Trees and lush scenery merged into a single moving image. Something my eyes weren't fast enough to follow. Here I was, on my way into the big city. Zander was to my left, while Noah was to my right. Neither talked to me. And I appreciated the silence, gave me time to think, to wander over my distant reality. 

        Azure decided against traveling with us, saying she had unfinished business. I believed her, but I wasn't without my doubts. During my time spent with her, she evolved from being a parasite whom I loathed for her looks–into one I longed to spend every dreary minute with. 

        The VTT (short for Vernin Travel Train) slowed a bit. It bumped, and I jolted forward, almost out of my seat. Luckily, at the last possible moment, I grabbed the edge of the railing. I steadied myself with one thrust. Over on the far side of the row, Minerva and the twins were talking like old friends. I examined them from afar, enjoying the way she interacted with both. It was cute how she threw her hair back when she laughed. Many gave her lustful looks now and then, but I didn't blame or envy them for not shamelessly checking me out, for I was a part of that crowd.  

        "It would be weird to see the twins date her," Noah says, licking his top lip. "I mean, she's hot, but not their type." 

        The most I can muster is a nod. Who the twins date isn't my concern. It's not my problem. If Minerva's sex appeal is strong enough that they can cast aside the deceptive nature she possesses, that's fine with me. 

        Though Minerva practically belonged to Apollo. Slap a sold sticker over her heart. Nobody could pluck it off. I wanted to amuse myself and lumber over to them and explain that this certified baddie was leagues ahead of them. My day would go from meh to incredible. But if I did that, what kind of friend would I be? Awful, that's what. 

        The dress that reminds me of how I hate showing off digs deep into my hips. I squirm and shift in my tiny seat, doing nothing but attract unwanted attention. A man with thin shoulders, drooped in a U, eyes me with delicate concern. As if he's communicating telepathically with me, "Maybe you should go up a dress size you're slipping out." 

        Of course, that's the case. But hey, who the hell picked this out for me? My mother? No. Azure did this all by herself. She told me what to do and measured the diameter of my thighs, their circumference, and every irrelevant detail. She's a perfectionist; I don't need her to tell me. 

        "Violet?" 

        I ignore my brother, swatting aside the thick limbs of my heart. I take a sneak peek in and immediately turn aside. Nothing fun is left. Even my innocence, intact since prepuberty, is nowhere to be seen. Scattering the leaves that sit wilting on the misty surface, I see a trail of blood. The trail leads me to a knife. It's a recently smoothed blade that drips with an internal hatred. Then I set my sight upon the showstopper: there lies a tiny girl, yellow bruises upon her forehead, the markings of a cruel beating upon her sides. Blood pools into a semi-circle where she rests. That's my innocence, the one thing that shielded me while I was a child, protected me from the scary verbal violence and unprotected love stories that glimmered and shone with authenticity. But she's dead, dead, because I went and grew up. 

        My brother tugs my arm, "Are you okay? I've been calling you"–he inhales–"We're here." 

        I expect to see brilliant lights and bustling sidewalks, parasites dressed in fancy attire. None existed here, just the fabrication–no?–the fantasies of my twisted mind, the quickly devolving neurons that no longer feel like performing optimally. 

        Nervously straight buildings pierce Heaven. They ascend higher, higher, and higher into the clouds: the troposphere, the stratosphere, and the mesosphere. Reddish clouds parted down the middle to allow the skyscrapers permission to continue their descent. It was alluring, their designs that called for precision but not creativity–as if they can't think on the level of a red-headed, pink-faced kid who wants to grow up to be an engineer. Eight-year-olds are feisty beings, but they're imaginators.

        "Don't wander away, got it?" Minerva grumbles, taking my hand, "Especially you if someone smells–"

        "The baby gremlin, they'll go bananas, and I risk exposure." I roll my eyes, moving to Apollo, "I don't need lectures." 

        My stomach no longer hurt, and my legs didn't quiver like I was a woman in her late forties about to have replacement knee surgery. I was reeling, but it was from telling the hotshot Minerva that I could operate without help. That here, even though I was pregnant and growing a bit slower and heavier by the day, was capable of crucial independence. 

        Minerva shrugs at Apollo, and we start toward the walk-in clinic. I stray slightly from the group on purpose as my heart beats with a crisp, daunting feeling. I grip the dress closer to my chest. For the first time I can remember, I hope we get batted away and sent into far right field. 

        Then, a smile riddled with specks and sparkles of mandatory ease pushes my cheeks up. It spreads into a full-on grin that stretches my facial muscles until they hurt. However, that droops into a smirk, which, in turn, becomes something I've never experienced. 

        Animosity. 

        But towards whom?

        Ah, then it comes to me in a wave the size of a tsunami. It's a flooding ecstasy that stays longer than any before or since. Death, the voice inside my head declares urgently. Death, it whispers, slivering into my ear canal. And I get it. I understand the meaning. 

        The temptations of suicide are haunting me again–but I can no longer shimmy out of the grasp. No. I will never hide from it. Not anymore. Instead–even if the thought is controversial–I want, no, I must force the initiative. I have to jump the fence and climb from beneath this atrocious bomb shelter. 

        Kill.

        Killing isn't murder when it's yourself. 

╔═══════ ೋღ 🌸 ღೋ ═══════╗

        I got accepted into the clinic in a matter of minutes. I've become used to the constant glare of red lights, the bulbs that throbbed and danced. And window panes cut into hideous rectangles. It made sense, but a part of me wished it didn't. But the facility, with its clean seats and foreboding secrets, helped me relax. After Minerva talked to the nurse, cycling through numbers like a gameshow host, she nodded. I was waved back, Minerva following on our heels. The barren, blank walls carry on forever. Parasites, with heads sloped and cheeks swollen or sunken, gaze at me with alienated intentions. "We don't need you here," they grunt with their faces, raising their eyes to the ceiling, "we're the dominant species, the pinnacle of evolution." 

        I'm asked to wait in a tiny room, better suited as a closet, as Minerva steps out of the room with the nurse, talking loudly about me. Hopping off the sanitary plastic that scrunches and rustles, I press into the wood. 

        "You brought a human to our world?"–the nurse whines–"How much faith can you have in one girl?" 

        "She's carrying something from our world; that means she's powerful."  

        "Dear Lord, you need to start thinking about others." 

        "Hello, anybody home? That's why I brought her here!"

        "Fine. I'll let you off the hook, but next time," the nurse whispers in a pitch I can't hear. 

        "Got it. If anything happens, it's on my head." 

        Their voices go down further, and no longer can I hear them. I strain, strain, and strain, but I can't comprehend. So, I turn my face away. The moment I do, the door swings open, whipping against my vulnerable spine. I crash into the examination chair—my belly button punctured by the incredibly sharp edge of the table.

        I hold it in: the screams and cries for help, the urge to swear, and puff out my cheeks. Appearance doesn't cross my mind, no, not for a second. I look dumb, like an overgrown porcupine or even a pufferfish. 

        Minerva thanks the nurse again, who closes the door behind her, not once looking back at me. I focus my senses on identifying the distinct pattern of her feet as she shuffles down the hall. Is she scared of something? I ask myself this question, already knowing the answer. 

        "Violet?" Minerva says, squeaky and uncharacteristically confused. "Are you okay? You know"–she clasps a hand over her baggy t-shirt–"You're bleeding." 

        Only then do I gaze down at a streak of red lighter than what I've come to recognize as the standard, which is almost an abysmal pink. It dribbles from my belly,  pulsating with every beat. Thrum, thrum, thrum. "The door..." I gasp, lifting my maternity sweater. "When the nurse opened it... it hit my–" 

        Minerva quickly slips her hand into my shirt and down my pants. "Uh," she examines the handful of red pooling around my underwear. "Not your stomach, that's for sure." 

        The pain strikes fast, making me scream with such aggression and intensity that I'm sure everything heard me, even the ants beneath the tile. 

        "Stop wiggling!" Minerva orders, her hands shaking even though her face implies otherwise. "You're perfectly fine. I think you bumped the Eater; no worries." She smiles, low and firm. "Can you be okay by yourself for a minute?"

        I shake my head. 

        "Violet, I have to grab a doctor." 

        Again, I shake no. 

        "Well, I'm sorry, but I have no choice unless bleeding out is what you want." 

        Stiff, I remain stiff. Everything about this room is sickening. The cracks that pronounce themselves so cheerfully are devastating and not what I expected from this place of boundless technology. The train hadn't touched the ground once, and above my head, holographic images played out as ads. I had swiped at them several times, teeming in the presence of the future. But I came off my high when an older gentleman with sagging facial skin, large circles under his eyes, and horns that drooped lower than his arched posture gave me extra accommodations after he noticed my hump. 

        Why can't I drown in my sorrows? Curl up in the fetal position and rock myself to sleep? I'm devastated–but not by Azure's sudden departure or Minerva's unhelpfulness in assessing the obvious. But by restrictions, limitations of the unfitting life developing within the shell of my body. 

        Bearing children has always been a fantasy of mine. I reserved it for my husband or someone I loved with enough enthusiasm to share my boundless dream with. Not anymore. Never would I have children. This trial with an Eater has shifted my perspective. 

        Crushed my hopes, shattered my universe, and upended my life. 

        All on its own, the bleeding stops. It happens before either return. So, tired of drawing more pessimistic attitudes, I look around the room for any sign of paper towels or anything else good with spills (I know this wouldn't classify as a 'spill,' but Clorox wipes have a lot of naturally good uses). 

        "Hold still," a handsome, greying doctor with a grey coat and circular glasses says, gently leaning me back. He applies a thick layer of ultrasound gel, massaging it around my tummy in thoughtful strokes. Back and forth, back and forth. It's cold upon contact, making me shiver and grab onto Minerva with a painful clench. "Don't worry, human, this won't hurt a bit. We need to see how the baby Eater is faring." 

        Next, he uses the transducer, sliding it gently across the gel. It tickles, and I grin self-righteously. "How's it look?" I chuckle through closed teeth. It sounds more like "howalook," all bunched together like a chain reaction. 

        "You seem fine," the doctor begins, hesitant. "You're progress is honestly startling. You should've had more than a week if I'm properly adding the accelerated stress on the human body." His eyes were dark and beady, like that of someone sad their whole life. He took a deep breath, the smell of ginger and fungus skimming over my nostrils. It reminded me of the elderly (I don't mean to discriminate or generalize), the aroma that encapsulates their bodies as they age and wither.  

        So, I take the daring plunge and ask, "Then what's wrong? You look elsewhere." 

        "My dear," he strokes the thinning beard, inhaling. "You barely have four days." He hurried around, tearing through paperwork and obscene color-coded files. "I'm scheduling an EES as soon as possible." 

        I look to Minerva, who draws in. "Emergency extraction surgery." She says with a frown the size of Jupiter. "No need for alarm; you're in safe hands."  

        Of course, I was in good hands; I was in the hands of a freaking stranger. I'm not worried at all. No, Gwendolyns are fortified and powerful as the base of a building foundation. I think one life-altering surgery won't overturn my confidence. Nothing can sway me. 

        Screw that, screw comfort. How am I supposed to act knowing that I'm a foreigner in an even weirder land? Be happy and do a corny dance? Hell no. I shake–first in my fingers, then it eats at my legs, then it shows itself in my facial expression. 

        "Violet...?" Minerva takes my hands in warm hands. A protective gimmer shines in her left eye. It's that of an Olympian from the ancient myths of the Greeks. "You're okay," she brings me forward, not crudely or rudely, but with the touch of a caregiver. "I'd rather see myself die than have you come to an end. Got it?" 

        Who is this woman? This freelance parasite that's lived an ego-driven life, whose demeanor never wavers, whose cheeks are always aflush with calm and a gaze that pierces the future. What power she controls, an energy that could split the Heavens in two–but instead of using them to conquer hordes of grief-stricken husbands and sailors that have lost their way, she uses that strength to bring me in, hug me, and relinquish my nerves. 

        I stagger, confused. Minerva is saying something into my ear while the doctor gives us stern glares, but I'm hardly paying attention. The copious and supple skin of her bare shoulders, the tight, stretched straps of the midnight-black bra, the way her chin nestles perfectly under mine, the shaggy breathing; the fluffy arms, and pinchable elbow flab (not enough to be considered fat, but noisily noticeable in the best possible way), she made me want a sister. I now wanted to find the nearest trade-in store and toss Noah across the bridge of the cash register in hopes of obtaining the flawless prize. 

        A sister would listen to my problems, sit and pat my back while I cried hopelessly for hours, who'd stay by my side through it all. She'd be adorable, and we'd braid hair together. Maybe even swoon about the same people. 

        Minerva, I want you as my sister. 

        Minerva, will you be mine?

        "Thank you, doctor Brenmer," Minerva states, and I realize she's been crying. The black mascara she wore like a bonafide, glorified Girl Scout clumps like tar under her eyelids.

        I glare at Minerva, so that's his name. "Minerva?" 

        Doctor Brenmer, who looks more like a Jerry or Springer, swallows pointedly. "No problem, miss Oliphson. I hope that your human gets the treatment she needs. I've put in a recommendation and a notice of your arrival in Anslow." He takes a ballpoint pen from his front pocket, "The best route of action is through the forest of Dead Eels." 

        "Yes, my thoughts exactly," she sniffles quietly, taking a tissue from the stash on the counter behind her. "I appreciate your efforts to help. It means a lot"–she smiles at me–"Especially to me." 

        We exit the big automatic doors into the main common space. Minerva breaks off from me and takes Apollo over to the side. While they speak in secret, I sit. Noah comes up to me, tapping my shoulder affectionately. 

        "How'd it go?" 

        I rub my stomach as it gurgles loudly. "As expected," I remember the fondness and insecurity Minerva not only showed but embraced. The tears, the warmth emanating from her entire body, the way she held me like a mother–nothing has ever been closer to making me want to be with someone. I smile to myself as I speak to my brother. "Everything is great." 

        And it was until it wasn't. 

        Minerva stomps back toward our group. Her ears point up, and her horns reflect more light than usual like they're glow-in-the-dark. "Gather up buttercups," she says like she's about to give the national address. When everyone is in a circle, she waves her arms and gestures like an unsuccessful date. "We're moving soon." She clears her throat, turning from me to Apollo within the concentrated timeframe of thumbs snapping. "Violet has four days at most; the doctor says her pregnancy is accelerating. We don't have a game plan now, but we'll have one in the morning." 

        Apollo leans against the wall, farthest from us, and more welcoming for others to eavesdrop. "Thinking about splitting up, Minerva taking Noah and his sister."

        Lucas bites his shirt, "that sounds like something from a stereotypical horror movie." 

        Anthony adds, "For once, I agree with him." 

        "Sorry to say," she shrugs, "but nobody asked for your opinion." 

        The mood briskly shifts. A stress-eating anomaly falls between me and everyone else. All their unrelenting, wild eyes are upon me, upon Violet. They stare. They don't move. They glance at me like I'm the most underwhelming, underachieving female to breathe. 

        Trust me, this isn't magical or relieving in any way. It's the opposite. I want to see Minerva's sympathy or Azure's back rub again–anything but this dread, this impending dread. It sinks over me and compounds my skull, moments away from breaking it into a thousand shards of ice. Smash! Crash! BAM!

        I crash mentally, physically, and emotionally. I plummet, covering my face with my hands, shielding myself from the tiptoeing embarrassment. The eyes of the clinic, the sharp coarse whispers directed at me, then, "That girl belongs in the maternity ward" or "Shouldn't she be with her husband?" I was sick of the comments. 

        I'm sick of the pressurized system rudely clapping back at me like I'm a possessed toy some toddler found in their closet. 

        Smack, Lay down, and die, child. Their voice resounds, ricocheting off the walls like a concert hall. And when I remove the anchor desperately tethering my heart to the ground–I realize something, as if my eyes were open. 

        I don't cry, nor do I have even the slightest urge. I laugh, pure and simple, loud and ambitious. My sound was carried on the wind by silence and shock. And by exhilaration and generalized awe. 

        Minerva looked at me with confusion, and I loved it; I yearned for more. To be recognized not as a pretty little woman but for the panic that arose as I laughed manically. She was disgusted and conflicted, stunned and curious–I could see it all in the way she wore her expression. 

        I loved it... I loved Minerva.