vision. My fingers could no longer bend, and insteadhad fused into yellowish curves not unlike those of Lego figurines from the cartoon commercials. The clock was ticking before I turned into a crusty, naked statue.
Would being a phoenix help with that? Unlikely. The most probable ending would be me encased in a crystal-like prison,again,dead and waiting for someone to save me.This time it wouldn’t be my mother who found me. This time it would be Silas. He’d volunteer to check-in on me, relishing the opportunity to humiliate me, and rejoice when he found me in a vulnerable state.
Somehow, no matter how embarrassing a situation he found me in, the next occasion was always worse.
I lifted the small slime-be-gone bottle in my shower between my solid hook hands, and smashed it against the top of my head. It wasn’t the same grade of detergent that could be used on non-porous surfaces, but it would keep the slime soft enough that I had a chance to scrub it off before I crystallized completely.
So far, so good. I was stiff, but the hardening process seemed to have ceased. I wasn’t getting worse.
I scrubbed my body until the skin was red and raw, and no traces of slime remained. Then I scrubbed it some more. Everything stung—my arms, my hands, my scalp, my eyes. I blamed that sting when the first tears fell. But by the time my chest began heaving in suffocating, snotty sobs, I knew the truth.
I’d allowed emotion to rule me. I’d shut down in the field. All of the regret and anger about that fear came out now, washed away in the water’s pour. I’d spent my entire life wishing I could be anything butonly human.In an instant, in my death, my wish was granted. The father I never knew had passed down an ability I never could have imagined. I was anything but ordinary. I was a phoenix.
Why couldn’t I embrace the gift I’d been given? Why couldn’t I unstick myself from the trauma? Being killed, and beingtrapped in crystal after—it was over, a bad memory. I had to move on. Why couldn’t I move on?
Death was my beginning. No longer was I the human working to prove my place in a supernatural world. I was a phoenix, blessed to remain the physical age of the day I first died indefinitely. If death came for me again, I would not perish. I would be reborn.
There’s nothing to fear, nothing I could not endure…if only I could prevent myself from shutting down again.
I stood tall, turned off the water, and climbed out of the shower. I dried off, wrapped and tucked my towel around my chest, and retraced my steps to remove any residual slime from my cabana before it completely hardened.
When the task was complete, I flopped down onto my bed and tossed my bag on the duvet beside me. The ocean breeze lifted the sheer curtains and filled the cabana with salty sea air.
I looked out over the picturesque landscape that surrounded me—clear blue water that reached all the way out to the horizon, then flipped on the remote switch turning on my television. Cities had grown exponentially in size while I’d slumbered, but the ocean here had remained the same. The sea made for a comforting backdrop to my visual exploration of history, or at the very least, of pop culture.
I flipped through a few channels and settled on a cartoon I did not recognize. Black and white dog-human hybrid children committed pranks upon unsuspecting adult humans in a quick sketch. They appeared to be from my era, displaced into current times, just like me. The next segment, apparently part of the same program, featured two anthropomorphized rats, one short with a gigantic head, and the other tall. They spoke of domination plans. The little guy had great moxie.
By the time the show ended, my stomach was growling. I reached inside my bag and felt around for the plastic-wrapped treats I’d purchased at the convenience store in Gubbins.
Scrolls…flashlight…cellular telephone.
Where was my Pumpkin Panacea? My Matcha Munchie? Oh no, had I lost my Chocolate Chubby?
I pressed my palm to my forehead as I distinctly remembered setting the takeaway bag on the shelf in my Gubbins stash.
This grievous tragedy was a fitting end to a disastrous day.
Could I return to Gubbins to retrieve my treats? Sure. Did I want to be anywhere near the site of my gross failure? Not in the slightest. Suddenly I wasn’t feeling so hungry after all.
Or no, maybe food was exactly what I needed. Forget snack cakes. This depression was a serious malady, and required a serious cure—french fries and a thick strawberry milkshake. Oh yeah, that’s exactly what I needed. My stomach grumbled its agreement.
I put on a fresh blouse and a yellow hoop skirt with an elastic waistband for a little give, then transported through a portal for a quick hop to Piccadilly, Pennsylvania.
There was something charming about the small city. I’d first visited during the summer of ’32, as a rookie librarian. Uncovering the kitten kidnapping ring and taking down the half-bulldog, half-humanoid woofer demons running it had been my third professional victory. When I thought about it, the woofers reminded me a bit of the Animaniacs. Fond memories drew me back to Piccadilly time and again, as did two restaurants—one an ice cream parlor, and one a dive bar whose french fries and dank vibes had not changed in all of the years I’d been visiting.
I settled into my usual booth by the back wall and placed my usual order. Not long after, my strawberry milkshake and plate of fries arrived. I moved the potatoes over to one side, then doused the plate in ketchup. The red splatter was reminiscent ofa stab wound, so I went ahead and impaled the ceramic with one of the greasy fries.
Instead of stabbing through, the potato crumpled, as potatoes do, its insides bursting out of its fried shell. The graphic display on my plate was oddly satisfying, and I felt a little better than I had since the day had begun.
I gave the plate a few more stabs, smashing the once delicate potato into smashed potato smithereens. Then I popped it into my mouth. The acidic tomato sauce cut through the grease and paired perfectly with the salty goodness.
“That’s the stuff,” I said, before stabbing my plate with another. Ahh, the little joys in life. This time, as I squished my fry, I imagined it was my fear that I was crushing. I imagined it was my mistake, my panic, and also maybe a little bit Silas’s face.
That felt even better.
