Stones in the Swamp - Part II
Before plunging ahead, catch up on Part I and discover how D.C.'s newest resident turns the urban jungle into her hunting ground. One stone-cold date at a time!
Blood Ties and Urban Lies
When I awaken, I feel filthy, swollen with malice. Its coppery taste fills my mouth and bloats my stomach. I run to the bathroom and heave. Viscous, black liquid snarls out of my mouth and slides into the toilet, my body expunging itself of the essence of Ryan. Hugging the toilet bowl, I curse Athena for bringing me back to such a wretched life.
There have been plenty of times I prayed to her instead, begging that she answer my questions: Why did you help Perseus in killing me in the first place? And why bring me back after all these years?
But she never says anything; you think your god is the only one who doesn’t answer? They’re all mercurial, whimsical. One moment I was in the Underworld because Athena helped Perseus lop off my head, and the next, I was back in a living body. So, of course, the only reasonable answer is that the goddess of wisdom and war must get some sort of sick satisfaction out of yanking me around and watching me suffer.
I promise myself I won’t hunt again as I flush the toilet. If only out of spite for her sick games. Before I leave Ryan’s apartment, I artfully position his statue in his bedroom. No one will think twice about him having such a piece commissioned for himself.
I must be a sight with my evening wear for the 20-something Capitol Hill staffers, yuppie couples, and families getting ready for their day ahead, but perhaps nothing new. Some congressmen are known to have their crash pads on the Hill, and I couldn’t have been the first woman in stilettos seen ducking into an Uber in the early morning hours.
The car takes me back home, and when I push open the door, my sister is in the kitchen, plucking waffles out of the toaster. I know the news is on mute in the other room, and she has spent the morning digesting the headlines.
“You’re up early,” I say.
“You were out late,” Stheno counters.
Where my snakes are a mixture of shades of black and brown, hers are hues of crimson. Bloody and dark—almost hateful. She doesn’t bother to look over as she scrapes a knife across her waffles, smearing them in butter, but her snakes turn their mouths toward me, hissing lowly.
“You should eat,” she says.
“I’m not hungry.”
“What did you do last night?”
“Nothing. I just had a date.”
“A date?”
“Yes,” I say, wanting nothing more than to brood in my room and shake off the remnant stink of him. After a stoning, I always feel heavy and tired, and my eldest sister is annoying me with her interrogation.
Stheno bites down into her waffle. “Did you turn him?”
I sigh. “You’re not my mother.”
“And you’re not answering the question,” she says and finally bothers to look at me. She serves her patented look, which, when deployed on humans, can morph them into clumps of marble or pillars of ash. “Did you turn him?”
“You already know the answer. Yes, I turned him. I don’t even know why you’re asking.”
“Because I thought we agreed, Medusa. We would only hunt together. It’s too dangerous for you. We can’t risk it, not after what happened with Euryale.”
Euryale, our other sister, has yet to return from her last hunt. She frequently needs her freedom and is known to disappear and roam the city, but never for more than a few days at a time. Even though neither of us has seen her for a month, I put off the pain of her absence by rationalizing that she is enjoying her summer and will return before brumation.
“I know,” I say. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
Over the next few months, I gorge on tourists visiting the city, turning them into the same materials that compose the attractions they come to see around the National Mall. The promise, I remind myself with each stoning, but I hush that voice with a deal that I’ll stop after the next one. That’s the problem with being so good at deceiving; it’s only easy to do with other people once you’ve gotten so good at deceiving yourself.
Look, it is not the case that I set out to break my promises intentionally, so much as I justify that I am out looking for Euryale, but then this deep-rooted hunger gnaws at me. If I can just stave it off, I think, as I lift my sunglasses and quickly turn another man in broad daylight—a travel photographer behind the Lincoln Memorial—then I can focus on finding my sister. When I turn a passing couple after that, both plump as pheasants wandering the National Museum of Natural History, I realize these little petrifications are nothing but drops of candy.
During the height of my starvation, it is as if someone else takes over my body, some pressed, wild monstress that is not satiated until I get back on Tinder. I don’t care about the consequences. The chase of turning a man, particularly with any stench of evil embedded under his skin, makes me happier than basking on sun-drenched stones. I relish in edging those fools along. The lengthy checklist I must go through to get them in such a vulnerable state is all for that bliss and buzz. Of good stoning.
The next local I find, Daniel, something about him is…off? It starts with his cartoonish goatee. Because his head and face are slick and smooth, it looks like someone sketched his face on an inflated condom. But his cold, lingering stares, his defiant posture as we stroll around the brick sidewalks of Old Town together late into the night, that’s what would have made any other girl feel uneasy during our date.
But I am Medusa, and I power-smile through any red flags. Dates past, I picked up that tactic from a guy who said I should look happier. He was so put off by my serious expression, what I call the I-really-want-to-turn-you-to-stone-but-I-can’t-do-it-here face, that he felt he needed to pass that information along before he went home to unmatch me on Tinder. Thank you for the advice, essentially male stranger.
Truly! If only you knew how much you refined my game.
It isn’t until after we leave Old Town, when Daniel decides to pull off from the G.W. Parkway to make a pit stop at Gravelly Point, that his blue eyes glitter. I bet mine sparkle just as much, knowing the edging feeling that something precious is sitting across from me.
Throughout the day, people flock to Gravelly Point to see the planes going in and out of the airport, to feel the rumble of their jet engines reverberate through their bodies. Now, it is deserted.
“I’ve got a romantic surprise for you out on the trail,” Daniel nods toward the water. “You’re going to love it.”
“What is it?” I ask coyly.
“You’ll see,” he says, opening the door for me. He carefully leads me to the path that snakes parallel to the water. The Potomac River looks tranquil. But like all things, it is what is underneath that makes the water dangerous. The strong undercurrents can pull you in, trapping even the strongest swimmer in a vortex, slamming you against rocks, refusing to let you gasp for air.
An owl takes to the air from its perch on one of the trees that curl over the riverbank, its ascent causing golden and orange leaves to fall from the branch and pepper the ground. The bird’s slow but quiet flight path momentarily blots out part of the lit-up Monument across the water. With a slight grin, I wonder if Ryan still enjoys its views.
“Did you know that of all the species that have existed, almost all of them are now extinct?” His voice is politely matter-of-fact and gives me the impression that he is straining himself, with great difficulty, from doing something. I can relate.
“Oh, really?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“Yes. Nearly ninety-nine point nine percent of them.”
Daniel turns toward me, and I see something glint in his hand. He is quick, but I am quicker. What better way to ward off a killer than with something even more deadly?
Afterward, I tuck my girls back under my wrap and roll his statue into the river. As I watch the knife jutting out from his hand disappear into the water, I replay the experience repeatedly, licking the fresh memories of his transformation in my mind to send my entire nervous system into euphoria. It is akin to requesting the evilest thing in the universe to synthesize pleasure. Until now, I have stuck only with petty, white-collar criminals, making Daniel the first killer I have tasted since my reincarnation. He reminds me that there are no real men anymore. There are no quests. And heroes are a memory from antiquity.
Back in his car, the rot that made Daniel so delicious is already bubbling up in my body. I can feel his desires wash over mine like a watery essence. His malice runs so deep that even in death, I can feel him trying to consume me.
I barely manage to roll down the window before I gag. Daniel comes tumbling out of my mouth, and I throw up the darkest liquid I have seen.
When I settle back in the car seat, a molt from one of Euryale’s snakes plops on the windshield, the owl from earlier swooping off into the night…
Stones in the Swamp - Part III
Medusa’s journey is just heating up. Will she find her sister or lose herself? Check out the next installment!
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