alyssa

I hate my body. I hate it I hate it I hate it. Just as much as it hates me, if not moreso.

I mean, why would my own body hurt me like this? What's the point, body? I don't get it. I don't get how why this stupid tail attack came on so suddenly, or why this hurts way more than it ever has before. With Max, it didn't feel fantastic. But this? This is downright excruciating.

My breath comes in shallow gasps through my sobs. Part of me feels overdramatic, that it's not actually that bad. But the crying is also unavoidable. I can't handle it. Any of it. Some of the scales pop off, leaving little beads of blood and open, pink flesh. Some shrink back beneath my skin in a way that feels like they're trying to drag the flesh with them.

It's just one of those things you have to sit and breathe through. I can feel the tightness of my fists as I clench the fabric of my sweatshirt, the coolness of the storage room air as I tilt my head back and hiccup through the tears. How? How did Mom do this?

When I was twelve, I fished out for the first time. I was in the bath. I was terrified, but fascinated. It didn't hurt, not like Mom had made it sound like. Every time, she'd said. Every time, it feels worse. Every time, it's more intense. And everytime, you wish it would just go away.

There's no getting rid of it. No matter how much you wish.

Honestly, the first time, it felt good. Good beyond just thrilling and different—right, almost. Perfect. Meant to be. My head had been all fuzzy, and I was out of it for a while. I would take that over the pain any day, honestly. Dad freaked when he discovered it had happened in the bath. Said I could never get the tail wet again.

I didn't. But, gosh, is it tempting. Imagine it feeling like it did that first time versus this, this hell.

It slows, at least. Gradually, the rate of the popping and the sliding and the pain—it slows. And my tears stop too. I take a few moments to catch my breath. Mom was right. It sucks more and more every time. I can't imagine it feeling worse than this, but I know it will. Every time, it will.

Maybe it'll kill me one day. Wouldn't that be hilarious.

I scrub my eyes with the backs of my wrists, trying to scratch away the tears. My breaths are shudders. How long will Elliot wait for me? I can't believe she even offered to wait in the first place. How did she not freak out? I mean, it's a tail. I still freak out.

I don't want to trust her, but right now, she's about as good as it gets. At least now we know that Tanner can use his godforsaken mouth to fix exactly these kinds of things, like that girl with the black pixie cut from Heroes.

Maybe this will be the excuse needed to quit my job. Hell, now that Max is gone from Woodbury, maybe Dad would even let us move back.

Beyond everything else, this is just embarrassing. Like, why? Why now? What if this becomes more of a trend? What if my tail just decides it'll pop out whenever it feels like, and I'll be forced to run and hide and cry and wish I was dead. What if someone sees?

What I would give to be someone else.

There's a light tap on the door as I continue to shudder through breaths. "Hey, Alyssa, are you okay?" comes Elliot, quiet and tentative.

I guess there's no avoiding this anymore.

"Hey," I say, "yeah, you can come in."

She steps in through the door, wringing her hands nervously. "Hey, bud." I hate bud. Whatever. Now is not the time. "You got legs again."

"I got legs again." I imagine that one circle gif, the one that grows and shrinks steadily, and breathe with it. It's not working as well as I'd like it to, but at least I'm getting more air now.

Elliot's flannel hangs off one bony, sculpted shoulder. Even in the dim light of the storage room, she seems coated in golden light. "So, what now?"

Ugh. The standing is always the worst part.

I force myself to sit up. It's always an effort to get up again after one of my little episodes, but the fact that Tanner forced me to be his workout buddy is definitely helpful. It still requires a lot of willpower, but the lean muscle I've built up over the past few years saves me a tiny bit of effort, at least. I can feel my body clenching to try and bring me up to a seated position, and even though it hurts, I grit through it.

"Now," I say once seated, "we get me home."

-

Getting me out to the car was maybe a little awkward, but once we got me through the warm rain that stung my bare shoulders and legs and into Elliot's musty Toyota, it was fine. Elliot had a tight grip on my side, and I did my best not to lean too hard into her. Sure, my whole body shook with each step, and sure, my arms wouldn't cooperate with me so she had to buckle me in and make sure I was comfortable, but it's fine.

I close my eyes in the passenger seat and try to breathe. In with the circle, out with the circle. It doesn't work as well as I wish it would.

Elliot drives carefully, more creeping through the rain than anything else. Her car feels like little more than a thin sheet of metal, a flimsy drum beneath the harsh rainfall. Her wipers slam rhythmically, and she slows down inhumanly smoothly to stop signs. There's no music, which I'm kind of grateful for. I can't imagine having to possibly tolerate someone's crap taste in music and the pain running rampant through my body.

I ignore the fleeting urge to ask her if she listens to girl in red.

"So, turn here?" she asks. "On Delainey Cove?"

"Probably?" I can't bring myself to open my eyes, so I just go with it. Maybe opening your eyes is for cool kids. "Tiny porch. Bench thing in the front yard."

"Yes. Okay."

"Yellow house."

"Which one?"

Ugh. "The one that looks abused."

"Okay." I feel like there's more she wants to say. I'm glad she keeps it to herself—I want to disappear as is. I can't take Dad Humor on top of it.

I feel her turn once, then again. The rain is louder. Or quieter. I don't really know—either way, it's making me want to pass out. Succinctly.

"So," Elliot says, "do you need help un-buckling? Or are you good?"

I hate that it's obviously not meant to be condescending—it just feels like it is. My limbs are like lead, and I know I should ask for help, even though I would rather do literally anything else. Still, I know I have to—"I need help."

I could probably ask her to go grab Tanner, but there's no way he could lift me. I'm probably better off with Elliot, and it's frustrating to say the least.

Elliot takes it in stride, though. Wordlessly, she awkwardly races around the hood of the Toyota, hunched in a strange way that almost makes it seem as if she's being pushed down by the rain. I sit there completely still (not of choice), and try not to let myself tear up as Elliot reaches over and gently unbuckles me.

"Okay, so, now?" she asks.

I can't believe I have to ask this. Why am I living a life where I have to ask this? "I'm hoping I don't need carried"—I am going to end up needing carried—"but could you help me in?"

She blinks. Raindrops roll down her nose, drip off the ends of her hair. Her eyes are so warm. She seems so alive, even against the backdrop of dingy grey and wet. It's giving me a headache. "Sure."

Everything hurts more than it did when we hobbled me out the pool, and a few steps out of the car, I can't breathe. My muscles are so tight, and my chest is so sore, and I find myself clawing at Elliot's arm, too out of breath for no apparent reason to even speak.

"Crap, you okay?" she asks, and I hate that for a brief moment, my brain forgets everything and focuses on the way she wraps her arms around my waist. Then everything is back, and somehow worse than before.

I'm trying to speak. I hate this. Why can't I say anything? Carry me. I need carried. I can't do this.

"Fuck," Elliot whispers, then scoops me up in her arms. "Hold on, if you can."

I bounce in her arms as she hustles to the front door, and it definitely hurts, but I can stand it, I tell myself. I'll be fine.

Elliot doesn't knock, just awkwardly manoeuvres me to a different position for a brief moment so that she can fiddle with the knob. My head is suddenly pounding, and if my ability to speak wasn't suddenly AWOL, I would definitely be screaming.

"Where is your bed?" Elliot asks. I realize I'm struggling to keep my eyes open.

There's a rustling in the kitchen that feels dull yet reverberates in my ears for too long. "Hello?" comes Tanner's voice, muffled. "Alyssa?"

He's here. Thank goodness.

My eyelids don't open this time.