A breath, a knee, an elbow, a flash of white, a groan, movement, lots of movement, a name, someone's calling me, and finally, I force my aching body to respond accordingly. 

        "Yeah?" I say, and it echoes in the darkness, ricocheting off the wall like an excited spider. 

        "Keep your voice down," ah, right, Zander. He shifts in the sheets, putting a cold hand on my thigh—which is exposed, bare, naked. "Don't utter a word to anyone; no need to make them uncomfortable." 

        I yawn, taking in how awful my breath smells, how awful I smell in general. "Meh," I mumble, laying back down, glaring at the ceiling, at the light draping in through the sliced curtains. The light entering my retinas, at the cones, comes through painfully obscured, a diminished, daunting red—like I'm in a dream, a recurring nightmare. "You said the twins already knew." 

        He told me last night that they figured it out years ago when we were still kids in middle school, and if that held up—if his mouth spoke truth, then the twins understood the assignment and wouldn't dare bring up the sex. Hell, Noah would be on one extreme or the other, not the fence. He'd congratulate me or belittle me for wasting it on my childhood fever dream; my parent's reaction would be one of pure disappointment, as I'd be forever known as a whore; my friends, on the other hand, would barrage me with hugs. That wasn't genuinely necessary—but it would help offset the feeling of belabored oddity sure to fill my body. 

        Sighing, I pull the cover down an inch—a cataract of cold air drifts above me like air conditioning. Nudity, I'm sitting in nudity, my body sweaty and sore. Red and sticky. Pale and blotchy. Like a sore thumb, like a redhead amongst a crowd of copy-paste white people with black hair, it's sure to make a commotion. 

        "How'd I do?" I ask, breaking the moment of silence. "Was I a natural pro?" Honestly, I had no idea why I was bringing this up. Sex, in itself, as an independent topic, was awkward—and breaking the layers of ice surrounding it wouldn't make talking within its confines any easier. 

        Zander laughs, "You're not half bad," he leans in to kiss my forehead, exciting me. "Of course, I did most of the heavy lifting." 

        "Don't tell me that's a slam at my weight. I'll headbutt you," I fumble for Zander's hand, intertwining myself provocatively, "no more sex if it is." 

        "Woah, no need to break a nail, Violet." 

        I clear my throat, then say, as rough and stoic as I can, "Call me 'babe.'"

        His gaze lingers on my face, then slowly takes in my body, still inside the lumpy blanket, "We're moving fast." 

        "Okay, let's think this over," I'm going to drop a truth bomb. "I'm pregnant with a baby Eater," I move closer to him, curling up in his embrace. Running a hand in his curly locks. "And I've got two days left if I'm blessed." I clarify, "Two full days, that is." 

        Zander drums his fingers on my head, galloping like a horse. "I forgot..." he tightens his grasp. It makes me breathless. "We started dating yesterday." 

        "There's gonna be a lot of new beginnings that end too quickly," I say glumly, "Life hates me; don't hate me, whatever you do, Zander."

        His hand reaches into the cover, around my waist, and purposely low, too low. It's like he's teasing me. "Could never, you're too precious." He traces my back in overarching circles, like a professional seducer, a trained stuntman, a valuable assassin—aimed at my heart, at the delicate pace of my beating organ, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. "You're my girlfriend." 

        "You think you're slick," I hum, holding in a snicker, poking his mustache.

        "Oh," he smacks my butt righteously, "I am slick." 

        "Uh-huh, uh-huh—" I'm not even paying attention, just enjoying the touch, the sheer pleasure flooding through my body like a lethal drug. Zander's hot, sexy, unattainable (yet somehow mine), delicious, and an icon of masculinity. Like Dwayne Johnson or that misogynist Andrew Tate. "M-More?" I bite my tongue as he moves to the indent between my back and butt. "P-P-Please?" 

        I'm begging like a pathetic gremlin. As the phlegm in my throat builds meticulously. 

        "Can't," he groans, removing himself from me entirely as my heart drops into my stomach, into the gastric juices, into a state of decay. "We should get dressed and join the others." 

        "Effing—" I pound upon his bicep. 

        Zander throws a shirt over his curls, "Later, Viola, err, babe,"—he offers me a comforting and guilty frown. "Hurry on, we don't want to make a scene." 

        "Come on," I shamelessly plea, tugging at his arm, "A minute?" I'm not going down without a fight, even if it destroys me. "How about 30 seconds?" I frown, realizing I'm making no progress, "Zander!" 

        Zander unwrinkles his socks, twirling them on one at a time. "Later tonight, I promise." He hops into a pair of grey pants. "Our number one priority is getting that baby Eater extracted."

        Sure it is; let's agree to disagree. Having this baby Eater inside my womb is refreshing. It makes me appreciate mothers more—my mother. "Mhm." I find my underwear and slip in, saying nothing, slumping my shoulders, hunching over so I'm objectively smaller, shorter, like a garden nymph. Needless to say, what else is there to talk about? I can't pull him aside and cry into his shoulder while detailing this reckless plan of mine. 

        Not a chance in hell. 

╔═══════ ೋღ 🌸 ღೋ ═══════╗

        Embarrassment ripples throughout my stomach, starting at my bladder and ending in my esophagus. Spew chunks, spew chunks, spew! Minerva bobbles along, carrying me like I'm a feather. We're traveling on the side of a mountain, and oh gosh, the view is both spectacularly enchanting—and the scariest thing I've ever seen. 

        Tiny green splashes of color line the world below, and if I close an eye and use two fingers, I can squash each one—Pinch, pinch, pinch, no more trees, no more lush life. 

        As per requirement, Apollo is leading the charge, so far beyond my visual field that the only way I know he's still here is his constant yelling back at us. He'll shout things like: "You haven't fallen yet, right?" and, most notably, "Violet's stomach intact? She looks nigh ready to explode." Yeah, I can't laugh or give him any respect for that. 

        But it's been around 20 minutes since he last called to us. 

        "Violet, you alright?" Minerva calls warmly over the raging winds that I'm positive have reached upward of 50 miles per hour. 

        "Hanging in there," and I add, "literally," I squeeze her neck with a tingling pressure, testing out the limits of her carbon fiber body. That acts as if she's the most tightly-knit parasite alive.

        She's like a test dummy. 

        Minerva clings to the side of the mountain as a breeze rips through us, cutting us in half like an expensive knife splitting a loaf of French bread. "Better than bad, I suppose!" She's inconsistently reassuring, like the tides. "How's the belly?"

        "I'm not getting any smaller," I frown into her back. "Wanna trade places so I can be a badass assassin with a trim waist and an adorable face?" My cheek rubs against her sturdy frame. And the pulsating rush of heat is like eating the first meal of the day—like stuffing a buttery bagel into your mouth, with seeds and raisins, and a side of orange juice. 

        Minerva scoffs, steps over a giant rock, and sends it cascading to its imminent doom. "Call me flattered by your choice of words," she muses, and I can't tell if she's honest or playing games. "But I'd rather keep my trim waist until I'm pregnant." And, if that's bad enough, she delightfully whispers, "I'll no longer be this superstar athlete, but, more importantly, I'll be in charge of a baby."  

        Call me a curious party pooper, a freakish bent-out-of-shape rosebud, but Minerva sounded surreal, a frivolous little child with ambitious dreams. Did she scare me? Occasionally. Did her body woosh me off into the gutter of my obsessive tendencies? Sometimes. However, after scraping and digging through her, I've learned how tender and compassionate a parasite can be. 

        If it came to a caveat where I had to continue with someone, I'd choose Minerva. No second-guessing, no longing to be with another; it was said and done—and I'd be content. 

        "This is the stopping place!" Apollo yells, captivating me immediately. "On the other side of this bridge is where we'll spend the night!"

        That's relieving. I don't think I could hold out for another hour—even 15 seconds longer and my strength would've evaporated. Given back to the god who granted it to me, stripped away like I never deserved it in the first place. 

        Noah whoop-whoops, and Zander and the twins soon follow. Their cheers fill the mountaintop, the nexus of my soul, filling the entire mountain with abundant happiness. If I were standing near Minerva, I'm sure the expression on her would reflect what I—myself—am already becoming accustomed to. Perhaps we'd hold hands, stare at one another, and jump. Just jumping and partying and screwing around like this could be the last moment of peace we share. She'd pat me on the back and exclaim, "We're almost there, and you're safe, safe with me." And her words would flourish in me, blossom into a beautiful flower that overtakes my inner squeamish brat demon. 

        On a positive note, at least Minerva and Noah are getting along. I do hope they consider dating and recreating (not soon). That'll mean my brother has someone of equal or greater inspiration keeping him in check. 

        Just one less thing I have to worry about once I'm gone. 

        "Goodness me," Minerva exhales, placing me on the ground, "that's my workout for the next two and a half years." She clutches my hand passively and brings me to the eager group. Who stare and smile at me like I'm an angel, which is the exact opposite of what I truly am. 

        I'm a foolish imp, a tentative, meagering devil that lives amongst men. I feed off the attention like a cumbersome succubus. Suck it up like a prideful doctor with enough money to provide for a starving nation. 

        The bridge, bringing us closer to the extraction center, sways like it bears no weight. Its wooden poles creak and groan under the suppressing airflow. The colors have faded, bearing no resemblance to their former glory—to when they withstood any and everything (not sure how accurate this is).

        I stare hard, running each bit through my roaring brain, running calculations because there's no way it can withstand all our combined weight. I alone am enough to make its support beams bust. I'm like a steel brick, solid, built to bear a family—not to strut across a flimsy bridge with my head held high. 

        Again, no freaking way this is happening. Apollo and Minerva are idiots if they believe that this is safe. They're supposed to cater to my well-being, not to risky plans that may fall through. 

        "Minerva!" I pitch my voice above the others, sure to be the attentive one, the mature one, the cautious one. I yank her hand and spin her toward me. "This won't work." 

        She pivots, looking out at the way across the canyon. "Sure it will." 

        "Says who?" I pick up steam, "You can't predict the future!" 

        "I'm a parasitic goddess; of course I can." She glares down at me, tilting her neck, "You don't trust me?" Her eyebrows raise like the tip of a ballcap. 

        I pace, "Sorta," my hands glow red from the sun, "I trust you, Minerva." My face darkens, and I think back on our previous conversations. For the most part, Minerva has been a statue of goodness. She's cradled me while I've cried while I pondered the value of my life—and in all honesty, I still am—but she's perfect for me. Like a spectacular first kiss, like the first snow of the year that readies you for Christmas, like a massage after your workout, like a first time sipping hot chocolate, like the first time entering a hot tub. 

        Fitting things, good things, perfect things. Strikingly, Minerva's the frontrunner for them all. 

        "Then we'll cross together, okay?" 

        I nearly choke; she has to stop acting like my mother, or I'll fall for her. And that can't be a good situation, as I'm about to bid farewell to this broken egocentric world and join my brothers and sisters in Heaven. 

        Though, we all know I'm too flawed for that. 

        "Get on, buttercup," Minerva says, wagging at me with her mouth. "We've got to prove to the boys we aren't babies." 

        As I climb her frame like a monkey, I ask a harmless question. "You're the most masculine, feminine parasite I've met to date." I'm both praising and saying she's a chivalrous tomboy. 

        "Thanks, but you should see Apollo shirtless,"—she whistles—"pretty damn hot." Minerva hoists me further on her back, nearer to her neck. "You should see that sometime." 

        "Was he...?" Stopping, I realize how private this is. That's like someone asking my bra size or, even higher on the naughty list, my weight—ka-click, classified information, locked in the safe, monitored by a retinal scanner in my uncle's basement, guarded by two burly men in matching black suits. And their shoulders are veiny, muscular, dripping with rich, sweet sweat. 

        Minerva doesn't confirm nor deny my accusation; she whistles louder and carries me to the wooden poles. Placing her hands on each, she whips her head back to where Apollo and the others are chatting. "Hey, come on, boys." She says seductively like that'll help spur them on. 

        It would surely get my legs running in her direction. 

        "Roger that," Apollo laughs, saluting her. "We're right behind you." 

        Minerva puts her left foot on the boards that'll either A) hold her like a champion or B) snap and send us to our deathbeds. 

        It squeaks sharply, almost like a mouse, and Minerva bends down. She pokes the board with her finger and feels it up like she's about to do it injustice, make love with it, whatever word you want to substitute. 

        "Oh-gilly-gushy," Minerva spits, stomping on it. The board cracks in half: right down the middle, a flawless kick. She wraps her hands around the rope, tying the two ends together. "Whatever you do, don't open your eyes." 

        I object, "What?!"

        "Do as I say!" She claps back, and I stiffen. 

        My posture straightens, and I melt into her. 

        "Yes, ma'am," I repeat, swallowing my pride. Or the flickering remnants of it. 

        Minerva grunts, and I feel our weight sink into the rotten wood. It shifts beneath her. Then Minerva begins running, at top speed, across the bridge that screams and cries out for help, telepathically holding its hands out, trying to get us to stop and turn around. I can feel their eyes bugging, almost separating from their eye sockets—doing whatever means necessary to prevent a catastrophe. 

        "Phew," Minerva struggles to catch her breath, like a marathon runner at the end of their fabled run. "We made it." And before I can utter a syllable, she falls to the ground, laughing and giggling so hard it becomes a coarse moan. 

        My body rolls off her and into the grass. The damp, cold, tall grass shrouds us in a mysterious aroma—almost like a fragrance. It smells like a river, like a mossy river. It reminds me of when, at home, my parents took me and Noah to a Japanese garden. The ceilings were high and arched, giving the impression of a traditional Japanese temple, or I think that was it. We roamed there for hours, from late morning to early evening; we walked around pointing out beautiful types of flowers and plants that we tried—and often failed—to correctly pronounce. Mom and Dad laughed at us and bought us thick Udon noodles that had us slurping for days. 

      Minerva and I are safe and sound, protected from the end of our stories, safe from whatever lies at the bottom of the canyon, safe from misstepping, safe from ourselves.