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blood drips down your face. you try to wipe it away with a hand and only succeed at smearing it across your skin.
the man in the seat next to you grins. he's missing a tooth. he looks vaguely familiar — maybe you're the one who made him lose it.
you pant, open-mouthed. in your mind, the man's grin turns into a leer.
your bloody hand braces you against the seat. you hope it stains and leaves some mark of you behind.
there are probably bits of you left in a million cars like this one, torn skin and old scabs and drops of blood scattered on the console. the thought makes you grin back. you meet the man's eyes and lick your chapped lips.
you buy the little vials from one of spider's friends. she makes them herself, or maybe someone she knows does. every time you ask, there's a different answer. this time, she bought them online.
"from the dark web," she says. there's a laugh in her voice that would make you think she's taking the piss even if the vials weren't the same as they always are.
you roll one between your fingers. it's cool to the touch.
you've never asked her if she's used it herself, even though you can't help but look for signs. does estrogen make you grow scales? there are people who claim it'll save your life.
you open your mouth. there's a question on your lips, something about transformation and soft skin and the dreams you have where you spend long hours peeling molt off of your body. you always wake up before you're done.
"how's spider?" you ask her instead. you already know she'll dodge the question.
you wear baggy shirts and hope the fabric doesn't brush against your tender chest. you'll need a bra soon, or maybe not, if you're lucky. you spend a delirious afternoon imagining spider helping you shop for one in an empty store, surrounded by lingerie you can look at and always touch.
there are long nights entirely occupied by repeating sounds at a computer screen. you're not even sure if it will work.
vials line your bathroom sink. the idea of throwing the empty ones out feels wrong. it's symbolism, somehow. if you were smarter you'd have something beautiful about it to say to the water stains on the ceiling.
you wake up one night encased totally in darkness. your breath is hot against whatever covers your face, and when you move you are restrained by fabric. you struggle against it helplessly. you cry out for help but the sound is so muffled you know no one can hear you.
thrashing against your jailer, you fall to the ground. one of your hands comes free. you tear the sheet from your head and take deep gasps of cool air.
a man wraps the car's seat belt around your throat. it cuts painfully into your skin. you try to bring your leg up to get him in the side but his body presses yours down into the seat.
the world is grey outside the car window. it's probably raining. your vision is too blurry to tell.
you wait until right before too long to give up. one hand scrabbles to the window and taps out. there's no blood, although you're sure you can taste it on your teeth.
the man releases you. breathing hurts your throat. you press a finger to the indents on your neck and wonder if they'll bruise.
you glance to the side and the man meets your eyes. you blink at him as you lie languidly, your limbs inelegantly sprawled across the seat and center console.
"cut your hair," he says.
lying in bed in just a shirt and briefs, you trail your hand down your body and imagine slim, delicate fingers instead of your own.
your head dangles over the edge of your bed. your hand rests on your crotch.
idly, you consider jerking off, and then discard the idea. you don't want to think about what (or who) you'd imagine. would it be spider, with her dark hair and eyes and laugh that makes your heart stutter? could it be?
you close your eyes and let the world turn dark. you're tired, but you don't want to sleep.
"i don't want to be here," you say out loud. your voice is unfamiliar. it could be someone talking to you, standing in your cluttered room and staring down at your body.
you see spider's mother while shopping at tesco. she doesn't notice you, or at least she hasn't yet.
it takes you a moment to realize it's her. she looks exhausted. in your memory, she's an amalgamation of hands and anger and the stories spider told you about her impotent disapproval of what made her daughter finally happy.
you want to go up to her. you want to grab her shoulders and shake her until the truth about where spider has gone tumbles out of her mouth. you want to drop everything and run away.
your body has changed since you last saw her. people tell stories about meeting old friends and long-estranged family members who don't recognize them, who find them strangely familiar.
but you're still you, still long-haired and ungainly. there's stubble lining your jaw.
you occupy yourself with cereal boxes, hunching over and memorizing the ingredients until she leaves.
you lie limbless across the back seats of a car. the edge of a grimy cup holder presses into your hip. there's a fresh bruise streaking brilliant and purple across your cheekbone.
your opponent has long since left. it's just you here now, just you and the occasional passerby you can feel peering at you through the windows. to them, you probably look like a junkie sleeping off the latest fix.
you blink and you can see through the sunroof and polluted air to the stars hanging in the sky above. you trace shapes of animals with your fingers and they come to life. voices hiss in your ears.
you turn and slide half off the seats, catching yourself awkwardly in between the front and back of the car. your body is too big for this space, but you manage, crawling across the center console into the front seat.
you pause to pant and movement catches your eye. the car's keys lie at your feet. a spider crawls carefully across them.