Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 147649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Obviously, these little fuckers have intentions.
“All right,” I mutter out loud. “I guess I should follow them.”
When I take another step forward I am rewarded with understanding. When I follow them the twister of moths stops. When I stop following them, they assume I am slow or stupid and need a push, so they start spilling out of me again.
“Fine.” I sigh, pushing my bouncy blonde hair out of my eyes. “I’ll play along.”
Because I don’t seem to have a choice.
But also, what else am I gonna do?
I don’t know where I’m at. I don’t know what I’m doing here. So why not just follow the magic moths coming out of my hands?
I’ve made dumber decisions in my life.
I continue walking and this is when I notice that my slutty schoolgirl outfit has changed. It’s no longer black and red and it’s no longer covered in pilled-up fuzzballs and made of scratchy, synthetic whatever. It’s red and yellow now, like the outfit I was wearing when the devil and my mother took me from whatever world I came from and plopped me down in this one. And the fabric is soft, and thick, and made of some kind of exquisite wool.
The bustier has changed too. Not scarlet, but a butter-colored yellow leather that is even softer than the skirt. I have a sash now too, perhaps the same one I was wearing that night I was taken, but I don’t think so. There are just as many medals and ribbons on this one, but it is much bigger, fit for a woman and not a child.
I hold the sash up, trying to see the medals better. They all have a different design. And once again I am reminded of Girl Scout badges. I was never a Girl Scout. That’s laughable. But there were girls in my various schools—before my mother sentenced me to foster care—who were part of this after-school cult. I mean, club.
Wow. Where did that word come from?
But then I’m reminded of a conversation with Pell several weeks back. I was the object of a minor cult in my Roman days.
I don’t think he meant it the way we use the word ‘cult’ today. I think he just meant he had followers. Worshippers? Which actually does mean it was a cult, I guess.
I find that distressing though. Not sure why, I just do.
People used to worship Pell?
It’s… creepy.
But who am I to talk? I have insects crawling out of my hands.
But the point is, there were many gods back then and people could pick and choose who they wanted to give their loyalties to. And if the gods are real—which seems to be the case from what I’ve seen, so I’m gonna go with that—then if people asked them for favors, the god might grant the favor.
Not that Pell was a god. But he’s definitely more than human. So I guess I understand it.
Anyway. Back to the medals. One of them might actually be made of gold because it is shiny and heavy. This one has an engraving of a lion on its hind legs with fighting forepaws. I think this particular lion has an actual name. But I don’t know what it’s called.
I pause here to look a little more closely at the medals and realize almost all of them have a lion in the motif. And while they are mostly made out of gold, there are some that appear to be silver or maybe even bronze. These do not have lions. The silver ones have crude starfish-looking stars and the bronze ones—there are only two of these—depict fire.
My palms begin to tingle again and the moths start pouring out.
I shudder, then start walking to make them stop.
It’s so gross. So, so, so fuckin’ gross.
My stomach twists and turns as I picture the moths emerging from my hands and I have to force myself to think of something else as I walk because I don’t want to stop and throw up.
Something else is new about my outfit. It’s not super-long the way it was in my new-to-me memory of that kidnapping night. That skirt went well past my feet. I think that’s because it was made for a girl who had monster legs and not human legs. This one is not that long but it is definitely below the… hock. Which kinda translates to ankle, I think. Except there’s more space between the hoof and the hock, obviously.
If I were describing this skirt on a human it would fall well below the knee.
And while I’m looking down, I notice that I have boots on. And knee socks. Or hock socks, as it turns out. They are gold and come with long red tassels peeking out from under my skirt that flip and flop as I walk. The boots are different too.