by Paul Finch
April 27th. Tufts of hair have started growing all over my ankles. When I flex my feet, I can feel additional joints. New ligatures as well. Subtle improvements. I think I may be able to run faster than before.
April 28th . It's amazing how much you can pick up from the Internet. I don't even have to leave this seat to see the world. I can sit with my laptop on my hairy knees, and surf wherever I like. For instance, I've discovered that teeth are meant to stop growing when you reach the age of eighteen or at most twenty. Strange that, because mine have put on a new spurt. I have more than before too. They're fighting for space. I have to keep my mouth open slightly all the time now or, clickety-clack, a percussion orchestra starts up inside there. To breathe freely I also have to keep my tongue protruded, extended as far out as possible. Not a pose that helps a girl look her finest.
April 29th I've been catching up on my Ancient History course work. I'd like to be able to offer up some new insights to my class when I return. In particular, I've been diligently re-reading Ovid. Dear Publius Ovidius Naso. He was born in 43 BC, aRoman poet who wrote about love, seduction andmythological transformation. He's considered a master of theelegiac couplet. Oh yes, his poetry decisively influencedEuropean art and literature, you know.
You may not care much about this, but bear with me, because the reason I mention him is that he's the man who told us the true story of the raped priestess. A beautiful maiden the girl was, 'the jealous aspiration of many suitors'. Chaste, of course. Virginal. Weren't they all in those old Greek myths? Can't you just feel the lonely cocks of the misogynistic authors who penned them? Their sexual frustration radiates from every page.
Anyway, the girl was chosen to be a priestess for the temple at Carthage. A high honour, especially for one so lowly of birth as I. Yes, me me me. Get ready. I'm understanding everything now.
Inside those cool chambers, my time was devoted to the quiet adoration of the goddess, Athena. Looking back at what took place there, if Zeus had been the first to spy me it might have gone better for me. He was the worst of the gods, the ultimate defiler. We'd all seen him skulking in the corridors, or watching us in his unnerving 'shower of golden rain' form from the windows. We feared him, and we were right to. He rutted with every mortal female he could. But he might have protected me. And Zeus-would it have been so bad? At least he was something to behold. King of the gods, ruler ofMount Olympus, the eagle, the cloud-gatherer, striding forward, that great thunderbolt forever gripped in his ancient fist.
But Poseidon? To be honest, a rank below. An incredible conquest for any human female, true, but whatever storms and froths he whipped up he wasn't Zeus, never was, never could be.
I wonder if it was that which made it harder for Athena to accept what he did. Lord of the Sea and all the oceans, yes, but how dare Poseidon do this, besmirch the floor of her own temple with our juices?
He saw me, though, and he wanted me, oh how he wanted me. So he took me. Why deny himself? He impaled me. The Greeks called it ravishment. It sounds wondrous, doesn't it? Like a pure thing. But even when a god does it, it is rape, and afterwards I lay on the hard marble steps of the temple, sobbing and bleeding.
"Help me, Lady of Athens," I prayed, holding up my arms to the statue of the goddess I worshipped and loved. I was so innocent, had led so shy and sheltered a life, that I even prayed for forgiveness. I believed it was my own fault I'd become the gleam in Poseidon's eye.
And surely Athena came to my aid? Surely she comforted me? Took me up in her arms? Wiped away my tears? Pallas Athena, the Greeks called her, goddess of wisdom. Even beyond Zeus she was adored. Athena the compassionate! Athena, beloved of the people! She was to be seen everywhere in those days: on vases, plates, bottles, even the sandals of our feet. You couldn't puke in Athens without seeing her perfect face staring up at you from the cobbles.
And she aided many heroes, of course. Odysseus, Jason, Heracles. Hosts of others. Oh yes, she liked the men especially, though intriguingly she never raped one. I wonder why. No mortal man could have stopped her.
Sitting here in my bedroom, reflecting back on those times, I believe I now finally understand why Athena brought such a terrible retribution upon me that day. All that power she had, all that femininity, and yet never to take a lover? How odd. Her chasteness earned her the title Athena Parthenos, 'Athena the Virgin', and seeing the excoriating glare she gave me in the temple, I knew she coveted that name more than any other.
It's often overlooked by the old mythmakers, but remember that Athena narrowly avoided rape herself. The god Hephaestus tried to pin her lovely body down. She eluded him, but he must have come close because we're told his semen fell on the ground and a baby boy, Erichthonius, was born from the residue.
Here's what I think. I don't believe Athena ever forgot that attempted rape. All rape victims live in everlasting horror of the act-I should know-and I saw it reflected in her eyes that day. And remember, too, that she was always having to prove herself worthy of her exalted status, because she was not fully born of the gods. Oh no. She was the daughter of Metis-a giantess, no less, a Titan. A beast who ruled the fourth day and the planet Mercury. Zeus bedded her as he bedded everything-girl, giant, ailing donkey, it didn't matter to him.
But then his gutless side emerged. A prophecy had foretold that any offspring of Metis would be greater than he, and that was something big-boy Zeus wasn't prepared to accept. To avoid that fate, he swallowed Metis whole. Actually, think about that a second. It's really amazing. According to Hesiod's Theogony Zeus "put her away inside his own belly." He "swallowed her down all of a sudden." Imagine that! To be swallowed by a god!
But in any case, he was too late: clever Metis had already conceived. Athena was fermenting inside her. Metis nurtured Athena within Zeus's own body and gave birth, whereupon Athena burst forth from Zeus's forehead fully armed with weapons provided by her mother.
Pretty impressive, eh? Take a bow, Metis.
But the impact on Athena? No one to nurture her womanly side. Her mother killed by Zeus. And then daddy Zeus takes her on as his 'daughter'. I wonder how many times he ravished her in her sleep?
How could Athena have been anything but deranged? History attests to her moods and rages. I think I understand. Yes, I understand you, my dear. I understand only too well what happened that day in the temple when you heard my piteous cries. The need to deny what happened. To batten down the hatches. You were always a jealous guardian of your own inglorious virginal reputation. This could not happen in your temple.
But I heard something later: a minor god who came sniffing after Poseidon's dregs whispered it to me. You came trembling one night to Zeus's chamber, didn't you, Athena? You came and he spurned you. Rejected you. A deliberate taunt. Chose instead a plain mortal woman that night. Made you watch.
April 30th . I really need a much bigger room! I have to crouch these days so that I don't touch the ceiling, and every time I stretch Clarissa ricochets around the wall, gouging out lumps of plaster like a road drill. It's annoying, but I guess she's telling me she needs open skies!
My overall body size is twice what it was, but the growth is not equal across my limbs. I'm three times my previous girth across the abdomen and loins. My womb is not only bigger, but thicker walled as well. I can sense that. It feels as if it's preparing to receive a very vivid guest. That should terrify me, but instead I'm excited.
May 1st . Annette's not sleeping well at all. Occasionally I see her hiding in the garden, skulking, daring herself to look up at me. She's an intelligent woman, however, and beneath the fear is puzzlement about why I stare from this window day and night. Am I waiting for something? Maybe. Maybe I'm waiting for that young man, the one walking across the field.
I am seated, as usual, at the window, when I spot him. I stay entirely still, observing him. I realise that I can read his thoughts. It's a gift that has been coming upon me recently. Annette's anxious musings reached me first. But now... how fascinating... I am inside this man's mind
as well. He's staring at me. He thinks he's staring at some kind of hideous mask appended to the window. He thinks that yellow bile on my face is paint. He doesn't believe I'm real. How can I be?
I think I'll bring him here for a closer look. My vulva crimps and, even though he cannot see what roils there, his feet twitch towards me. When he is at the gate he stops, though. He's seen my face move. And now, of course, he wants to run. I hold him momentarily with my gaze, but I'm still learning how to do that, and his terror outstrips my current skill. He escapes.
After he's gone, I switch my mobile back on and invite Doug over. It's a while since he's seen me, and he hasn't been getting any sex. I can tell that from his voice alone. That's not a new ability I've acquired. Doug always whines. He must be gagging for it because he's being quite nice, asking how I am and everything.
I bring a hint of menstrual blood to my scalp and leave it there. Then I prepare the room. I know what Doug likes. He likes his sex in full-blooded daylight. He likes seeing my sex close up and fully lit. Today, however, I close the shades, make it almost black dark.
A terrified Annette tries to shoo Doug away when he arrives, but I call down for him with a tender purr and he needs no second invitation. It's all a game, I say, from the gloom, and he believes me. In truth, I'm crouched like the jaw-agape monster I now am in the cloying darkness, lying in wait, and before the smell of the room makes him hesitate I'm at him, gathering him into my mouth.
I don't mean to hurt him at first. I'm genuinely curious about what my lips will do. It's only when he yells that I realise I've cut him again. So many teeth competing inside my gums these days. But guess what? Doug hesitates before smacking me this time. "Close your eyes," I murmur. "It'll be best that way."
He thinks I'm about to give him head, and only realises something is seriously wrong when it takes the width of both his hands to encompass my face. He whimpers then. I'd been feeling a hint of regret about killing him before that whimper. I'd even considered keeping my mouth fully open, allowing him to withdraw safely. That snivel, though, brought me back to my senses. His eyes had adjusted to the dark by then. He looked at me, and I looked back at him. Eye to eye, through my bulky fringe, as it were. He saw Clarissa poised over his pubic bone, and his little cherub began bouncing up and down with fear.
But I decided to delay killing him. Instead I licked his face, patted his cheek and left him in the corner of the room, making sure to leave his penis exposed. Later on, I realise it is not from pity that I've spared him. I just want to come back to him later, when I'm more adept. More adept at what? I don't know yet. Anyway, I'll need to replace him soon. That thing in his jeans was never able to fill my mouth, and it certainly can't now. No boy can. I need a real man. Maybe a bull.
May 5th . Annette is a phenomenon, she really is! Although I bolted all the doors and windows a while back, she still hasn't completely given up hope for me. She's been praying nonstop, which is quite a lot for a non-believer. And now she's coming up the stairs. She's actually on her way up! I'll show her to Doug. He could learn a thing or two about guts from this woman. He and I both listen to Annette as, from the dregs of her will, she raps on my door and politely asks if I'll join her for breakfast.
She weeps when I agree. She hadn't expected me to say yes. She doesn't really want me to come down. But I do come down. I don't walk, of course. I squeeze and squish my bulk in a slug-like splurge between floor and ceiling. It's the only way I can get around these days.
Before I enter the kitchen, I tap softly twice on the door. I still have some feelings for Annette. She continues to love me, you know. She really does. She still thinks of me as her daughter. Which surprises me. Which astonishes me. I owe her something for that.
I'm even briefly embarrassed by the way I look as I enter the kitchen. I cover my face with one hand, my hair with the other-or as much of it as I can grasp. Annette says nothing as I slump down across two dining chairs and release a small deposit of something on the table. I don't quite know what it is. Neither does she. She ignores it, behaves as if everything is normal, but I see her fingers trembling as she dishes out cereal. The milk's already on the table. And the sugar. Is she really pouring cornflakes into that bowl? Hasn't she seen what live things I'm eating now when my tongue can find them from the window? Never mind. I'll eat the cornflakes. I'll honour her long enough to do that.
"What's the matter with your hair?" she murmurs, as if I've merely been careless with it. I allow her to touch the strands. She can't hide the disgust or fear in her voice. I find myself loving the tremor. The way her voice wavers. Trembles. Is that what I've been waiting for? To hear that breaking note from Annette? Is this the sign I am finally ready?
"What have you done?" she demands, imbecilically burying her hands inside the curls. "Did you put something in it to make it this wet? What is this?" She removes her hands again, looks down at the dark stinking dampness. "Soil?" Then she sniffs her fingers and recoils.
"Don't touch the ends," I say. "Don't get too close. Leave them alone."
Annette ignores me. She can't make the adjustment. "But what have you smeared in it?"
What's wrong with her? Doesn't she know that it is only by sheer indomitability of will I am holding my own hair back from eating her?
Later, I allow her to take me to the bathroom and wash the outer hair strands. It is perhaps the last favour I will ever grant her or anyone. She chooses lavender shampoo. It's a sweet smell, I suppose. But my own scent overpowers it. If Annette could only smell the hair elsewhere on my body she'd be even more scared.
May 5th . Early hours of the morning, and I've decided to conduct a small experiment. While Annette sleeps, I fetch raw eggs and organic yogurt and spread them together on my hair. The mixture is quickly absorbed. The odd thing is that I've never really liked eggs or yogurt much. So: a different appetite from my mouth. Whatever is up there has tastes and preferences of its own.
May 9th . The day has finally arrived for Annette and I to receive the results of the psychological tests. Phew-what a wait! I remind her to open the letter, but she does it listlessly. She doesn't seem particularly interested. Actually, she's trembling so much when I come downstairs that I have to hold her face still for a few minutes until it stops shaking.
As I squeeze her into stillness, I realise that the house seems smaller. Or maybe I'm even larger than last time I was up and about. Under the pressure of my fingers, Annette is very child-like, wanting to scream and run and cry and warn people about me all at the same time, but my eyes have asked her not to do any of those things, and in their rolling/blinky way they're remarkably compelling these days. Well, after all, Annette hasn't got much resistance to me. She's not my real mother, is she? I don't know what impressive bitch spawned me, but it had nothing to do with Annette.
After resting, I go back up to my room, pull Doug towards my knee and we take our usual places beside the window.
I look out. A farmer, about a quarter of a mile from the house, is fixing a fence. I make the farmer look at me, and he fouls himself. Luckily, I'm already used to that from Doug. I smile and so, copying me, does my worn-out Dougie-boy.
May 13th . A busy, busy day! Annette and I have amused ourselves for hours putting the mirrors back in place all over the house. Doug helped, too, though I had to steady his arms. I'm quite excited when we're finished because it's been many weeks since I looked at my reflection. When I do so, I find I have a face that is still vaguely but recognisably human. It even looks female. At least I think it does. I ask Doug for confirmation, and he nods. If anything, my breasts are blooming, though Doug won't look at them when I ask him to check them out.
But here's the weird thing. I thought I was intimately in touch with all the changes happening to me, but to my complete surprise my left eye-socket is crusted in slime or vomited blood or some other putrescence. When I ask Doug to investigate he passes out. There's also something odd going on between my legs. Some kind of furtive movement. I've only got a vag
ue idea what that's all about, and Doug, when he wakes, is completely stumped.
May 14th . Once it's dark, I leave the house. It is the first time I have done so for many weeks, and I stride across the fields. I wonder where my newly strong thighs will take me? The whole world is bright to me, and the mystery of what is between my legs licks the ground as I pass over ripening corn, decapitating seed heads. My hair whispers to me. Promises the strands wish me to keep. I'm listening.
I stay outside until around two a.m. It's raining, but the moisture barely penetrates my hardening skin. I wait until the rain stops, then lie face down. My cavernous voice resonates through the soil. Vibrations call creatures up through the substrate, and I'm followed back to the house by... well, slithering invertebrates, mostly. It's hard to be that interested in insects, but people will soon join them. Acolytes. Proselytes. A few women, but mostly men. I'll stay true to my Athenian roots. Men drawn by my incontestable beauty. You think not? You think this moist writhing armpit would not entice you? Think again. The ancient writers remarked upon it. If I could snare Poseidon, do you really think your children are going to refuse an invitation under my sheets?
May 16th. I'm really looking like something that might turn heads these days! The snakes won't stay still for a second. Yes, I'm back to the full horrific glory Athena transformed me into. 'The Medusa. A face so terrible of aspect that merely to behold her converts a man to stone.' Truthfully, I long ago came to accept my looks. What really galls, though, is the way in that bastard Ovid's retelling of it my punishment by Athena is described as just and well deserved. He had no idea how long I tried to find a safe haven after Athena warped me. I went everywhere, covering my face. I begged family and friends. All turned me away. Where could I go after that?
A cave was the only place I might be left alone.
