Chapter 5: Something Old, Something Feral

The narrow hallway smelled faintly of bleach and old cigarette smoke that had soaked into the walls decades ago. The fluorescent tube here flickered worse than the main room—one bulb half-dead, a relentless hum that ticked and clinked and plinked, counting down the seconds to a coming epic failure. The EXIT sign at the far end was a dull red, throwing a bloody glow down to the scuffed linoleum. The smell of grease blended with the sour note of mildew creeping up from somewhere unseen. Every few steps the floor creaked underfoot, protesting the weight even of someone as light as Elle.

She pushed through the restroom door with her shoulder, avoiding the handle. The assault on her nose from the public restroom was bad enough. She didn’t need to add touching anything to it. The hinges squealed. Inside, the space was unforgiving, tiled in institutional mint-green, one sink, one stall, one mirror, all within one step of each other. The door clicked shut behind her. The light overhead flickered, ready to give out at a moment’s notice. Like her.

She locked the door. The tumbler slammed home with a hard, final click. The sound echoed too long in the tiny room. She leaned her head against the door, breath ragged. Shivering rattled her teeth. Her knees felt weak. Something was happening, leaving her hollow and shaking. Like just before the flu hit. She knows in a couple of hours, she's going to feel like shit. Not even the warmth from coffee will touch it.

First things first.

She peeled off the hoodie, arms heavy and slow. Her skin felt clammy underneath, and a fresh wave of shivering rolled through her, worse than before. She braced her hands on the sink, waiting for it to pass. The damp on her back wasn’t from any splash anymore. It was coming from inside. She wrung the hoodie, until her weakening arms burned. The shivering only deepened. Maybe the room. Maybe something else. Something already moving under her skin.

She sat on the closed toilet lid, kicked off one shoe, then the other. Her lip curled remembering jumping out of the way of passing traffic. Right into puddles. Three fucking times. Her feet were still wet, and her socks? Sodden black rags. She peeled the socks off, grimacing at the slap of air on her feet. She quickly washed them in the sink and wrung them as dry as possible. The restroom was hotter and damper than the main room. No one ever thought about insulation in the restrooms. They could turn into little saunas in the middle of summer. She needed to get out of here fast. Cleaned her feet, one at a time, and pulled the damp socks back on. “No telling what was growing on these floors.” It already smelled like ammonia and rot.

Wrinkling her nose at the smell, she felt something shift. Hair sprouted across her knuckles. She stared. “No, no, no. What the fuck is this?”

She grabbed at the coarse dark hairs and yanked. Hard. One came free with a sharp sting. Then another. People couldn’t see this. She wouldn’t be able to hide. Hair on her hands wasn’t normal. This couldn’t be real. She must be sicker than she thought. She kept pulling until her knuckles burned raw. The hair only partially plucked. Her mind skittered away, latching onto the only tasks that still made sense. Clean. Dress. Survive.

Face next.

She stepped up to the mirror slowly, already braced for the worst. The harsh light caught her eyes first. Pupils too wide. Irises flashing that faint unnatural sheen—not quite silver, but close enough to make her stomach drop. She blinked hard. Closed them. Prayed. Opened them again. The sheen stayed, bold and wrong. This was the third time. Oh god, what was wrong with her?

Several hairs had sprouted along her jawline and the edge of her cheekbones. Coarse. Dark. Her shoulder-length hair was gone—cut short now, or maybe just… changed. She didn’t remember doing it. The new growth on her face made her look feral. And her bottom lip had an unnatural contour. The teeth. The longer teeth. Was she…? No. Not possible. No sparkles here.

She looked away.

She didn’t need the mirror to see her scars. The thin white line near her left temple? That was from Mike’s ring. It caught her when he backhanded her across the room. She had another hidden in her hair that had required stitches. The slight unevenness in her jaw added to the too long teeth gave her a brutal edge. That was from the time Mike sent her tumbling down the concrete stairs. It had never healed right. Her knuckles weren’t pretty or delicate like the other girls. The doctor said that they’d stay that way. Right after he’d asked her if she was safe. She lied as usual. Then he’d given her a pamphlet. How abuse caused microfractures and made the joints knobby or uneven. She’d thrown it away before she left the room. Mike could never see.

She knew every one of them. Mapped them. Remembered them. Had just made it to the point where she could say she’d survived them. Became part of the Book of Her.

These new ones—the glowing eyes, the hair that grew in odd places, the teeth?  These were different. These would get her noticed. Eyes that just passed over bruises, would see ‘different’. And noticed was dangerous. Remembered. Left a trail Mike could walk.

“Not again. No, no, no. People don’t have silver eyes. I can’t—” She lifted her hands and hid her face for two beats. She took a breath. Released and turned on the faucet. The hot water sputtered, then steadied. Cupped her hands and splashed her face. The first hit stung. The second numbed. She scrubbed with soap and the rough paper towels trying to erase her memories, her history yet again. The corner of her mouth split open under the pressure. Fresh copper flooded her tongue. Blood-tinged water swirled down the drain. She kept going, scrubbing until her skin burned. Until her scars faded into the same red as the rest of her face. She scrubbed so hard, the new hair along her jaw fell into the sink in tiny globs. When she finally stopped, she looked less like roadkill, and more like someone who’d suffered a sleepless night. Getting acquainted with Degrees of Okay.

The warmth of her face felt like the only normalcy left. Her mind kept slipping. Clean. Eat. Work. Sleep. Needed to get back to her booth. Her coffee. Food.

Lastly, her sneakers.

She’d stepped in several puddles avoiding traffic on the roadway. They were fairly soaked. She tilted each sneaker over the sink to make sure they were as empty as possible. No time or place to dry them properly. She didn’t have a clue if there was a laundromat close by, but after eating there wouldn’t be any money left. “Fuck.” She’d left her money on the table.

Grabbing a fistful of brown paper towels from the dispenser—cheap, rough ones that shredded if you pulled too hard—she quickly stuffed them deep into the toes, then along the sides, packing them tight like insulation. Another handful went into the arches. Not perfect, but it would do. She shoved her feet back in, laces loose, tongues flopping. The paper crunched with every step. Not dry, but better.

Food would be waiting. Hopefully. She threw her hoodie back on and pulled up the hood. Washed her hands and unlocked the door.

Her chest tightened. Breath came too fast, too shallow. Every muscle stayed locked. Her skin felt too tight. Two sizes too small. She forced the air in and out on a count. In. Out. One. Two. “I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. Everything is all right.”

She made it down the hallway, repeating the lie as truth with every step. She’d almost believed it until her table came into view. One breath away from her booth, her heart sank. The hurt began to build and her eyes began to water.

Her money was gone.