Weapon

by Schow, Ryan

“No.”

  “Do boys have hair there? Around their vaginas, too?”

  “Yes.”

  He wondered if the sudden barrage of questions would continue, but to his surprise, they simply stopped. He kept waiting for her to ask about Arabelle. Alice seemed to have a sense of things, though. He wondered if she knew Arabelle was dead. He suspected she did.

  After preparing the blonde for transformation, after giving her the DNA cocktail he stayed up two nights preparing, he went to Abby’s container. Unlike Arabelle’s container before he disposed of her body, there were no blemishes in the pink serum. No gassy pockets. Abby was not decomposing, even though she had been dead for days.

  Her body continued to heal. Yet still there was no heart or brain activity, which left Gerhard to wonder, how is this kind of healing possible? In the back of his mind, he knew it was neither possible nor explainable.

  Yet it continued.

  The Slow and Steady Demise of Margaret Van Duyn

  1

  The minute Margaret walked into the New York lab Atticus had gone to for his transform into Christian Swann, she saw literally twenty or thirty people in giant glass tanks with not a pinkish liquid, but a deep amber, and she thought of every possible reason to back out.

  How could she submerge herself in that for weeks? Breathing it in her mouth and lungs? She was so pumped with fear her stomach felt twisted like a wrung towel. She ran for the nearest garbage can, puked in it, then asked for the bathroom where she went and puked several more times.

  Christian was with her.

  He held her hair back, like a best friend; he offered her tissue to wipe away the strings of throw up snot, told her it was okay, not to be embarrassed.

  “Everyone does this,” he said. “Myself included.”

  “You did?”

  She looked up at him, her face red, the toilet bowl full of this morning’s and last night’s acid soaked meals. There was such vulnerability in her face. It nearly broke Christian’s heart. He knew what she was giving up, that her body was indeed her temple, a once simple temple she strengthened, adorned and beautified. A temple she came to appreciate as her own.

  “If I don’t like who I am, can I change me back?”

  He nodded, yes.

  “But not to this you,” he said. “Your implants, the tummy tucks, your veneers and fillers and eyelid lifts, they are all cosmetic additions. You would be the woman you were before all of this.”

  “That woman was sooo boring,” she said.

  She bundled up some tissue paper, blew her nose. By the sound of it, she unloaded a ton of snot. She then folded the tissue, used a dry corner to dab her eyes and dropped it into the toilet bowl.

  It was like the old days, which weren’t so long ago, when she was drunk or high or coming apart at the seams over one thing or another. Except she was none of those things now.

  “Why are you doing this?” he said, gently. He knew the answer, but he was reminding her of its importance, which she found sweet. Endearing.

  “You know why,” she replied.

  “You want Abby to love you, but she can’t because you’re you and she can’t move past the bad memories.”

  “Can’t we send her to a shrink? A better one than before? I’ve been hearing about this doctor in Beverly Hills who—”

  “We’ve tried that,” he interrupted.

  “She’ll forgive me in ten, or maybe twenty years,” Margaret reasoned. “Won’t she?”

  “Abby is stubborn.”

  “Savannah.”

  “Both versions of her are strong willed and stubborn. A good combination for so many things, but not for forgiving the mother who never loved her the way she was.”

  She started crying again. Then she sat up, turned her back to the toilet. Even in a skirt, sitting on the cold tile floor, she managed to look poised. Christian reached over the top of her right shoulder and flushed the toilet. The smell was clearly getting to him. Margaret reminded herself he wasn’t a regular chucker. Not like she was. Not like Savannah. She and Savannah, the two of them could practically puke on cue.

  “Will you do something for me?”

  “Yes,” he said. The industrial bathroom they were in had excellent lighting. More than enough for what she needed. The space was maybe eight feet by eight feet with nine foot ceilings. There was a clean toilet, a large mirror and a pedestal sink. The floors were eighteen inch by eighteen inch tiles, and dimpled plastic wainscoting ran up the walls three feet from the floor. The large bathroom was bleached white and sterile, and damn near spotless.

  “Help me up,” she said.

  He did.

  “I want you to be honest with me, and I promise, I won’t hold anything you say against you. This is something I need you to do for me.”

  “Okay,” he said, not sure where this was going.

  She started to undress. Heels, blouse, skirt. His eyes adored her. The catch of breath in his throat, the stillness that came over him when she was down to her black lace bra and G-string panties, was a compliment she didn’t know if she could shake. She unclasped her bra from the front, the cups opened up and her breasts spilled out.

  She dropped the bra, slid out of the panties, one leg and then the other. Christian inhaled sharply through his nose, rolled his neck, not like a fighter, but like a man so overcome by what he saw he could hardly control himself.

  Margaret wondered, who am I fooling doing this? He always liked the way she looked. Even now, looking like some GQ god with his perfect hair, his perfect face and his perfect model body, he wanted her.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” she said. “That’s not why I’m doing this.”

  He swallowed hard, said nothing.

  “I need you to tell me what’s wrong with me. Leave nothing out. All the imperfections, every last flaw. And please be honest.”

  “Margaret, love, my eyes don’t see those things on you. I’ve only ever craved the look of you, and you know that.”

  “Well now I’m asking you to shift your perspective. See me with different eyes. Christian, I need this.”

  There was a knock on the bathroom door, the geneticist’s voice: “Is everything okay in there?”

  Margaret said, “Give us a few minutes, please.”

  Just the two of the them, standing there, Christian dressed, Margaret not. Her nipples pointed right at him, two pebbles of rock hard flesh. Her skin rebelled against the cold, tightening into goose bumps. All the way up her legs and stomach, up her arms, across her chest up into her neck.

  Christian stepped forward, so they were face to face with only an inch between them. He trailed his fingertips from her stomach all the way around to her backside. He cupped both cheeks, squeezed the slightest little bit. An involuntary sigh escaped her.

  “I am mesmerized by your beauty,” he said, kissing her neck, and the soft spot beneath her ear lobes. She loved being kissed there and he knew it. “I have always been mesmerized. Even early on, before the surgeries.”

  She kissed him back because she couldn’t help it. They hadn’t really kissed since he learned of her affair. She reached for his shirt, undid his buttons. Pretty soon it was belt buckles and boxers, shoes and socks. Right then and there, they were unburdened by the past, like two people coming together for the first time. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. It was unimpeded lust. Downright carnal. Between the two of them, the sex was so overdue that her need became this gigantic, silken, indefinable thing she just had to satiate. For the first time since his transformation, she saw all of Christian, in all of his genetically modified beauty and her appetite for him soared.

  She thought, I can have this all the time. I can have him.

  As he took her, as he gave her that final good-bye, she wondered if he would want and love the next version of her this much. Aside from the love of her daughter, that would be the thing she prayed for last before giving herself over to the change.

  2

  When they were done, b
oth of them panting and spent, smiling, unable to take their eyes off each other, she said, “Now tell me. I want to know all the little things.”

  “I told you—”

  “Christian,” she pleaded, “I don’t want to leave this body behind. Don’t you get that?”

  “Your tits,” he said, conceding. “The scar underneath your breasts, it’s thin, but I never liked seeing it because it reminded me that you never felt your breasts were good enough, when they were. I miss your old breasts. These are too big. The way the skin pulls against the sides, it’s a screaming reminder that they’re fake.”

  He said it the same way you’d confess to shoplifting. He was ashamed, unable to meet her eyes.

  “Go on, Christian. It’s okay.”

  “I like your areolas, but honestly, they could be smaller. Those are huge.”

  “You don’t like my nipples?” she said.

  “Medium-sized boobs, small nipples, that’s my thing. Other people might be okay with dollar pancakes for nipples, but those are…too big. For me, anyway.” He looked up at her, his eyes alight with the question: Are you mad? Do you hate me yet?

  “Don’t stop,” she said, her heart racing.

  “You don’t have stretch marks, which wouldn’t bother me if you did, but the skin around your belly, if you’re doing anything other than standing, it resembles crepe-like dough pilings. And your tummy tuck scar, no one could love a thing like that. I’ve always thought it was ugly.” He saw her change expression, and that’s when he held up his hands in mock surrender and said, “That’s enough.”

  Tears glossed over her eyes, but she wiped them away and said, “Keep going.”

  Clearly he was uncomfortable. “Margaret,” he pleaded.

  “I need this, Christian. The more honest you are, the more flaws you spot, the easier this will be for me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Dammit, Atticus!”

  He took a breath, let it out slowly, searched her eyes for signs that she was telling the truth, that she needed this and wouldn’t hate him for it. She wouldn’t.

  He put on his pants, left her naked.

  “Now that I look at your knees, I’m thinking they look like fat girl knees on a skinny girl. It’s not your kneecaps, it’s just, you shouldn’t wear skirts with those things. That upside down horseshoe shape of knee fat, the dimples and their shadows, it’s like bear claws—you know the donuts—but with crepe-like skin stretched over them. Damn it Margaret, I hate doing this!”

  “I know you do,” she said softly, “but I won’t have the courage to get into that tank if you don’t do this.” She put her hand to his cheek and gave him the most loving look.

  “I like your ankles,” he croaked out, “but your feet are too long for someone as short as you are, and your big toe is squat-looking compared to your other toes. Turn around. I don’t want to look at you when I tell you these things.”

  She heard the pain in his voice. She turned around. “Your ass is perfect, but some guys half my age would tell you those extra little butt dimples make it look like it’s aging, and maybe it’s a bit saggy. I’ve always loved your butt cheeks, but mostly because I love bubble butts. Your ass has fallen over the years, and in about five more years, it’s going to be sloppy because you don’t work out. Pull your butt cheeks apart.”

  “What? No!”

  “Yeah, seriously.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve never seen your butthole.”

  “And you want to start now? Really?”

  “Do it. Pull them open.” She reluctantly did, and he gasped. “Oh, my God.”

  She closed up shop quickly, looked at him over her shoulder, her face desperate, her need to know his thoughts troubling.

  “What?” she said to his unreadable grin.

  “You have the cutest butthole ever. Seriously. I expected it to be…I don’t know, gross or something. I didn’t expect that.”

  She laughed for the first time that day. All the terrible things he was saying, how they were eating away parts of her, the dread of hearing the very next thing just stopped. It was amazing how he could do that: surprise her in the midst of doing something terrible.

  “So you’re telling me you’ve never seen it before?”

  “No.”

  “Not even on accident?”

  “I don’t like buttholes or anything to do with them. I even try to forget I have one. But now this…good God woman, this changes everything.”

  She laughed again and said, “Way to sweeten the mood I wanted sour. I love you for that, even though it’s not helping.”

  “Okay, fine. Back to the cruelty. Your spine sticks out too much and your shoulders are bony. Are you happy? Plus you could use a little meat on your arms. They’re like pretzel sticks.”

  She tried to feel bad about her back and shoulders, about her arms, but that was so like Atticus, or Christian: he had a way of taking the edge off everything. He was all about the unexpected.

  “And your elbows, when you use self-tanner, the color gets in your elbow skin and makes you look like you have some sort of skin disease.”

  Okay, she thought, this is hurting more than I expected. Then again, she reminded herself, you asked for this.

  He moved to the side of her and said, “Your ears are too small and I’ve always been ambivalent about the waves in your hair. It could never make up its mind, straight or curly? I prefer it straight, but it’s usually just that frizzy in-between I never cared for. It sometimes has me wondering if you’re from Mexico or the Indian Reservation.”

  “Mexico,” she said without much feeling, but she knew he knew that. He knew everything about her.

  “Your profile is fine mostly, but your posture suggests a laziness that comes from inactivity, or in your case, too much lounging around on couches and at pools. Your head sits too far forward, but if you put it back where it should be, so it’s not putting stress on your spine, you’ll have a double chin for sure. Face me.”

  She turned and faced him, the tears once again building behind her eyes. He looked down at her and said, “You shave your pussy and I hate that. Twenty year olds do that, and strippers do that. It dries you out, makes you so sticky you need a dollop of lubricant to make sex possible. I like a little hair. It looks good and it keeps things moist. Plus your lips, down there, when you sit spread eagle in front of me, it’s like the weight of them makes your whole…it makes everything squash together, but not in a good way. When I go down on you, if I let my mind speak its ugly truths, I could easily feel like I’m blowing an old lady. Plus your inner lips are too crinkled and meaty—”

  “Oh my God, Christian!” she finally said, horrified.

  “You asked.”

  The emotion inside of her, it became its own force. “I know but, I just never imagined—”

  “You asked me to see you with different eyes.” His tone got defensive quick, but not because he was trying to fight. She knew he didn’t want to do this. She pushed him into it.

  “I know,” she said, covering her vagina with one hand and wiping her eyes with the other. “Give me the wrap.”

  On the sink was a white silk garment meant to preserve her modesty when she went into the tank. It wore like a slip and was made not of cotton or silk but a blend of specially treated fabric. Not only would it retain its integrity in the amber liquid, it was porous enough to accept the nutrient solution necessary for the body’s health and stability during the various transitions. She slipped it on, felt less vulnerable. Safer.

  “This next body you have, Margaret, it will be perfect in so many ways. Not to say your body isn’t. But this isn’t about that, and you know this. What you’re doing, it’s about Savannah. It’s about Abby. If we’re going to be a family, if she’s ever going to open up and let you in, you have to do this.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, then that should be reason enough. We don’t have to continue this senseless, abusive exercise. Please, I already hate m
yself for the things I said.”

  Holding her head high, straightening her back, she drew a deep breath in her nose, exhaled out her mouth, then wiped her eyes for the last time and said, “You’re right. I’m ready.”

  He gave her one last hug, one last kiss, and then he opened the door, led her into the lab where her open tank was waiting. As the amber liquid filled her tank, she looked through the glass directly at Christian. They never broke eye contact.

  When the warmed fluid rose up over her hips, up over her breasts and up to her neck, panic shot through her. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but after this, she just might be.

  She braced herself against the rising liquid, trying desperately to trust in the things Christian told her about the process.

  Earlier that morning he said, “You’ll feel like your drowning at first, but it’s a breathable liquid. In addition to nutrients in the solution, there are sedatives. You’ll only need a few breaths and you’ll be out. From there your body will take over automatically. You’ll never feel the shots they give you. You won’t feel any pain.”

  “Why can’t they give me shots to knock me out before submerging me in that stuff?”

  “It interferes with the other shots,” he said, “and as of now, there isn’t another way. Maybe later down the road, but not now. If it’s any consolation, this way is much better than the way I went about it when I came in.”

  The liquid rose up her chin, over her lips, flooded her nostrils. She held her breath as long as she could, and then it happened: she went to breathe and instead sucked down the liquid. Choking, she gave in to the panic. She tried not to thrash in the water, but it was to the top of the canister now and she was drowning.

  Outside the tank, in the goldish hue of the outside world, Christian stepped forward, put his palm on the glass. This steadied her. She remembered what he’d said, but it didn’t help. She was sucking in nothing but liquid. Convulsing. Her chest was so tight, and her eyes felt like they were going to spring from her skull like popped corn. In that moment Margaret decided if she drowned, that if she died here in this container, it would be okay.