I've been with Azure for the past two days. Days that breezed by quicker than a box of glazed donuts. My belly has since swollen and begun to hang over the elastic fabric of my pants. No longer is it just an afterthought; everything makes me brutally aware of this 'destiny.' My skin has taken some measure of resistance against the formidable foe swirling and shifting inside my uterus. But, in response to the feeble fight, my skin has turned painfully tight and taunt. Stretched and tired, angry red slashes claw at the sides of my underbelly. Not even my shirt can cover the sorrowful sack of my stomach now, which puts to bed any hope of hiding its growth. (Ladies, if you're not ready to have a kid, use your voice and say no. It's as easy as putting back on your clothes and leaving the guy.)

        Trust me, being pregnant, a teen, relatively short by modern society, and stuck in a world where the laws of modern physics don't mesh nicely isn't fun. No, not at all. 

        As of today, I'm unofficially a month and a half into my first trimester. Don't worry; I've done all the grunt work of mathematically figuring this out. Well, of course, I had the brilliant mind of Azure to back up my claims. She pulled up a comparison photo (the woman was also pregnant), and we judged the results. 

        The door to the room cracks open, and Azure, swinging around a flexible water bottle like a toy, comes tiptoeing in. She reminds me of a fashionable tap dancer. "Good morning, Miss Gwendolyn," she says, "How's my favorite human?" Purposefully, like she planned to derail my below-average attention span, she pats my stomach. "And that cute little Eater, it's so good to see you developing beautifully!" Leaning in, she lays lightly on me. 

        I'm not one to cower away from affection, but this is taking it too far. I'm already pissed at my body (I don't blame it for this outrageous, painstaking paranormal pregnancy); I don't need other, skinny women to shed light on it. Like, that's a dirty play. 

        "Please," I push her face away, "I'm in no mood to be touched." For some reason, I've gone and gotten mad. My heart is racing, and my breath has sped into the waning light. My eyes hone in on Azure's porcelain skin. "I'm not mad at you, but I'm mad that I'm the woman that has to endure this crap," my shoulders clench, "like, shit, can someone else take this burden." 

        Azure rubs my back, tracing it in alleviating circles. "Yeah, I understand," she then clarifies, "I mean, I don't. I've been in relationships, and I've had some level of lackluster sex, but never been with child." Her smile warms my cold heart, "Doesn't mean I don't wanna have a cluster of miniature Azures." She glares at the swans, dancing, and prancing. "Man, I'd do anything to be in your spot." 

        I mentally note what she's said, forcing it into my long-term memory. It's just in case I need blackmail material. (Oh goodness, I'm a dirty scoundrel.) "When will we reunite with the others?" I stare at the blank, dark wall: the unfurnished furniture with pillars of dust, the open window coating us in a blanket of cold air, and even the copy-and-paste texture of the carpeted floor. It mimics the ceiling to a T. 

        "I contacted Apollo yesterday after you went to sleep, and he said they've been frantically searching for you." Azure begins, scratching her knuckle. "He'll be here tomorrow, or so he said." She takes a moment to get to her feet and then, in a turn of events, pinches my nose. "I'll take good care of you, Violet." 

        "Okay, Azure," I say robotically. An odd sense of stability and unequivocal power comes off her like nuclear energy. 

        I don't know, I like her, I like her a lot. Too much for a girl that solemnly swears to be straight. But that's OK with me. I'll twist a strand of hair, rub my thighs, and stare into their eyes, declaring, "Every woman has a touch of lesbian stashed away," Of course, that's just an excuse because if I told the truth, I'd end up labeled an anti-feminist. I'd be known as someone whose brain is centuries behind the time.

        And that's just not true. 

        "Violet, I wanted to show you something; you got a minute?" Azure squeezes my hand, "I think it'll be worth your time!" 

        Before I can register what's happening to me, I'm up and bounding down the hallway (stomach swinging like a bowl of Jell-O), downstairs, around corners, and into a section of her house I wasn't aware existed: the basement. 

        Immediately, I noticed the difference in the atmosphere. A permeating aroma that, on my tongue, tasted a bit like rotten milk. I coughed and switched to breathing out of my mouth for the rest of this field trip. 

        When I place my foot on the first stair, there is a blood-curdling SNAP! "AZURE!" I cling to her forearm, "Hell no!" 

        She cradles my tiny, fragile hand. "Oh, what a drama parasite you are." She then tilts her head, pointing her finger at me denouncingly. "You're a drama girl, not a parasite." Azure sighs like this is a rare mistake for her. 

        It's hard not to imagine her sitting on a throne with a can of Bud Light, the charred remains of a cigarette butt, and a harem of glorified body-builders surrounding her like secret service. A silver crown settled on her symmetrically-shaped head, with tiny crimson crystals embedded in it. She'd look down upon her feeble subjects as a crass grin scurries up her ample cheeks. "Hurry off and grab me a traveler to sleep with," Azure would groan with easygoing ecstasy. Then, while no one was looking, she'd tap her chest several times and let out an applause-worthy burp. 

        She took me for a healer-type woman, bashful and aware of every detail. 

        "Here," Azure says, brushing off a dusty book. "It's from when..." She suddenly becomes so small and innocent– like her incredibly durable armor, wielded from life's experiences, has shattered. And after a few moments of pure silence, she laughs timidly. "This is from when I was first in love and a human."

        I look at her. I don't sigh, I don't breathe, I only stare at her. The stench of the basement and the dark mess of boxes and cobwebs don't bother me. Here, right now, with a bitch of a parasitic infection developing inside my reproduction chambers like a weed, I think about Azure. I think about her as a human. "Human," I repeat, "Human," it sounds nearly artificial coming from my dry lips. "What does that mean...?" 

        She opens an ancient page, watching it flip in slow motion. "Humans can become Parasites, and vice-versa. There's a process named 'injection' where one can become a Parasite." Azure runs her finger over a grey heart she wrote in the journal entry. She gives me just the bare basics, not diving beneath the iceberg. "At 17, a freelance kidnapped me. Never gave me a choice, and shazam, here I am." Her arms smack against her roomie sweater, making it swish pleasantly. "A shameless blob of infection."

        To put it bluntly, she's not wrong. But at the same time, I feel strangely guilty. "What's a freelance?" I ask first. "Minerva mentioned that before I got snatched."

        "Freelances can move about freely, without being bound to a human or host." She says with no purpose. "Here," she forces the disheveled journal into my chest. "When you're feeling low, just find something to help cheer you up. I've written many quotes in there that deal with uplifting of the soul." 

        "Thank you," I say through tight-lipped teeth, "But no, you need it more than I do." Giving it back to her, I gaze at the sad, buggy-eyed Parasite. "I'll manage without." 

        Azure smiles begrudgingly (I think that's the word I should use), "I'm coming to the end of my life; Parasites that aren't deemed 'unique' or gifted a certain trait only live 40 years."  

        "40 years? That's so short–"

        "Parasites can't function without a healthy host; I haven't had one... ever." 

        "So," I skim over her journal, but I give up because her cursive is too fancy for my inexperienced brain. "You're saying if you had a host, you'd live longer?" 

        "No," she chuckles, amused at my short-sightedness. "Even if I found one, which the idea makes my appetite dissolve, it wouldn't increase my life span." Azure taps her finger on a metal shelf. Her slender fingers bounce off the surface with a filmy elegance. "40 years is the maximum age for any that aren't freelance, or god-like, in Apollo's case." She sneers. 

        I hang my head, letting my neck elongate like a flimsy slinky. "I'm sorry," I take her hand, "I'm so sorry." Even though I didn't know much about her, and nothing about her life mattered (to me), I felt I resonated with her feelings. "I've been a social outcast my entire life." 

        Azure nods in response. So, I channel my inner counselor. "We're both molded from the same clay, huh?" And, of course, that doesn't sound the way I hoped. If I were ever to become a therapist (or, in my case, counselor), I'd have a difficult time finding customers. They'd take one look at my biography and see that I was pregnant fresh out of high school and deem me unfit for the business. "She's a disgrace to mankind," one would gloat, stroking the thinning lines of hair of his hairline. Of course, nobody would see him as a worthy critic since his lining would be in the letter V.

        "No need to try so hard," she brings up her impressive length of hair in a hand the size of my head (not bad, for a lady). "You don't have to try so hard for me," Azure ruffles my hair. "That's why I like you, Violet." She smiles, pivoting on her feet. "This is why I'm gonna help you." 

        My eyes adjust to the darkness at last, and a sprawling canopy of lights (old and withered by age and weather) dot the expanse of the ceiling as if they're couples preparing for a line dance. "Really?" I question aloud, wondering if this is all a glorified theater trick. "You'd help me even though you could end up hurt?" 

        We travel back up to the main floor, and while she closes the basement door with a sharp click, she turns to me. "Either I do this, or I die," She punches my side, "Besides, I know you enjoy me." 

        It doesn't even come to the forefront of my senses to lie; I'm incapable of doing that with Azure. She's like the incarnation of a lie detector test. She'd beep if I said something wrong; that's how I saw her. "I do, and?" Sometimes, I remind myself of an innocent child. I'm a person who knows nothing about everything. It's innocence on full display. "You saved my life"–my breath quickens, and I stare at the ground ashamed–"Without you, I'd be dead."

        "Props to me, I guess," Azure snickers, pulling me into her chest. "Don't beat yourself up too much." She leads me into the kitchen, helping me into the low pine seats. (They're not pine cones arranged into a pessimistic stool. The stool got chopped from pine wood.) "Let's eat because later we're going out." 

        On a coathanger situated on a nail toward the wall sits an elegant, emerald-green nightdress. From the cuts and dips, especially the amount of cleavage shown, to call it formal would be the greatest mistake of the century, maybe of all time. Azure's talking about a loud, drunken party with the social delinquents stuffed into the corner and the extravagant extroverts laying claim to female after female. As if to say, "You belong to me."

        "Thank you, but no," I blush lightly. "Parties aren't my thing." 

        Azure pours herself a small bowl of cereal labeled PARASITE-O's, which I prayed were Cheerio knockoffs. "Who said it was a party?" 

        "The obnoxiously provocative dress did," I clarify, pointing. "I won't fit in anything that small! Tight things are itchy and make my armpits sweaty." 

        "No need to tell me every detail of how your body works," Azure smiles, chewing slowly, waving her fork (or whatever they call it, spork?) around dizzyingly. "But you sure are entertaining. I might keep you as my daughter." 

        People need to learn NOT to mess with my emotions and feelings. I'm unstable as is. I'm decaying at a timid pace, barely at all. In a few years, my cognitive expanse will drop by thirty percent. And so forth until I can barely speak. 

        I'll be a mute drunkard. I can see it now: me, Violet Gwendolyn, seated high at the bar, whipping out hand signals so fast I could be mistaken for Lady Flash. My clothes would be dirty, my hair crusty and full of white flakes. I'd barely be a human, hardly someone capable of being called a girl. 

        "Azure," I remain cautious in my approach. "Azure, where are we going?" I grab the bottom of the chair, focusing on the floor. Unable to even consider looking at her. "I'm dead serious; if this is a party, I'll leave." I'm hellbent on not mingling with a dominant species such as the parasite. I'd be dancing with Azure, headbanging, flipping out peace signs, and some squeamish little pretty boy would place their hand on my butt. (No, I wouldn't be opposed to it. I wouldn't even go as far as to moan; I'd stop dancing and see who did it. I'm a mess, okay? Attention is what this pubescent woman needs, OKAY?)

        With white liquids trailing down her face, Azure swallows her mouthful of food. "I promise it's no party," she lulls, jumping on the caramel-colored counter, her body shuddering slightly. "Not a party by any means." 

        Tap, tap, tap—a slow-burning rhythm fires inside my fingertips. Whatever the hell you wanted to call this interaction was infuriating. "Azure." I critically say, "WHERE ARE WE GOING?" 

        "Turn down the megaphone, Scarlet Brimstone." She smiles into her hand, "Sorry, sometimes you remind me of one of my old classmates from middle school. She was this immense character of emotional baggage and pent-up horniness–"

        "Azure!"

        "She had like seven boyfriends in one semester, pretty sacrilegious, huh?" Azure speaks over my voice, which dies out like smoldering flames. "Like, she was a flat-chested-big-boned bad bitch. I think even I had butterflies around her." 

        She ignored my comment like she hadn't even heard me! It was absurd. But from about half of her crazy mannerisms and questionable choice of words, I wondered if she was a bit bent. "Miss Azure!" I cry out, going out of my way to walk over to her. "Answer me." 

        "Oh," she retakes the steering wheel of her mouth, "It's a masquerade. I have the perfect little self-righteous mask for you." 

        No. 

        Oh God, please, no! Lies, lies, lies. Azure promised it wasn't a party, and here I was, not only running on a life-timer but going to a no-frills masquerade. "That counts as a party!"

        "Not my choice," she shrugs, caring more about how her shoulders dip gracefully than my introverted tendencies.  "Apollo told me to meet him there," Azure tucks a loose, dangling strand of charcoal hair over my ear with a quiet appraisal. "Besides, we both agreed you deserved to have some fun before things become hell. Now, Violet, let's go find something that shows off that," with a swoop of her hand, she smacks my butt. 

        Like I said, Azure seems like a bent stick in the mud. But who am I to judge? After all, I'm the one blushing in delighted arousal. I'm grateful that someone made my body jiggle other than me jumping on my bed (it's not the same feeling). 

        Before I could register my emotions, she was already obtaining my profound measurements. And, within the hour, I had become someone, no, something else entirely.