60. Things Can Go Well (Patreon)

A/N: A-ha! A chapter! Slightly less late this time, though still rather late. Ah well. I'll get back in the groove. Content warnings ahead, skip the rest if you want to go unspoiled: references to sexual assault, teeth stuff. Anyway, yeah, enjoy the chapter!


The lights are on downstairs when I get home from work, and I immediately tense up upon seeing it. I guess this was inevitable, though. The shock would only keep my mom away for a couple days at most. I always knew that. Time to face the music.

I could probably crash at Valerie or Ida's place if things get bad. I have plenty of savings in my bank account so I should be able to support myself. The idea is a little terrifying, but it's mostly reassuring. The fact that I could uproot my entire life and abandon everything I've ever known if I really need to is… reassuring.

That feels… unfair. Even accounting for my mother, was my life really that bad? How could it be, when I know so many people with home lives that are objectively worse, many of whom still have attachments to that home. Isn't that how I'm supposed to feel?

…Well, I guess not. I'm a monster after all, not a human. And while I also feel like I'm not supposed to think that's reassuring either, well… it is. Because, again, I'm not a human. Neat.

I step out of the car and stretch my limbs, having spent more than enough time psyching myself up in the garage. I'm home now, so the blade limbs can come out, enjoying the light, soupy feeling of having just that tiny bit of atmosphere resistance from being in 3D space. I'm pretty much certain that the 4D space on Earth is a vacuum, but my body doesn't seem to react all that negatively to it. I've heard a lot of horror stories about the sort of stuff a vacuum can do to a human body, but I've actually gone as far as sticking my head into 4D space and not having my lungs explosively decompress or whatever so I guess my body just has the physical structure to resist the pressure difference. So that's nice. Definitely can't breathe there, though, so that might be a problem.

I open the door to my house, having almost forgotten what waits for me thanks to my internal monologue, but to my surprise I don't find my mother waiting for me after all. My dad sits alone at the kitchen table, looking a bit awkward and pensive but shooting me a big smile as he spots me.

"Hey, Hannahgator," he greets me. "Work go okay?"

I fail to hide my surprise. My dad… doesn't normally ambush me like this. Does he need something?

"Yeah, it went fine," I say. "We were pretty busy, though. I guess I'm on social media."

"Ha," he chuckles lightly. "I suppose you would be."

"I suppose I would."

There's an awkward pause. I shift my weight back and forth a little, waiting to understand why this is happening.

"So, uh… you used my car to get to work today," my dad comments. "But I'm not, uh… I don't have COVID anymore. My two weeks are over."

Huh? Oh. Oh! I used his car without permission!

"Oh gosh dad, I'm sorry!" I babble, embarrassed. "I didn't even think about it, I just got so used to… agh, my bad!"

"Oh no, it's okay," he assures me quickly. "I mean, well, you're a little too old to have your dad drive you to work and back anyway, right? It must be embarrassing."

"No, no, it's not embarrassing," I assure him honestly. "I guess it might be to other people, but I don't really think about that kind of stuff."

"Ah, I guess not," he says. "Well, uh, I did need to go do some things at my office, and if you want to make it up to me, I… could use some company? Y'know, have a little father-daughter time while I get some chores done. If, uh, you don't mind staying up a little late."

I'm not entirely sure how to respond at first. My dad doesn't really do stuff like this. He mainly keeps to himself, doing his own thing, staying inside his own head, just going along with the rest of the family whenever we do things together. My mom is in charge of the house, which includes Dad, and he just kind of goes along with it.

But… well, this is kind of a huge change in my life. It's not that weird that he's acting differently. Plus, the only time we ever really interact one on one is when he drives me places. Maybe he just missed that.

"...Okay, Dad," I concede, and he gives me a big goofy grin. I quickly head upstairs to change out of my work clothes and then get back into the car with my backpack, this time in the passenger's seat. He gets in the driver's side, and we head out together.

"So, you really went to school like that, huh?" he asks. "That must be a lot."

"It's whatever," I shrug. "Honestly, it's sort of nice."

"You like being the center of attention?" he asks.

"No, not really. It's just… well, I had to spend a long time hiding everything, I guess. This feels more natural."

He hums, nodding a few times.

"Natural, huh?" he muses. "I worry about people not agreeing with that. I worry about a lot of things. Nobody really knows what's happening to you, and that… well. Your mother and I are terrified."

I nearly flinch at the mention of Mom. If she had said something like 'your father and I are terrified,' I would have gotten defensive. I would have assumed she was trying to guilt me, trying to win the conversation. But for some reason, it doesn't quite feel like that from Dad. He's not asking me to change anything. He's just… talking about his feelings. Something that I suspect is difficult for him.

"I wish I could say that explaining things would help," I tell him. "But I'm a little worried that knowing more about the situation is just going to make you feel worse."

"Ah," he says. "Hmm. Well. I know you said it wasn't demons but… off the record, is it demons?"

I can't help but bust out in brief, unexpected laughter. There's just something about how nonchalantly he says it, despite still being entirely serious, that really gets to me.

"On or off the record, Dad, I'm pretty sure all of Christianity is completely bunk," I tell him. "I speak with a divine entity on a semi-regular basis and She doesn't really match up to anything in the Bible at all."

"Ah. Hmm. Well, just a fair warning, your mom's been talking about looking to hire an exorcist. And yes, we know those are mostly just scams, but… well. With magic being real, it just… you know. Our daughter is… just try not to be too mad at her?"

I sigh. I guess that checks out.

"I'll try," I tell him noncommittally. "Though for the record, I wouldn't really want to be 'exorcized,' if that were even real? Like… maybe some way to protect me from the influence of the Goddess would be nice, She’s… not a nice deity. But the extra limbs and the magic and stuff? It's nice. I like it. I like not having a human body. I like being able to clean up messes with my mind. It's… it makes me happy."

"Really?" he asks.

"Really," I tell him. "It's not all good. There's… bad stuff in my life now. But this?"

I hold up my clawed, chitinous hand, watching it gleam in the flashes of passing streetlights.

"I like it."

My dad just continues staring at the road, because he is driving a car and not wildly irresponsible. But after a brief silence, he nods.

"Well," he says, "that's good, then. That's a very good thing."

Eventually, the car pulls into my dad's dentist office. Dental business? The place where he traumatizes people for cash. He, of course, does all our family's teeth cleanings for free, so I've been here at least every six months or so for… well, my entire life, I guess. It's a small little thing, sitting in one of those dull brick plazas that sneak onto the side of four-lane roads and hold six different stores you see driving to work every day but have never once actually entered. Everyone needs a dentist, though. If you think you don't, you'll come running eventually. What a business to overcharge people for, huh?

"If you're okay with it," my dad suddenly says after we step inside, "I'd like to check your teeth while we're here. I don't know much about magic or anything like that, but I know a little about teeth. It would help to see if that, at least, was okay."

"Oh," I say. "Um, sure, I guess. I suppose I'm a little curious, since they're so big now."

"They are really big," my dad agrees, oddly enthusiastic. "Biggest set of chompers I've ever seen."

"Uh, heh. Yeah, I guess so. It was… uh, pretty traumatic when they grew in, honestly? My human teeth all fell out during a test and I had to run to the bathroom and spit them all into the sink."

"Really?" he asks. "Like in dreams?"

"I… guess? I mean, I can only assume," I say. "I don't… dream."

"Sure you do, when you were a kid you had that recurring dream we had to—"

"No Dad, wait, that… that wasn't a dream."

He stops, frowning.

"Oh," he says. "Okay, well, it's pretty common for people to have dreams about their teeth falling out, and pretty common for people to have dreams about tests, so… they go together sometimes."

"That makes sense," I nod. "Well, like that, yeah. Except it actually happened. I didn't know what to do with my teeth, either, so I panicked and put them all in a ziplock bag in my backpack. I, uh, still have that, actually."

"Really!?" my dad asks, excited. "Can I see?"

I blink, rather surprised by the enthusiasm, but I guess I have no reason to deny the request. I pull out my funny little teeth bag, carefully wrapped up at the bottom of my backpack, and hand it to my father. He accepts it gingerly, carefully setting them down onto a counter and spreading them out.

"Wow, those are your teeth, alright!" he exclaims, and I really don't know what to say to that. I guess… he recognizes them? "Well, let's get you hooked up to the x-ray and figure out your new teeth!"

We do, and the results are… disappointing. Dad takes the x-rays a few times, all to the same result: a solid silhouette of my face. My skin is, apparently, impermeable to a lot more of the electromagnetic spectrum than a normal person's.

"I hope I don't ruin people's cell phone reception," I say with a frown. I was kind of looking forward to seeing an x-ray of my weird teeth. I mean like, it'd probably just be like looking at stuff with my spatial sense, but still.

"Hmm. Yeah," Dad agrees, looking stumped. "Is it weird that this is what finally has it starting to sink in?"

"Has what starting to sink in?" I ask.

"Your body," he says. "You're really something impossible. How did that happen? How could that happen? And why did it happen to you?"

"Oh," I say, finding a nearby patient chair and flopping down into it. "Well. The Goddess said She chose me because I'm 'good, but not good enough.' She did not elaborate on what that meant, but… I have my guesses."

"Oh, Hannah," my dad says sadly, "you're good enough for anything you set your mind to."

I shrug, not terribly interested in arguing the matter with such a biased source.

"It's not a matter of if you can handle it, to us," my father continues. "We know you're smart and funny and hard-working and so, so kind. You can do anything, Hannah. Your mother and I are worried about you, yes, but we're more worried about the rest of the world. About the people who might want to hurt you."

Yeah. Well. That's fair, I guess. But also not really.

"Did I tell you and Mom that I wake up every night in another universe?" I ask.

"Um. No?"

"Ah. Okay. Well, I do. It's literally just… a whole entire other universe, like some big fantasy world tree nonsense. And it's kinda bad news bears over there. Like 'I have had to fight to the death with cultists and slavers' bad. My friends keep telling me I have PTSD now. …My therapist probably would, too."

I let my legs kick a little, dangling over the side of the medical chair. My toes itch to be free of my shoes.

"It's just not something I want to talk to Mom about," I say. "She'll try to fix it, you know? But you can't fix that. You can't fix being a murderer."

I hop back onto the floor, suddenly not in the mood to sit anymore. I start to pace, instead.

"I'd probably be better off if none of this ever happened to me. No… I'd definitely be better off. Even if I spent my whole life depressed at trying to pretend to be the wrong species and not knowing it, it would be better than this. But we don't get that choice, okay, Dad? It's not… it's not an option on the table. This change doesn't go back. Even if we go full anime JRPG on the Goddess and stab Her with the power of friendship until She dies—which, to be clear, is not a thing—I don't become human again. If anything I might die, because I'm pretty sure my biology relies on magic to function. I'm stuck being this stepping stone between worlds, this… this little ant, following a scent-trail back and forth. We have to adapt to that. We have to find ways to appreciate that. And I know it's going to be hard. I know people are going to come for me. And I damn well know that people are going to try to hurt me. They already have."

I try to give my dad a reassuring smile, though I think it only ends up as a grimace.

"But they always regret it. You don't need to worry about me, Dad. If anything, you should worry about the idiots who'll try to do something to me. I hate hurting people, but it turns out I'm really good at it."

"Hannah…" my father says softly, sympathy and confusion on his face. "I'm not… entirely sure I understand. But if you need anything from me, you only need to say so, alright? I'll do anything I can."

"I know," I say, having absolutely no intention to ever do so. "Thanks, Dad."

He does end up checking my teeth out manually, commenting on how easy it is to work on me because my jaw opens so wide no less than three times. I think, perhaps, that my dad might be a weirdo. But I guess that's okay. All the cool people in my life are weirdos anyway.

My teeth are, apparently, as healthy as he's able to determine them to be, even if he's worried their abnormally large size will cause problems to my jaw. I haven't felt anything like that, but I promise him I'll keep an eye on it and he busies himself for a bit with other work before we head home and go to bed. I wake up on the Pillar, and we continue traveling through the caves.

It's nice, if a bit quiet and boring. The cave formations are often breathtakingly beautiful—we stop for lunch by a small underground pond, the walls lined with purple quartz—but they're just as often nothing more than smooth limestone or jagged fissures. Helen and I continue to hunt together for meat, but we're starting to run out of rations for Kagiso, which might require me to bring her some food from Earth and just hope like heck that nothing we put in our food will hurt a literal alien.

Still, the day is mostly just boring travel, so I wake up on Earth Wednesday morning feeling both well-rested and intensely restless. I want to do something—run, clean, work, goof off—but unfortunately I have school to go to first. Even more unfortunately my mother seems to be awake early, already downstairs and eating breakfast. I suppose there's no way I could have avoided her forever. I get dressed for the day, head to the bathroom to relieve myself, and Refresh myself clean.

…After also using toilet paper, of course. I'm not that monstrous. I'm just using Refresh to substitute for showers because… well, showers are kind of depressing now that they aren't enjoyable. Still, though, I take the effort to look over myself in the mirror and check my body over for changes. My extra eyes look like they'll finish growing soon, and… hmm. Something is growing where my hair used to be. There's a tiny little flap of some kinda translucent something-or-another on top of my head. I'm not really sure how to describe it. It's very small, but I guess it's just starting to grow. I hope whatever it is works as a decent substitute for hair.

Gathering my courage, I head downstairs, where my mother is slowly nursing a strong cup of coffee. That's a bit odd; she doesn't normally drink the stuff. She greets me and says good morning. I say good morning back. She doesn't say anything else. I can't help but be relieved, and I grab what's left of our ham, eggs, and cheese to make myself an omelet.

Then a few men in pastors’ outfits walk up our porch and ring the doorbell. Oh boy, here we go.

"It's not going to work, you know," I tell Mom as she stands up to get the door. "I'm not a demon. I'm just me."

"Then I hope you won't mind indulging me," my mother says tiredly, a miserable look on her face as she walks out of the kitchen to let the men inside. They chat quietly a bit and I do my best to ignore them, focusing on my food. Bleh. How should I handle this? I hurry up and finish cooking so I can at least deal with the indignity on a full stomach.

Alas, the presumably-exorcists walk in while I am only half-finished stuffing my face. They look… shocked, I suppose, when they see me. Not horrified, not disgusted, not hateful, but certainly shocked. The three of them briefly shift into different expressions: one looks like he pities me, while another seems suspicious, like he thinks he's the one whose time is being wasted by a scam. Hmm. Probably genuine believers, then. It's strange; I've grown up going to church my entire life, but even I think it's weird to meet someone who actually, truly believes that people get possessed by demons.

…I could have some fun with this. But I'm gonna finish my eggs first.

"You're… Hannah, correct?" the lead guy asks me. Gosh golly the dude has like six different crosses on his person. Absolutely zero drip.

"That's me," I confirm, quickly swallowing to talk and then stuffing my face again. "Sorry, you kinda caught me in the middle of my morning routine."

"Please accept our apologies," he nods. "Do you know why we're here, Hannah?"

"Because you think demons are real and the burden of proof is fake," I answer. "Or at the very least, you have a concerningly generous definition of evidence."

"Hannah, please," my mom sighs, placing the tips of her fingers against her forehead to sort of half-cover her face.

"Fine, fine. You're here because you think there might be something you can exorcize," I grumble, "and not the kind that gets rid of the flab on your bellies."

"Hannah," my mother presses again.

"Is this even like, a thing that happens in the bible?" I ask. "Is this a thing demons do? Turn people into bug monsters? Because I don't remember that from Sunday school, and while I didn't really pay the best attention I feel like I would remember that."

"Hannah!"

"Look, they're just wasting their time, Mom," I snap. "I can't possibly be embarrassing you more than inviting them inside already accomplished. I am like, ninety-nine percent sure this will do jack diddly squat."

"Well can we eliminate that one percent, then?" my mother groans. "Please? Just for my peace of mind?"

I shut my mouth and consider that. I wasn't kidding about the one percent; I have a Goddess, so I guess it's not impossible that these dudes have a bonafide god. But if the Christian god could purge the Goddess' influence from me, would I even want him to? Like, don't get me wrong, it's tempting. My Goddess is pretty awful. But at least She's not 'create a realm of infinite eternal punishment and send people there if they disobey' awful. I mean… at least I don't think She does that. But if She does, She's probably at least not homophobic about who ends up going!

Oh heck, this is exactly like dealing with politics. 'Which immortal monster that has nothing but their own self-interest at heart do you want to rule one of the biggest countries on the planet?' …Woah, wait, I can legally vote now! That's insane! Geez, I'm so not ready for that. At least being queer makes voting slightly easier; between any two jerks that want to exploit the world for personal profit, America usually only has one that actively wants to make my happiness illegal. It's sort of frustrating, because like… I'm kind of required to vote for that one even if I don't agree with any of their other policies, because the other one wants to make my happiness illegal, because that's just a thing a ton of people in this country want for some fucking reason, and that rather supersedes all the other issues I would otherwise care quite a bit about.

…Wait, I'm kind of getting distracted here. Should I let them try to exorcize me? I mean… it won't do anything but maybe get my mom off my back a little, right? So I guess I have no reason to say no?

"Okay, shoot your shot," I shrug. "Faith-blast me, or whatever."

I lazily wave one hip-limb in a 'get on with it' gesture, leaning on the other for support as I shovel down the rest of my eggs. The men of faith glance at each other.

"Your flippancy does not do you favors, child," the suspicious one grunts. "You should show respect before the Lord."

"If I meet him, I probably will," I answer. "But I don't see him here."

That seems to light a fire under their asses, so the men nod at each other and each pull out one of their comically large complement of crosses. The man in front starts to speak.

"I command you, unclean spirit—"

"Rude," I comment, crossing my arms. I literally just cleaned myself!

"—by the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, and by the descent of the Holy Spirit, that you tell me by some sign your name!"

I blink.

"It… it's Hannah," I answer, but he just keeps talking like I'm not even there.

"I command you to obey me, a servant of God despite my unworthiness, and leave this place, emboldened not to harm in any way this creature of God, or the bystanders, or any of their possessions! By the power of Christ, you are commanded!"

Silence. I clear my throat.

"Well," I say, "I was gonna leave for school in like fifteen minutes anyway, so that's fine. Is it alright if I come back after classes, though?"

"Hannah, please," my mother groans. "Take this seriously. For me?"

Ha. Take it seriously? Really? I almost did. I tried to, for a bit there. I had, for a time, the teensiest sliver of hope that maybe She was a demon, maybe She could be cast out. But that was just stupidity from the start. I knew that. I let myself hope anyway. How foolish of me, to take this so lightly.

"Fine," I say, briefly running my dishes under cold water and Refreshing them back to perfection. "We can be serious. We can stop joking around."

I put my things away and approach the three men, doing my best to glower with some level of intimidation despite the fact that the shortest one is nearly eight inches taller than me.

"Do you gentlemen still think I'm possessed?" I ask.

They don't answer, though their grips remain firm on their crosses.

"I see," I continue. "Well. I'm sure you all mean the best. But I'm kind of busy dealing with an actual deity, so my patience for this is a bit thin. I already have one cult trying to kill me. Please don't make it two."

The exorcists look at each other.

"...I think it is the child's faith that is the issue, in this situation," the skeptical one says.

"Yes," another agrees, "I suspect you are correct."

Oh ho ho? What's this now?

"What do you mean?" my mother asks.

"An exorcism commands a demon, as they are beholden to the will of Jesus and powerless against Him," the man explains. "But free wills are still involved, and while that of the demon's can be subverted, God willingly declines to do so to His children. If your daughter has accepted the demon voluntarily…"

"Oh, how convenient," I drawl. "Whenever you fail at your job it's the victim's fault. Come on, Mom, you're not this stupid."

"There's… a certain logic to the claim," my mother frowns. "And you are being rather belligerent about it, young lady."

"If my faith is a deciding factor, this will never work regardless of how real it is," I sigh. "I haven't been a Christian for years, Mom. I'm super gay."

"Those things don't have to be mutually exclusive, you know," my mother hums. "There are denominations that are happy to accept the LGBT community."

"Wha…?" Okay, I was not expecting to hear that from my mom. "No, look, that's really not the only reason, Mom. I'm not going to be getting on the Jesus train while a Goddess mocks me as my new limbs grow in. Faith can't stand up to certainty."

The four Christians in the room seem to take offense to that, so I quickly move on.

"Look, I just… are we done here?" I ask, using one finger to push away a cross that's been slowly moved into my personal space bubble over the course of this conversation. "Exorcism doesn't work. Or these guys suck at it. Either way, you should boot them out."

"Hmm," my mother frowns, tapping her foot for a moment before she motions the men towards the door. "You may leave."

"Ma'am, I do believe your daughter needs serious—"

"You may leave," she repeats, "my house."

They leave. Immediately. I have no idea how she does that. I wait for them to be gone and the front door to be shut before I turn my attention back to my mother. It's… scary, being alone with her. Different. She's always nicer when we're in public. But I'm still buzzing with irritation from the exorcism attempt so I manage to pool together my courage.

"Can you stop trying to help me and just let me go to school now?" I beg her.

"Hannah," my mom sighs, "I am genuinely not sure I can. I could not live with myself if I did nothing to try and help you."

I want to tell her she's not helping. That the best way to help would be to leave me alone. But I can't. It wouldn't work. It wouldn't help. She needs something.

This is part of her routine.

"...A vice president at the place I work flew down to talk to me yesterday," I say hesitantly, unsure if this is wise but equally unsure of any alternatives. "She was concerned about the legality of what I was doing, since magic doesn't really… exist in the legal system. Or, I assume it doesn't?"

"Not explicitly, but there is significant precedent in the context of witchcraft," my mother answers immediately, surprising me yet again. "People who believe they are performing magical rituals are indeed allowed to perform those rituals freely as religious practice, and it would be difficult to argue that provably real magic is less valid of a religion. That said, it would be equally absurd for provably real magic to not be regulated by law."

She crosses one arm over her stomach, resting her other elbow on it in what I've taken to thinking of as her 'lecture pose.'

"Dettmer v. Landon, for example, revolved around a prisoner in Virginia who desired items to perform Wiccan rituals, and made the claim that the first amendment afforded him rights to those items so he could practice. The Department of Correction argued that Wicca was merely a conglomeration of occult practices, and did not constitute a religion at all. It eventually went to the Fourth Circuit, and the court ruled that no, Wicca absolutely counted as a religion, and the claim otherwise was firmly rejected. They just also concluded that the plaintiff would not get access to candles, because none of the prisoners were allowed unsupervised access to things like fire and wax, which has a suite of rational justifications that do not involve his religion whatsoever."

"Huh," I blink. "You just… know that case offhand?"

"Of course I do," my mother scowls. "I researched it last night, along with any other case I thought might be relevant. This one is notable because Wicca is one of the major religions in which spellcasting and communing with supernatural entities are widely known aspects; I've no idea what it's actually like, but those are comparisons that would likely be made if you go for a religious defense. In essence, the idea that you cannot be discriminated against for powers granted to you by this 'goddess?' An easy argument. But the idea that this gives you special permission to use your powers in defiance of preexisting regulations? Comparatively difficult. Religion means special accommodations, but it only sometimes means special exceptions."

"Well, I don't know if I really want to consider my nonconsensual bond to the Goddess as a religion, per se, but it shouldn't matter," I insist. "Most of the health code is about not letting things touch other things, and my magic lets me prepare food while touching everything way less. I have a cleaning and sorting spell. It's awesome at following the health code!"

"Hmm," my mother considers. "Show me."

I spend about five minutes doing just that, not even really thinking about disobeying her. But it's not… that bad? She's not berating me or setting up obscure failstates for me, she's just… telling me to do things that are immediately accomplishable.

"Incredible," she mutters. "Absolutely incredible."

"I know, right?" I gush. "It's awesome! I don't need to waste time mixing sauces or garnishing or cleaning pans or washing hands, it's all just clean."

"No, you still need to wash your hands," mom says.

"What? But why? I just showed you my magic washes hands better than washing hands."

"And I agree with you," my mom nods, "but the health code doesn't specify a degree of cleanliness that your hands need to be. It specifies the situations in which your hands need to be washed, and the correct way to wash your hands. And those things still apply to you, to the letter."

"But… that's dumb," I whine.

My mother shrugs.

"And because it's dumb, we might very well get a special exception if we conclusively proved the superiority of your method and took the matter to court. But do you really want to go through the months-long process of doing that? I feel as though there will be more important legal battles in your future."

I groan. She's absolutely right. As always.

"Now, I suppose I've kept you long enough," my mom says. "Get yourself to school. I… am proud of you, for still choosing to go in spite of all this."

I flinch. I don't feel like this is anything to be proud of. I'm just locked in my routine regardless of whether it's reasonable or not. But I can't deny that hearing my mother say she's proud of me sparks a blossom of joy to unfold through my body, a satisfaction that I deeply, deeply wish I didn't still crave.

"Thanks, Mom," I say quietly, and I head to the bus stop.

School is fine. The gym teacher yells at me for tearing up the track with my claws, but doesn't stop Jet or I from being our supermutant selves as long as we keep our shoes on. I guess he and the principal had a chat. That's good.

I'm getting bombarded with even more questions today than the two days prior. It seems like the whole school has seen videos of me online by now. It's… overwhelming, but Ida steps in before I freak out and starts dragging me along with loud conversation that doesn't let anyone else get a word in edgewise. It's great. She's great. And her birthday is tomorrow! Gosh, I still need to get her something.

I once again make it home without anything exploding or going terrible. Which is… pretty neat, I think. I'm not used to things going well both earthside and treeside, and I know I need to enjoy it while it lasts. Which is why, since I don't have work today, I'm really looking forward to streaming tonight! Gosh, it's going to be wild. When school finally ends and I make it home, I'm itching to get started. I head up to my room and turn on my computer.

"Hannah!" my dad calls out to me. "You ready for your therapy appointment?"

I blink. My what? But… oh. Oh! Right, Dr. Carson convinced me to move up to twice a week. Huh. Well, that's a bit of a buzzkill, but only a bit. My therapy appointments are only ninety minutes long and I can always just stream afterwards.

"Uh… yeah, give me a sec!" I call back down as I finish changing out of my school clothes and turn my computer back off. I guess Mom's at work, so Dad is driving me. That's nice.

"You going like that?" my dad asks me as we get in his car.

"Yeah, my, uh, therapist was actually one of the first people to know," I tell him. "Besides my friends, I mean."

"And your… girlfriend?" he asks awkwardly.

Ah. Right.

"Well, um, yeah, I guess so," I fidget. "Though we actually broke up like, the day after I said I had one. Um. I don't really wanna talk about it."

"Oh," my dad says. "Was it because—"

"It's not because either of us turned out to be straight," I cut him off.

He blinks.

"I was going to ask if it was because you look different now," he says.

"Oh. No. Well, kind of. But no. Can we change the subject?"

"Sure," he says. "Sorry, Hannah."

We make it to Dr. Carson's office before long and though I get my usual complement of stares while in the waiting room, Dr. Carson is there to collect me into her office the moment my appointment is supposed to start. She gives me time to get inside and calm myself, the phantom stress of therapy still clinging to me despite how unimaginably different Dr. Carson is from him. Soon enough, though, I'm on the couch, taking my shoes off and getting comfortable.

"So!" Dr. Carson greets me. "It's good to see you again, Hannah! I have to say, you're looking a bit more chipper."

"Ha! Yeah, I guess I am," I admit, scratching the back of my head awkwardly.

"I notice you're not covering up anymore, either," she says. "Are those two things related?"

"Yup!" I nod. "It's nice to not have to hide. Hiding is hard."

"It really is," Dr. Carson agrees. "Well, I'm glad you seem to be more comfortable expressing yourself. I should mention, before we move on, that I've managed to run into a lot of videos of you online. I wouldn't normally seek that sort of thing out, but you've become quite the big name in a short amount of time."

"Yeah, I, uh, was getting that impression," I hedge. "I don't actually have a Twitter account, though, or… really most social media accounts. So I haven't seen much of it. I've been meaning to, though."

"If you'd like to, you're welcome to do so here," Dr. Carson invites. "Or we can just talk, if you prefer."

"Well, I mean, is it anything bad?" I ask hesitantly.

"I think it's mostly positive," Dr. Carson opines, "but it is social media. There are some less-than-savory opinions. That is perpetually the nature of fame, of course."

"Do you have any famous clients?" I ask. "I mean, you don't have to answer that, of course."

"I think you've recently become my most famous client, Hannah," she smiles at me. "So if you need help with that on top of everything else, you know how to reach me."

"Of course," I sigh. "Yeah. Thank you."

"Any time. So. Is there anything you wanted to speak with me about, today?"

"Well, um… I'm no longer being soul tortured," I start with.

"Yes, that's… certainly something I was worried about," Dr. Carson smiles. "I'm very glad to hear it."

"Yeah, uh. I feel awful about it, though, because we killed a bunch of people and I had to bring my friend Ida from Earth along to help me and she brought a gun so now she's killed a bunch of people and it was just. A really bad situation all around! But we didn't really have a choice because I had accidentally teleported my girlfriend to the other universe the day before, and we had to rescue her, but of course when we kill all the cultists and finally find her she's having a complete breakdown panic attack and she's locked herself inside a magic death trap made out of her soul and we have to break in and drag her out and she dumps me because I guess she's got a bunch of mental problems with attachment and her headmate kept calling me abusive which I guess I am because I accidentally used a bunch of magic to do a bunch of awful things to her on a bunch of different occasions."

"Hmm!" Dr. Carson says, scribbling notes at an absolutely incredible speed. "Well, let's start to unpack that. When you say you used magic to do 'awful things,' what do you mean, exactly?"

"I, um, nonconsensually transformed her into a monster kinda like me. And also I teleported her to a horrible alternate universe."

"Did you do these things on purpose?" Dr. Carson asks.

"Eh?" I answer, wiggling my hand in a so-so gesture. "That's complicated to answer. Though they happened because I wanted them to happen, at the very least. The spell that transforms others works by giving someone a body that I think metaphorically represents them in some way and will also enable them to better empathize with my experiences. If I was thinking rationally at the time, I would not have chosen to cast on her, but the fact that I wasn't thinking rationally at the time doesn't mean I'm not responsible for doing them."

"I think that's a good philosophy, overall," Dr. Carson says. "Though I'd personally hesitate to call you an 'abuser' after a handful of mistakes in high-stress situations."

"Dr. Carson, I made permanent changes to her body that will negatively impact her entire life," I admit. "And then I traumatized her even harder by sending her to another universe. I'm a monster."

My therapist hums in thought, tapping her pen to her chin.

"I suppose I can't comment on what you did or how much it will hurt her," she says. "I don't know the young woman in question. And certainly, she is well within her rights to end her relationship with you, and doing so was likely the correct decision for her. But I deal every day with abusers and victims of abusers, and you act like the latter. Not the former. I don't think you should ignore your mistakes, Hannah, but I don't think you should damn yourself for them, either. You can move forward."

"Yeah," I sigh, leaning back into the couch cushions. "Okay. Honestly, other than that my life has been going really well lately. I escaped the cultists treeside. I came out as nonhuman earthside. And ever since, those two things have just… remained fine. I haven't been recaptured. I haven't been attacked. I haven't had anything bad happen to me. It's wonderful, but at the same time, I just… I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know? Something bad has to be coming. It has to be. So where is it, and what am I supposed to do about it?"

"Something bad doesn't have to be coming, though," Dr. Carson says. "I know it feels that way, after everything you've been through, but it isn't true. Things can go well."

"No, Dr. Carson," I shake my head. "That might be how it works for other people, but not for me. Like yeah, I get it's probably a trauma response, but you know what they say. It's not paranoia if the world is actually out to get you. And She is. She is. I don't know what She wants from me, but I won't like it."

My leg starts to nervously twitch, and I let it. It's okay to do that here.

"...Are you talking about this goddess you've mentioned?" Dr. Carson asks.

"Yes," I confirm. "Yes, I am. She… I really, really like the peace I'm getting lately, Dr. Carson. It's wonderful. But part of me just wants Her to let the ball drop already. To have everything go back to horror. I know it's going to. I know I shouldn't want that, and I don't, but the wait is killing me."

"Do you… speak with this Goddess?" Dr. Carson asks.

"Kind of," I say. "Pretty much. She only talks out loud when people incant a spell, but we communicate. She… knows what I'm thinking. And She can put Her thoughts in my head, make me understand Her words as if they were truths I knew all along. Sh-she can peel my mind open anytime She wants. And She can t-touch me. Whenever, and wherever She feels like it. Sh-she owns me, Dr. Carson. She owns everything. She's a Goddess. And She wants us to suffer so She can laugh."

I realize I'm curling up into a ball, the familiar and no less horrible feeling of a panic attack starting to claw up my lungs. Ha. I was doing so well lately, too.

"Did I tell you the people who were torturing me did it because they think I'll destroy the world?" I ask. "I'm scared they're right. That She chose me because they're right. That I won't be able to stop Her. Because I'm not good enough. I'm not good enough. I'm not good enough I'm not good enough I'm not—"

"Hannah," Dr. Carson interrupts firmly. "Deep breaths for me, please. In… and out. In… and out."

I focus on her voice. On my breathing. The throbbing in my chest starts to die down as the tears continue to fall.

"Hannah, no one needs you to save the world," Dr. Carson insists once I've calmed down. "You are an eighteen-year-old girl."

"I am," I whisper, "a prophet of the apocalypse. I don't know what it will look like. I know we won't all die. But enough of us… too many of us. We won't be able to dig out of the sand. And She won't save the boring ones, not when others can save themselves."

The beach, the boredom, the little ant crawling between the nests. Living a different life in each one. How beautiful. How unique. How easy to break, with but a single finger.

"I shouldn't be going public," I say. "The more people know about magic, the more Her influence will inevitably spread. They'll kidnap everyone I've already ensouled and try to get them to spread it. So they can't know we can spread it. They can't."

I look up at Dr. Carson, panic seizing me.

"Y-you need my number," I tell her, scrambling for my phone. "You need my number more than I need yours. Call me if you get in trouble, okay? If anyone tries to hurt you. I'll find you. I promise. I promise I'll find you. Fuck, what have I even being doing? Going to school? Going to work? I need to prepare."

…Somehow. I need to prepare somehow. But what can I even do?

"Hannah," Dr. Carson says calmly. "Breathe for me, please."

"Right. Yeah. Breathe. Calm down. Don't use the sudden panic as desperately-needed motivation to get off my ass and do something useful for once."

"You can't do anything useful if you're too panicked to think straight, Hannah."

"Well I can't do anything useful any other time, either!" I snap back, then flinch away. "Sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice. I just… this is… I don't know what to do. Everything's going right and I don't know why and know they're going to go wrong again. I know it. I just don't know when or where or if I'll finally be the thing to break me."

I sigh, looking down at my hands. Thinking about my body back on the Pillar, soaked in human blood.

"...Maybe that's a stupid thing to worry about," I say. "I'm already broken."

Silence. I let it fester, drowning the room in painful awkwardness. Dr. Carson, of course, seems to somehow detect that my quietness isn't any more helpful than my outburst, so she clears her throat to speak up.

"Well," she says, "I'm certainly glad we've agreed to twice-a-week visits, if nothing else. It wouldn't have been good for emotions like that to boil up inside you all week. It's healthy to let these things out when you can. To talk about them."

"Is that enough?" I ask. "To just talk?"

"Well, that depends quite a bit on how you define 'enough,'" she answers. "But either way, it helps. It helps quite a bit. So… please feel free to continue, if you have anything else to say."

I take a shaky breath and nod. I guess that's what therapy is for, after all.

We talk, and I feel a little better.