Bloom

The marsh stinks of rot and old magic, smothered beneath the fresh scent of spring. The smell is familiar, and though some may find it unpleasant, I find comfort in it. The day is bleak: the sky grey, the grasses bleached of colour, the waters dark and opaque. Almost—I see something large swish beneath the surface, and I’m careful to step away from the edge. I know what things lurk here.

Amidst the grey rot sprouts the occasional flower or fresh patch of grass. The burst of colour is unexpected and welcome to me. These bursts of life don’t last long. The marsh’s creatures usually eat them quickly, and the land then goes back to its former state of defoliated bleakness. I bend down and pick a small yellow flower at my feet, as well as the few blades of grass surrounding it.

She will appreciate the additional gift.

The marsh is silent. No birds perch near, and aside from us, what few creatures exist here live beneath the murky waters or hide quietly in the grass. Humans once came here long ago, but none lasted very long. For some years only the brave came, boasting about defeating the lurking evil in the marshlands. They perished quickly, killed and consumed, with no remains to be found. Fears arose, which turned into stories, which began to circulate. The dangers of this land spread to nearby towns, and slowly, fewer and fewer dared venture in for fear of a horrible creature that tortured, flayed, and ate its victims.

The marshes seem to be avoided through general self preservation, like an instinct, now. As I grew up, I became used to seeing humans come to the edge of the marsh and promptly turn around to leave. It made me sad when I was young. I so longed for the company, but my grandmother assured me that no human would want to be friends with someone like me. “They would die just from the fright of seeing you!” She would laugh behind me as I stared at the retreating humans, and I would once again be left on my own.

Things were easier for my family a thousand years ago when humans did wander freely into the marsh. Although we didn’t always do the killing, we used the remains for potions and other things around the house. Nothing was wasted—we still have a lamp made out of an unlucky traveller’s skin. Now we have to make do with what the marsh provides for us. Most of the creatures here are quick, violent, and fearsome, but then again, so are we. We've sustained a few injuries, and over the past several hundred years, we lost my brother and my father. I was then raised by grandmother, as my mother left shortly after I was born. My grandmother may not be a warm person, but she took me in when no one else would. She taught me how to make potions, perform spells, and alter my appearance for a short period of time.

The latter trick is why I left. The spell wears off after a few hours, but as I am able to reapply it as soon as it wears off, I could finally leave the marsh and live amongst humans. They fascinated me: their expressive, glossy eyes, their softness and fragility, their ability to express their emotions, and their recklessness with their own bodies and minds—it was all so different from my people, who were hard-bodied and vicious, frightening and horrifying to behold, protective despite our durability, hiding and living silently in the cold, dead marsh.

———

The human world is fast and bright and chaotic. I loved it at first. The only other living thing I had known for centuries had been my grandmother. The only home I had known was our perpetually dark and damp cottage. This outside world was a welcome change, albeit an extreme one. My first apartment on the tenth floor in a bustling city had floor to ceiling windows, and even at night, it was not dark.

I found ways to meet people, and I marvelled at the difference in my life. It was all so new, so beautiful to meet humans, who were all so different from each other, and yet so similar. On the occasions when I would brush up against one, it would send shivers down my spine. Their skin was so soft, like flower petals. I always forgot how delicate they were until these moments, or the rare moments when I would see one cry, water leaking from their glossy eyes. Their emotions were felt so effortlessly, so deeply, that they manifested physically, pouring out of their bodies in the form of tears or laughter or a myriad of other sounds and expressions. The first time I saw one of them cry, I felt something deep within me. It was a pang, a physical reaction, felt in my chest. It was almost painful, but not unpleasant. I realized I cared for these humans, that being their friend was something I cherished. The feeling went past the thrill of newness; I revelled in the feeling of companionship. This feeling was fleeting, however, as were my friends. Something always drove them away from me.

One night, after a friend named Robert had been drinking, I found out why.

“There’s something weird about you,” he slurred. “Something off. Everyone feels it. Jenny thinks you’re a serial killer.” I told him I wasn’t, but he just shrugged. I looked over to Jenny, who was sitting on the other side of the table, and my eyes locked with hers. Her brown eyes widened slightly, and she visibly stiffened before looking away. Her fear was palpable, and I wondered how I had not noticed it before. How each of these people sat farther away from me than they did from each other, how easily everyone talked to one another, but not to me. Robert, after he had consumed enough alcohol, was one of the few who spoke to me regularly, but even he was more distant with me than he was with the others. He turned away from me then, and threw his arm around Carl’s shoulders, which were shaking with laughter. They clicked their glasses together and simultaneously drank the contents, which had spilled onto the table.

I stared at the pooled liquid, which had trapped a small fly. It struggled to escape, and suddenly, I was reminded of home. I shouldn’t be here, I thought, feeling immensely guilty. Had I been making these people uncomfortable all this time? I realized that I had never been treated in the same way as the others. For such a long time, with each new group of friends, I had chalked it up to the fact that I was the newest member. But inevitably, someone else would come into the group after me. They always progressed much faster than I did, and eventually, I would stop being invited out, replaced easily by someone warm and soft and human. I was immensely optimistic, believing that I simply needed practice at being human. I wondered if it was indeed lack of practice, or if these people avoided me like they avoided the marsh: an instinct for self preservation.

I persevered, however, despite my fears. I soon moved to a different city, into a new apartment, and found new friends. The same thing happened there too, and so I moved. Again and again, I started anew. I began to lose hope, to become desperate, further driving people away. I was determined not to use magic; I wanted people to love me for who I was. They fell in love with each other so quickly and easily. How was I so different?

Time moves quickly for those who live like I do, and before I knew it, twenty years had passed. I was in my eighteenth city, in my eighteenth apartment, and trying for the eighteenth time to become a real person, when I met Robert once again. I was walking into the elevator of my building, and there he was. He stared at me for a moment, then recognized me.

“Oh my god, you look the exact same,” he told me. I denied this, but he insisted. “I can’t believe it. You still look like you’re in your 20s. How do you do it?”

“Good genes,” I told him, smiling.

“No kidding,” he laughed. “What floor you on?”

I told him, and invited him in for a drink. He happily accepted, and proceeded to drink a full bottle of my wine, and then another. He talked so much, I lost track of the time. I was opening a third bottle, when he made a small noise of astonishment. I looked up to see him staring at me, mouth agape.

“What’s wrong with your face?” he asked slowly. His words were like sticky molasses, and I had a hard time understanding him. If I had, I would have known what he meant. I would have fixed it.

“Pardon?” I asked politely, confused by his sudden change in demeanour. He recoiled from me.

“What the—what the hell are you?” His words became clearer as fear momentarily and quickly sobered him. With horror, I realized that too much time had passed. I had not reapplied the spell, and I knew that my face—my true face—was now visible to him.

“Robert, I can explain. Please calm down,” I tried to say calmly, but my voice had changed too. Raspy and guttural, it came across as threatening. I turned around to try to reapply the spell. Maybe I could erase his memory if I could get him to calm down. I closed my eyes, and began to repeat the words, when a loud impact sent me reeling. I stumbled, slightly confused, and then felt something thick and cool begin to stream down the side of my face. I touched it absentmindedly, and my fingers came away black. I was bleeding? I turned around, still confused, and looked at Robert. His face was twisted into a cruel grimace, the fear and disgust plain on his face. Lip curled and eyes wild, he made a noise in the back of his throat as he raised what I saw was a broken wine bottle, smeared with my blood.

Before I had time to process what I was doing, I plunged my clawed fingers into Robert’s throat. His blood, hot and bright and so different from mine, spilled eagerly out of his body and over my now rough, scaled hand, catching in the ridges and cracks of my skin. I stared in horror at his shocked face, and grief flooded through me. I yanked my flingers out of his neck as he made one last attempt at breathing, a gurgling noise emitting from the wound, and his body slumped to the floor. I stood for a moment before I slid down with it and sat beside his still form. I watched the blood flowing from the deep wound in his throat, slowing now as his heart stopped beating.

I had failed.

Too late, I finally came to terms with the fact that I had stayed too long among humans. As the pool of Robert’s blood edged toward the trim, I finally used my magic; by the time I was done, no one would be able to tell what had happened in that apartment. It was clean and empty, like I had never been there.

As I moved to leave, I took one last look at my most recent in a long string of beautiful, light-filled apartments and slung my bag over my back. It contained all I needed. Reapplying my human face, I left what I knew now had never really been my home.

———

I tie the stem of the flower around the heavy bag I’m carrying, full of precious cargo, and I let my appearance fade back to normal as I walk up the overgrown pathway to the door of my family’s cottage. The moist earth squelches beneath my feet. I find new comfort in the sound, as well as the smells around me.

I don’t bother to knock; my grandmother will know of my arrival. She is busying herself around the kitchen when I enter through the doorway. Without turning around to see me, she speaks.

“Sit down. Lunch is almost ready.” I pull out a chair without a word, setting my bag down with a thump. “I see you have a gift for me,” she says as she sets a bowl of murky soup swimming with dark, indiscernible contents in front of me. It, like our house, like the marsh, smells musty and old. I dig in anyway, not bothering to ask what the soup contains.

“I do,” I respond, handing her the pretty flower and blades of grass. She smirks as she takes them from my hand and puts them in a small jar she fishes out of one of her many pockets.

“Not that, though it will be helpful. That,” she points. The large sack is slumped against the table leg. I hate that I brought it here, but it is a gift like no other she has received in many years. I get up and pick it up, presenting it to her. She sets it on the ground and opens it eagerly. “Ah!” She exclaims. “I thought so. This is a mighty gift, my child.” She reaches in, her eyes twinkling, and pulls out Robert’s arm. It is stiff now, but has not started to discolour. I came home quickly.

“I thought you would like it,” I say quietly. She eagerly takes more pieces of my former friend out of the bag, rushing back and forth from one room to the next to gather supplies. She mutters excitedly to herself the entire time. It has been a long time since she has had the opportunity to harvest a fresh human corpse.

After each piece of Robert has been stored properly, floating ominously in a variety of different-sized jars in the pantry, my grandmother comes over to me. She is smiling, which is a rare and somewhat uncomfortable sight.

“Tell me of your travels, child.” She sets a cup of tea down in front of me, made from the flower I salvaged outside. It floats prettily on the surface, a shock of colour in the grey cup. I stare at it for a few more moments, and she waits patiently. She knows me well, and I have never been one to speak before thinking.

“They were…” I start, and then pause. “Unfulfilling.”

“They usually are,” she responds, sipping at her own tea. I grimace as she sets it down; one of Robert’s fingers bobs in the cup. She licks her lips greedily.

“You were right,” I continue. “They were frightened of me.”

“They have an instinct about us,” she says, taking another sip of her tea. “They feel something when they’re around us. Fear, hatred. It is inconvenient.”

“You’ve met them?”

“Of course,” she says. “You think you’re the only one of us who had a sense of adventure in their youth? Silly child. Most of us have gone travelling. Your brother didn’t because he died too young. Your father did, but only for a short time. He travelled to another marsh. It’s where he met your mother.”

I look up at that. My grandmother rarely speaks of my mother, and when she does, it is not kindly. “Please tell me about her.”

My grandmother stands up and goes to the stove where she has left the hot water. She pours more into her cup, getting the most out of her finger tea. “There is not much to tell. Your father met her, and brought her here. She had your brother, and then you, and then she left. She was selfish, like me, but not smart.” She taps her temple.

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“No. I’m assuming she went back to her family’s marsh. She missed them terribly, and always regretted leaving them to come here.” My grandmother makes her way back to the table, sniffing her steaming tea as she walks.

“Do you think she loved us?” I ask. It’s a stupid question, and I regret it as soon as it leaves my lips.

My grandmother snorts. “Love! No, she did not love you. Nor did she love your father. She rather seemed to resent all of you.” She shakes her head, muttering love quietly and laughing to herself. “I see your time among humans has made you soft and sentimental. Pity.”

“I suppose so,” I say, and look into my cup. The tea is gone, and the flower lies wilted at the bottom.

“Dry that, will you?” She gestures to the wilted flower in my cup. “I’m going out to find us something to eat for dinner.” She stands, stretches, and grabs a hatchet sitting near the door. Without saying goodbye, she leaves.

I stand up, and pick up both of our cups. A tiny bit of tea sloshes around Robert’s finger at the bottom of her cup. I know she left it for me. I hold it over the sink, ready to dump it out, then change my mind. I bring it to my lips to drink.

I immediately feel Robert’s essence in my veins, his feelings of utter terror in his last moments, and it thrills me. I take his finger out of the cup and toss it out the window. Its usefulness to us has been spent, but another creature will enjoy its flesh.

I realize, ironically, that with a human’s essence coursing though me, I feel more myself than I have in a very long time—maybe ever. Here in this cottage, in this marsh, surrounded by dried herbs and floating pieces of Robert, I can finally accept who I am.