On our last day at the beach the sun came out, and the fog, which for that whole week had draped the shore in a veil of cotton, burned away: we discovered there was an ocean here, after all. It ... [+]
The woman does her shopping on Tuesday evenings. It is the only day she does not go to the park to play chess, or study at the local college. Soon it will not matter, her mother had told her when she left home. Soon she will have all the time she needs to tend to the more important aspects of life.
She does not see what she puts into the cart. She has chosen the same things for the past ten years, ever since she was old enough to leave home unattended. There would be rice, and there would be the vegetables in Aisle 4, second shelf from the right if she faced north, and meat in the section of the store where the hair on her legs stood up and her teeth chattered. Chicken or pork or sometimes beef. Whatever fit within the budget. Another problem that would soon be solved, to the joy of her parents.
She recognises the cashier this time, an older man. He's always been friendly to her, but in a way that makes her grit her teeth and look discreetly over her shoulder and hope for an impatient customer behind her while the insect hisses. She wants to think it is her problem: her hostility making her into something awful and snarling, mostly because the alternative is not a thought she can handle at this time.
The cashier scans her items with a smile and naught a word, and for a moment she thinks she has been spared. Wishful thinking. When she begins to put the corn cobs in her bag, he clears his throat.
‘Heard you were going to get married?'
She nods, not making eye contact.
‘I have to say congratulations,' he says, still smiling. Heaven only knows how he manages to keep his lips open while speaking. ‘Pardon my impudence for a moment, but if you ask me, it's about time. You're... how old? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?'
‘Twenty,' she says through her teeth.
‘Oh! Still, it's about time,' he says. ‘I heard your father talking about it. Your fiancé is quite—‘
‘Sir. My bill.'
‘Apologies, ma'am.' He's still smiling. She quells the insect's rustling and listens to it turn over, going back to sleep somewhere only she can perceive.
‘Here's your receipt. Have a good day.'
She takes the strip of paper he offers her and dashes out of the store.
Mid-autumn, with a moon to match. Its orange tint is captured in the puddles she walks in, feeling the water soak through her socks. They will be completely stuck to her feet when she gets home. The strap of her grocery bags stay dry, clutched firmly in her hand. She takes the winding alleys she knows so well, AC units peering at her from their perches, humming their monotone song. She used to sing with them.
The insect rears its head, antennae testing the cool night air. She lets it; they are alone in the darkness, between the dying light of two broken street lamps. She tilts her head back, stretching her jaw as far as it can go.
Rainwater runs down her tongue to the back of her throat. The insect chitters.
She tries to force air out of her throat. Her teeth snap shut and lock whatever sound she is trying to make behind them.
~
The door to her home is unlocked. She hangs one of the heavier bags on a hook attached to the rusting metal door to free up her left hand so she can take off her shoes. The only thing separating the living room from the rest of the world is a simple hanging curtain, raggedy but kept clean. Her loose pants, rain-worn, stick to her shins, cold and clammy.
There is one person in the living room, sitting opposite the old TV, a pile of folded clothes next to her.
‘Leave the bags on the table,' says her mother, not taking her eyes off the screen. The daughter does not recognise the show the mother is watching.
The daughter does as she is told. The mother's eye twitches when the daughter walks across the tiled floor, leaving wet footprints in her wake.
‘This is the last day you'll get to be this sloppy,' says the mother, absently folding a crinkled sock. ‘You'll be grown in a day or two.'
The daughter turns to face her mother and swallows down the chittering of the insect, transforming it into something more human. ‘There's something I need to tell you.'
‘Anything, dear.'
‘You can't tell father about this.'
The mother places down her remote.
‘Listen, darling.' She tears her eyes from the screen to look her daughter in the eyes. The daughter carefully focuses her gaze on the mother's ear. ‘It's going to be your big day soon. Don't worry about it, okay? It'll all go away after that.' The mother turns back to the TV. ‘It did for me.'
The daughter opens her mouth, then closes it. ‘Good night.'
The mother hums in response. The daughter makes her steps as even as possible when she walks back to her room.
Her fingers curl tight, pressing red crescents into her palms.
~
She wakes up in the middle of the night. Her cheek, pressed against the bedroom door, is completely numb. She rubs at that part of her face.
Antennae twitch at the feeling of footsteps outside her door. She knows their weight, and shuffles further into the room. But she must listen, and so she settles for pressing an ear against the wood.
‘...still going on about it.'
‘Shouldn't have let that nonsense infect her,' says the father. ‘She's a girl. Always will be.'
A low hiss escapes her mouth, and she claps a hand over it.
‘...a good man,' the father is saying. ‘A good man can fix her up. Take her off our hands.'
‘And she'll be happy?'
‘We are, are we not?'
The mother murmurs something indistinct.
The footsteps come closer.
The woman knows it is necessary to leap into bed, pull her blankets over herself, and stay as still as possible. But her time is running out, and the insect hungers.
The door swings open. The father stands in the doorway, light from the living room bleeding around his form.
The daughter stands in the shadow he casts.
‘It's near midnight,' says the father.
The daughter murmurs something under her breath.
‘Speak up.'
She stands with her hands by her sides, legs locked, eyes wide open. The only part of her that moves is her lips, twitching and trembling as words escape them.
Her clothes, still wet from the rain, stick to her skin.
‘What is it?' A hint of irritation in the man's voice. He sets down his bag and takes a step into the room. ‘What are you saying?'
The father is close enough. The daughter leans forward at the hip, keeping her back straight, eyes unblinking. The man swears. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to be normal, dammit?'
She keeps murmuring. ‘Come out. Come out. Come out. Come out.'
‘The what?' The father says, mockery hiding whatever else he feels. ‘You—‘
Her neck snaps. The father leaps back with a yell as his daughter's head twists around, boneless, before dropping to the ground with a loud crack. The body stays upright, the neck pulsing, bulging, bloodless.
The mother enters the room, resting a hand on the father's shoulder.
The daughter's body splits open along the sternum, all the way down her torso. It slides off the thing beneath like a sack, loose skin landing in a heap at its legs. The creature within cleans the amniotic fluid off its claws, mandibles clicking. It rubs its back legs together, sloughing off sinew and tissue. Its wings are still soft, limp against its back.
It turns its head with compound eyes, chitters, and then skitters across the floor. The father yells and leaps back as the insect's tough shell crashes through the home, breaking vases and the living room window.
The father turns to the mother. ‘Did—did you—‘
The mother picks a piece of lint off the father's jacket.
‘Good for her,' says the mother. ‘Good for her.'