[8/17/461 AC, 7:03 PM]

  Even in the basin's murky water, I’m watched. Eyes a inky bck. Unblinking. Movement eerily clean as it cocks its head and backs away. Cws releasing from the groaning rim. A mouth of sharpened points, mocking a familiar smile. Something in the back of my brian, still alive, telling me to run, to fight, to hide. Anything. To get away . . . from myself.

  Yeah, this is fucking worse than dysphoria.

  It turns out when you are A. a monster, and/or B. murdered. In the second after puking at your own reflection. Your brain really only comes up with three options.

  Colpse inwards like a neutron star, and spiral. Curling up in the piss stained restroom corner. And scream until your lungs bleed.Embrace the dread. Cryptids are cool after all. And fangs are kinda hot . . . maybe. Run. Guess which one my brain chose.

  I grab my cracked phone, waterlogged wallet, headphones, and keys, and throw them into my purse. Slinging the star shaped bag over my shoulder. Fastening the torn fnnel. Covering my half-bare chest. As though I have any modesty to care about. In this slowly festering utilitarian nightmare of a half destroyed restroom. I wrench the door open with a crank, and slip into the dark.

  Rooms and halls pass in a slightless blur. Finding that navigating the apparent storm shelter, easier than I would have thought. Despite the cracked bulbs glowing a dead amber. Running, fingers over the smooth wall. Sneakers crunching debris. I follow a faint breeze. Whistling like a melody in the dull humm of dying circuitry. Growing stronger, as it brushes against my skin. Petrichor and rot creeping through the dust. Until my eyes sting in the band of muted light.

  I grit my teeth and charge. Shoulder smming into the door.

  I fling myself into the alleyway. A jumble of a composter, brick, concrete, and a puddle. Skidding as droplets hit my skin. Clear and cold. A dappled mosaic of thinning clouds and deep lic sky. Of calming weather. Of myst just over the horizon. I try to breathe in the scent. Hoping somehow it will take me back to the redwoods and oaks, and crashing gray shores below. To the grey thistle-oak. To the butter yellow house on the hill. To —

  “A live one?” A crash, a chirp, and a chipper smile. “That's new.” I whip around as a figure rises from the bowels of the composter’s rusted orange side.

  I stare into the dark eyes of an animal mask, detailed and smooth, like the kind worn in a Shiruese festival. Feline below its saturated purples and yellows. Gleaming through the creeping twilight, a smile all but hidden underneath. A little out of pce atop a damp gray hoodie and a pile of newspapers and liquifying vegetables, but striking all the same.

  Especially as scurrying up their shoulders, is a scraggly one-eyed kitten. A harmless ball of lint.

  Which makes my defense stance, shoulder raised ready to punch, seem a little stupid. “What?” My fists droop.

  “I’ve seen her stache here before.” The kitten nuzzles their cheek, as the masked stranger climbs out. Dirt scattering. Spshing into the puddle. “Never seen the quarry leave . . . on their own two feet. Good for you.”

  “You know her?” Keys dig into my palm, as I did into my brain. Thin rain plinking my icy skin. Coming up with nothing but bck lips and bitter smoke slipping like the breeze.

  And the row of needles between them.

  “Nope.” They flick a thumb sized isopod off their chest. Sleeve wiping grime off their mask’s muzzle. “She’s a real drifter, and a hot mess . . . In both meanings.”

  They step closer.

  Eerily fluid. Like oil on water.

  My skin recoils.

  Their breath smells of iron, and rats, slightly rotten meat. Like a butcher’s shop in the middle of a summer’s bckout. Well, back when they had butcher shops. Still . . .

  Blood.

  I step back. My tongue in my throat. As I pull my fnnel tighter over my chest. “You’re like her . . .”

  “So are you.” They shrug, as the kitten meowls. “Even more so.” Their grin gleams, canines sharp.

  My hair brushes against the wall, looming nearer.

  “Stop.” My jaw clenches, as a low growl escapes my chapped lips. And my arm flexes forward. Into the mask. Knuckles and wood, cracking. Chipping raw.

  My skin splits.

  It hurts.

  Their steps halt. Dark eyes only a foot or so from mine. As they adjust their now crooked and chipped mask.

  “Fair enough, didn't mean to startle you.” They chuff, scratching the kitten's chin, who only yawns with its pping red tongue. “Soup and I just wanted to get a closer look.”

  “Look at what?” I wince as I cup my bloodied hand.

  Steeping back, hands raised they turn and walk down the alley, the gentle clicking of boots of asphalt. “Just here to confirm something, stay safe. You'll want to head out soon.”

  “Where are you going? I need help. I was fucking murdered, but im still here, and now everything feels wrong, an— and why do I need to leave?”

  “So many questions.” They ugh, turning the corner, dark hair rustling. “If you stick around I may just answer some.” A smile like a hungry cat.

  The smell of rotten meat… is too thick. Burning my nose. Awful but almost enticing, as my stomach gurgles and chest tightens.

  I don't need to look inside the composter.

  I take the hint.

  I turn the other direction. Stumbling on my heels. Into the distant humm of the city. Alive in the early summer’s night. Sounds of parties and the Line Seventeen train, thin on the breeze.

  And slip into the street. Under a faint neon glow.

  * * *

  I’m still in a haze. As I stand just beyond the yellow line, on the Carlos Street ptform. Shoulders bumping, eyes tracing me.

  I hardly notice.

  The early evening breeze bites at my exposed skin. As the people on the ptform gnce at my torn clothes and blooded neck. Fellow college students heading to a party back downtown and bleary eyed workers homebound.

  And foggy apparitions at the edges of my sight.

  Well, I guess I see ghosts now.

  Anyways, I stick out like a sore thumb.

  Well, more like a torn one. But still.

  Either way, they seem to keep to themselves. The fshes of concern and lingering gnces, fading as they stare too long at my face. My half-hearted and hollow half-breaths. A little too slow. A little too steady. Unsettled by the same itch that cws at the base of my neck.

  My stomach gurgl—

  A loud chime rings in my ears like a splitting knife.

  I hiss.

  I fumble for my headphones. Smming the bent yellow muffs over my ears. Gss panes blurring. Wheels spinning. The light rail seventeen’s cnging dulls as the ptform floods with a pale blue glow. And the doors hiss in reply.

  Covering my lips, I stumble to the back of the car. I turn to face the window, as I shut my eyes and set the music to py. Bea’s voice, resourceful yet brash. And an innd accent she tries to hide. Slipping from the dread of this night and the unsettling churning of my cold and nearly lifeless body. Letting my breaths dull until my chets no longer moves. Trying my best to keep back the wafering smells.

  As the train trundles on. Only opening my eyes for a moment. As in the distance, atop a weary aspen overlooking the churning river, a pair of luminous eyes, with wings unfurling, leaps into the darkening sky.

  * * *

  I’m home.

  Or well, as close to home as San Toros can get. With the corridors of old brick buildings, cascading parks and gardens, and endless maze of a public transit system. And never too far from the university campus. GO BULLS. Sigh . . . But home. Or’s house. A sagging thing, kept alive only by haphazard repairs, and the sturdy redwood of its paint chipped flesh. A little creepy. But, not too different from my childhood home I guess.

  The windows are all dark. So, luckily she’s probably out at work. Makes sneaking abc into the attic bedroom a lot easier. I picture it as I step into the overgrown yard, the cluttered mess of smut novels, discounted skirts and jackets from work, and a surprising amount of succulents. Feeling a buzz in my bag, I pull out my phone, as I step on to the creaking weatherworn porch.

  I pull out my cell phone. Screen half-dead as I flip from my pylists. Checking notifications, only to see a stream of messages and missed calls. From Or, Thalia, and especially, Bea.

  “I need to call her.” I mutter out loud as I open her con—

  “Call who?” The familiar voice of every wet dream I’ve had since tenth grade, undercut with a bitter growl, like gnashing teeth, comes from behind. My spine shivers. As heavy boots follow. “Leech.” As Beatrice Baker’s fingers grasp my curls, and a frigid point of steel is driven into my throat.