by Ryan Schow
Silence. Pure, unadulterated silence.
“Mr. Swann, no one is perfect, and I’m sure one day I’ll understand why you did what you did for Abby, or Savannah, but when you changed her DNA, when you put male DNA in her, you took a girl who was hostile and hurting and sarcastic, and you gave her beauty and testosterone, and some sort of wicked justice complex. She wants to right every wrong. And she’s violent. It’s a problem.”
“My daughter isn’t violent.”
“The hell she isn’t,” Brayden replied, sitting up fast. This pulled Netty’s covers loose, but he didn’t care. Beside him, she groaned. He turned his head in time to see one of her small pink nipples. She frowned, then pulled the blankets back over her breasts and turned on her side, pulling the blankets completely off him.
“I know my daughter,” Christian challenged.
“You don’t know her anymore,” Brayden said. “None of us do, not since she…died. The girl who came back, she isn’t the same, sir. And it’s sad.”
“I know,” Christian finally said, his voice low and laden with sorrow.
Ever since Christian kicked him out of the house, Brayden resented the man. He even came to detest him. But not now. For some reason now, he caught a glimpse of understanding. Christian loved his daughter, and because of his love for her, he changed her, improved her. But now she was gone and he had only himself to blame. Brayden couldn’t begin to understand that kind of pain, or guilt. It seemed too deep to even contemplate.
“I know you never meant for any of this to happen,” Brayden said.
Christian sighed into the phone, then said, “None of us did.”
“She doesn’t remember anything that happened in L.A., and she has no DNA in the system. Whatever the cops say, there’s nothing to tie her to the murder.”
“I know. It’s just aggravating because when we…changed, my only instructions for her were to stay out of the spotlight for a little while. Lie low. Now some detective is calling about a murder and she’s…amnesic. Which looks so bad right now.”
“The cop who called, Detective Bateman,” Brayden said, “he’s interested in formalities, but his desire to solve the murder—in light of the evidence of so many rapes and manipulations on Demetrius Giardino’s part—rates unbelievably low on the determination scale.”
“I got the same impression. Do you have a lawyer?”
“I don’t need one.”
“You know, even though I’m not your biggest fan,” Christian finally admitted, “I do appreciate your attempts to save Abby from…herself.”
“It’s a full time job, sir.”
“Stop calling me ‘sir,’” Christian said. And then the line went dead.
Looking over at Netty, her bare back still to him, he said, “Honestly, you’re the only good thing that’s happened to me in what feels like forever.” She turned and smiled sweetly. Then, with a downright mischievous grin, he said, “Now toss aside the blankets, blondie, I’m dying to get a better look at your body in this light.”
She rolled back over, onto her back, and pulled the blankets to her chin. Then, looking terribly shy, her innocence almost like a weapon she was using against him, she said, “You’ve already seen too much.”
“Nonsense.”
Holding the sheet in place, she reached for her phone, saw about fifteen missed calls and several texts from her mother and said, “I need to call my mother.”
“Oh boy,” he said.
“By the look of things, I’m pretty sure I’m going to be grounded until I’m fifty.”
The Raven, the Redhead and the Abomination
1
Bare feet on cold tiles. Padding along with weight. Resistance. Oh, how I have missed the real world! After having floated in stasis, paralyzed, the simple act of sauntering across the lab floor floods me with joy. To move against something solid, to know gravity, it’s the very freedom I have been aching for since entering the tank and realizing in horror that I would remain in a state of semi-consciousness throughout my entire transformation.
Pain roared through me in waves, undoing me, rebuilding me, remaking me. My sanity was tested. I barely passed. Then, for all of my struggles, I was rewarded with Quentin and his shotgun. Even now, evidence of another attempt on my life is running down my brand new face. One day as the new me and already some butt monkey is pooping in my Cheerio-O’s. For the love of God…the audacity!
The stitching of skin and bones coming back together, like millions of fire ants working with millions of tiny suturing needles to make me new again, it’s not exactly comfortable. More than anything, I want to scratch my face to stop the itch. But I won’t. Rapid healing is a miracle given to me by Holland’s former self, Dr. Gerhard, and then presumably enhanced by the doctor at Dulce. I won’t dampen the progress by falling prey to such physical compulsions.
Pretty soon, the hot, ruined flesh, the discarded scraps, the tiny, crushed bone fragments, they’ll leak out of my ears, my eyes and my nose in a brownish, red goop. They will drain out of my vagina and my butthole and they’ll feel like the worst period cramps ever, but times ten. My body will be like a squeezed rag with sweat and tears and this nasty cocktail of human waste, but I’ll be alive, and whole.
And ever so beautiful again.
I head for the bathroom, close the door, look everywhere but in the mirror. For the next five minutes, I refuse to look at my face, at the condition of it. Or all the blood that’s stained the front of my chest and these fantastic new boobies of mine. It’s only after I feel my face with a pair of shaky hands that I stand in front of the full length mirror and appraise the unspoiled parts of me.
My breath catches.
I am newborn; not the same at all, but familiar.
The narrow waist, the medium b-cup breasts with matching nipples that are neither too large nor too small, the all-the-way-tucked-in Playboy vagina and slightly muscular legs, this has become my shape. Holland’s idea of perfection. Turning around, I’m practically in love with my own butt. My God, I can’t stop staring!
Okay, I think, my mouth making a smile I refuse to look at just yet, I still like me.
Hundreds of years ago, fat women were deemed perfect, godly. Then Marilyn Monroe showed the world how a shapely, but slightly overweight woman with feline energy and just a few brain cells could bring a nation of sex starved men to their collective knees. Now skinny and smart is the new perfect. At least in the eyes of some. There are still chubby chasers. Guys who dig fat chicks. And there are guys who want a girl with a giant rump and a flat stomach. The Kim Kardashian fan club. And still there are guys who like big tits and small tits…all tits without discrimination. What am I but one idea of perfection?
My eyes finally move to my face. I can’t stop them. Again, my breath catches. But not in a good way. Everything is whole again, put together, including my nose (which I still can’t breathe out of very well because of the inflammation), but it’s splattered red. The entire lower half of my face is one giant bloodstain.
At the sink, I wash it clean, then look up in the mirror. There are networks of tiny lines in my face, a Google road map of coming-together skin. In a moment, every trace of my attack will be erased, replaced by unblemished skin. Thank you Gerhard. Or Holland.
The minute passes, I look up again.
Oh, my.
What a beautiful face I’ve been given. It’s a stranger’s face for now, but so lovely. I’m still Caucasian (I so badly wanted to have physical evidence of my mother’s Mexican heritage, but alas I don’t—gosh damn Holland and his freaking Nazi racism!), my skin is neither pale nor tan and my eyes are a brilliant purple. I love these eyes! At least Holland did something right when he gave me Arabelle’s eyes. But the hair, hmmm…it’s a little too…Astor Academy. As in, it’s silky smooth and blonde. I’m tired of being blonde. I’m tired of long hair.
Note to self: Cut your hair, dye it black. I can’t help thinking, when changing your entire body, different is good. Different is
essential. I mean, what girl thinks you can have a fresh start by using the same old style? Not this one, I think to myself.
Not this one.
So I’ll do dark, bold eye shadows and brick red lipstick and long, willowy lashes and I’ll look nothing like my former self. I’m done with that girl. Done with her churchlike beauty and her…motherfreaking innocence. Done with conservative…everything. What I want most from Abby or even Savannah, is nothing. As in no more ties to anything or any of my former selves.
A warrior without a master is a rogue warrior. An island. A girl who no longer relies on the closeness of friends to survive, or thrive. I don’t need familiarity. I don’t need a whole lot of things, but what I do know—and I know this for certain—is that I want a man this time around. I want the one in my dreams. I want him because it’s about time this girl become a woman. Abby didn’t have a man she could keep, and Savannah only had her ice cream and her re-runs.
This shit needs to change.
This new mouth of mine smiles and it looks like a model’s mouth, with straight, white teeth. My cupid’s bow lips, they’re gorgeous, so plump, so kissable. It’s crazy to think this face was shot to hell only minutes ago. I wash it with warm water, look for blemishes, find none.
“You’re f*cking incredible,” I whisper to my reflection, and we believe it. Me and my reflection. Then something creeps in, a swish of darkness, the tiniest little nagging bit of doubt. Perhaps I am too beautiful. Looking myself over, I feel airbrushed. Not a mole on me. Not a single imperfection. Which could very well be seen as imperfection, if one engaged in that type of thinking.
But not me. I’m not complaining. After all, I could be Savannah Van Duyn version 1.0 right now! But I’m not her. And I’m not Abby.
Which means I no longer have their problems to deal with. No Savannah problems, and no more Abby problems. Which means I no longer have Damien problems or Jake problems. I love this! I love not having Van Duyn or Swann problems either. That means Margaret and all her drama…gone. Jacob’s not even in the picture anymore, not unless I want him to be, so he’s not a problem either.
Yay!!!
But every silver cloud has a black lining. I’ll miss Netty terribly. And my father. And I will miss Brayden and Georgia, and even Tempest and Cicely. The thought chills the air around me. Leaves me feeling guilty and alone. Isolated.
I reach for the robe on the back wall. It’s fluffy and cozy and warm; I step into it, cinch the belt tight. Back in the mirror, I look at everything but my blood splattered blonde hair. And then I look directly into my eyes. This empty, attractive face, it desperately needs some color to compliment these gorgeous amethyst eyes!
My body takes a deep breath, and I feel content.
When I think about who I am and what I have become, when I think about my body and my soul craving a man, what I’m truly anxious for is the kind of unconditional love I felt in my dream. The safety of it. The deliciousness of it. I haven’t felt that yet. Never once experienced it. My mind spins a scenario of first love, true love, and it’s an uncomplicated relationship with a man who won’t reject me or see me as some sexual conquest. But if I let this dream lover into my real world, if I ever find him, he’ll see who I am.
Which is who exactly? Or what?
I don’t know. But am I not continually returning to this very same question? And I am not always looking for that magical answer?
2
Julie woke to the sound of someone knocking on her bedroom door. Eyes shot wide open, head jerked left to right, looking for last night’s unclothed guests. When she saw she was alone in bed, she breathed a sigh of relief. When had they left? Did they go together in the middle of the night? The gentle knocking again, four…no five times.
“What?” she said, annoyed.
“Breakfast, sweetheart,” Gabriella announced through the door. “Can I come in?”
She realized she was naked. Images of her and her step-siblings flashed wild through her memory, quickening her heartbeat. She pulled the blankets to her neck, tried to look…not guilty.
“Come in,” she said. The door opened. “Sorry for snapping, I was asleep and having the worst dream. It sort of followed me out for a second.”
Gabriella smiled that gorgeous Hollywood smile and said in her most Stepford Wife tone, “No problem, darling. We’re having Belgian waffles. Your brother’s making them.”
Inside, because of the way Gabriella called Emery her brother, Julie squirmed against the memory of last night’s tryst. Looking at your step-mom, thinking of what it was like having sex with her children, it was uncomfortable to say the least. Having Emery and Constance in her bed with their hands and mouths and bodies pulling her into unknown, unfamiliar realms…
Waking up from that was like leaving a silken dream and opening your eyes in the ghetto.
When Gabriella left, Julie went into the shower, turned it on, then plopped down on the toilet and peed. Her hair was a mess, her privates sore. When she was finished, she wiped and flushed, then she stepped into the shower. She was washing her hair when Constance slipped in, unseen. For a moment, the girl stood there, silent. When it looked like Julie was almost done, she said, “I’m in here,” and Julie gave a small yelp.
“Jesus, Constance,” she said, wiping a smear of steam from the glass shower door, “you scared the crap out of me.”
“You were amazing last night,” Constance said.
“So were you.”
Constance opened the door, Julie turned the shower head so as not to spray her. Her step-sister appraised her naked body and said, “I wish I had a dick.”
“What you have is better than that.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“You have the gentle touch of a girl. Not Emery. He’s rough sometimes. You’re not. I appreciate that, and I appreciate that you take your time.”
“Are you finally going bi on me?” Constance mused, reaching out to touch her.
“No,” Julie said. “Still straight.”
“Yet you kiss like you’re not. And you move against me like you’re not.”
“I kiss you and touch you because I like you, not because I want to fuck you or suddenly start trolling for vag.”
“I’m not sure if that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me or if you’re pacifying me.”
Julie leaned forward, pulled Constance’s head in and kissed her on the mouth. “It’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to you. Now go out and let me finish up otherwise you and I are going to get caught.”
“I’m sure Gabriella already knows what’s up.”
“If she does,” Julie said, “she’s not letting on.”
“Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. I don’t know. At least she’s occupied with your father enough for us to keep doing this.”
Julie rinsed off the rest of her hair and shut off the shower. “Hand me a towel,” she said.
Constance got a fresh one from the linen closet and said, “I’ll dry you myself.” Julie let her despite her warnings. She enjoyed the attention. “When do you go back to school?”
“Next week,” Julie said. “But you already know that.”
Constance got quiet for just the tiniest of moments, then said, “Turn around.” She turned away from the older girl. Constance dried her back and shoulders (kissing them when they were dry), then worked her way down to Julie’s butt (“You have an exceptional ass.”), and then her legs and feet. When she was done, Julie turned around and Constance said, “I’m going to miss everything about you when you leave.”
“You’re going to be too busy with Emery to notice I’m gone.”
Constance actually looked hurt by this. “That’s not true,” she said. “I don’t even like him.”
“It is,” Julie replied. “And yes you do.”
“I was with Emery long before we were with you, but I think I love you more than I do him, even though you like being with him more than you like being with me.”
Julie stepped past her, wrapped the towel around herself and said, “Let me get ready. And stop worrying about who loves who more.”
Constance watched Julie get ready, and then she finally said, “It’s just, I’m going to be sad is all.”
“Me, too, Constance,” she said, meaning it. “Me, too.”
When Constance went out, Julie finished getting ready. It took her forever, but she knew Emery would save her some batter and make fresh waffles when she was ready.
When she was done with her hair and makeup, she looked in the mirror and thought, yep, you’re hot as hell. And she was. A five foot six angel with lots of curly brunette hair, bold green eyes and pouty lips. She pushed her hair back over her shoulders, fashioned it into a ponytail. She was no unnatural beauty like some of the girls at Astor, but she was perfect in her own mind. “That’s because you’re no GMO bitch,” she said into the mirror.
In the kitchen, everyone was at the breakfast table eating. It was a lovely sight, totally uplifting. She strutted into the kitchen, shoulders back, chin up.
“Wow,” her father said, “look at you.” And everyone did, which made her feel a touch uncomfortable. So she forced a bashful smile, did a humorous curtsy. Gabriella gave a good-natured laugh Julie appreciated. Sometimes she understood why her father loved the woman.
She was, however, wondering if Gabriella suspected she and her son were having sex. And did she know Julie was also having sex with Constance? Inside, Julie was like, I wonder how that conversation would go.
“I saved you some batter,” Emery said, getting up. “You’ll want these babies hot off the griddle.”
“I know,” she said, with a flirtatious look only he could see. “You always tell me how they’re crispier that way.”
“I so want to do you right now,” he whispered to her low and sultry, when they were in the kitchen just out of earshot of the others.
“Feed me, baby,” she said, and he grinned.
