“Look,” the second man says in a low tone to his companion, “she’s not going anywhere. Let’s just take the backpack and go.”
The first man gives him a doubtful look, but nods after a moment, and the two of them begin to move back towards me. “No!” I yell, unable to think of anything else to say; my mind feels like it’s falling apart almost as quickly as my body. My nails, which I normally keep short and neat, are getting longer at this point, too, extending past the ends of my fingers and turning hard, durable, and pointy. Like claws.
It’s all I can do to move backwards as the two men approach, some part of me wondering if I can somehow escape out the window, and another part telling me that’s impossible. Soon they have me backed up against the wall, the rigid concrete hitting my back as I look around frantically. I’m desperate for something to do, something to use... anything so that I can get these guys away from me and focus on more important things. Like the fact that something very wrong is happening to my body, and I have no idea how to stop it.
They’re almost on top of me now, the first man reaching his arms out as he rushes forward, grabbing for my backpack. If I lose it, I’m screwed. Desperate, fear taking hold of me completely, I let out an incoherent scream, louder than I think I ever have.
And that’s when a jet of fire bursts from my mouth, reaching as far as one of those makeshift flamethrowers you make with a lighter and a can of hairspray. The guys stop, the fear back on their faces. I’m left to just stare as the fire burns out, dissolving into a waft of smoke, wondering how the hell it was possible. How the hell any of this was possible. The fact that my mouth feels fine when it should be scorched, burned beyond recognition, occurs to me moments later For a split second I wonder if it’s not a dream at all, but a hallucination. That would explain why it didn’t hurt me, but it wouldn’t explain why the men are staring at me like… well, like I just breathed fire.
“I don’t like this,” says the first man, eyeing me warily. “Whatever this is, I don’t like it. We should just go. We can bring the others back and deal with her then.”
“No,” snaps the second man. “Nobody muscles in on our territory, especially a little girl. Grab her, keep her from doing that again. I’ll get the bag--”
But at the sound of their words I’m doing the only thing I can think of: screaming again, as loud as I can, praying more fire will come out of me and not caring about how that is physically impossible. And it does. Another blast of flame shoots out of my mouth, coming dangerously close to reaching the two men.
“Fuck this,” the first man says, shaking his head. “You’re on your own.” And then he’s turning around and sprinting for the door, not looking back even as his companion yells threats and obscenities.
The second man stares me down for another moment, calculating his odds against someone who’s mutated into some kind of fire-breathing freak, and eventually drops his shoulders, taking a step back. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else to me, but then closes it. He backs up a few paces before turning and bolting the same way the other guy went.
I’m left standing there, shaking and staring down at myself. Do I dare?
Before I have time to think about it, I’m turning around to face the window, looking at my reflection once again in the grimy reflection. I’m nearly unrecognizable. I look like a monster. My arms and legs are covered in scales, my hair has turned almost white and coarse, my skin still has that red tinge to it. There are claws on my fingers and fangs protruding from my mouth. It’s not something I think I could describe to anyone, and even as the sheer impossibility of everything that just happened continues to flood my mind, the aftershocks are taking over, and I realize I’m shaking.
Breathing hard, trying not to hyperventilate and pass out, I drop back down to the floor, trembling with chills and cold sweat. Two near-misses in one day, and I’m not out of the woods yet. What do I do now? Go to the hospital? Will they even be able to help me?
Of course they will, the rational part of me desperately pipes up. It’s obviously some kind of medical condition. There’s no other explanation.
Okay, sure. I could buy that for the scales, nails, and red skin, but what about the fire? When in history has a person breathed fire outside of the circus? And how am I supposed to explain that to any doctor who comes to examine me? I can already see the headlines, the documentaries, the men in black from the government and the scientists taking me away to some lab or quarantine somewhere, doing tests until the end of time and never letting me see the light of day again. What else would they do? No way. I’m on my own.
I realize I’m crying from a combination of exhaustion, the trauma of the attack, and my fear about my physical condition. Taking a shaky breath, I close my eyes, putting my head on my knees and praying this is all some sick joke.
