The building shakes as Nemesis shifts her weight, perhaps bored or impatient, preparing to leave. But she doesn’t get a chance. The rocket arrives with a roar, on target and unavoidable. It strikes the side of Nemesis’s head. Her temple, if she’s got one. But there’s no explosion other than the outer shell shattering and flitting away. Nemesis reacts less than I would if a mosquito flew into the side of my head.
Before the device that remains can fall away, four sharp claws snap out from the sides and clutch to Nemesis’s rough skin. A whirring sound pierces the air—the machine’s diamond tipped drill, burrowing into Nemesis’s skin. The neural implant looks tiny on the side of her massive face, but it appears to be doing its job.
Nemesis huffs in frustration, looking back and forth for the source of the irritating sound, and I realize the mosquito comparison is even more accurate. It’s nothing but a—
“Ahh!”
Seizing pain lances through my body, which arches involuntarily to the point I fear my back is going to fold over on itself. Then everything goes black.
When I awake, I find myself standing.
The floor beneath my feet is tile. Hard and white.
There’s a wall of windows to my right. A view of Boston, unscathed by Nemesis. But something is off. My perspective. I’m...short.
I look down. My hands are small. Tan. I’m wearing the clothing of a young girl just home from prep school. A Hello Kitty backpack rests at my feet.
Oh, shit. I know where I am.
“It’s okay, Maigo,” a sinister sounding male voice says.
I turn my eyes slowly up, pausing for a moment to watch the dark red fluid trace a path through the squares of grout on the floor. Then I see him. His face, pale and fat. Eyes burning like blue dwarf stars.
I hate him. For who he was and for what he’s done.
“It was an accident,” he says.
I know he’s lying, but I can’t say anything. Instead I stare at the motionless form of my mother, her manicured nails soiled with blood.
Mother...
In a blink, I’m me again.
But I’m still short.
The world has changed, but I know where I am.
I’m home. Christmas Eve. 1979.
No...No! I try to shout, but can’t. I’m on autopilot, reliving a nightmare.
27
The shouting stopped ten minutes ago. But it didn’t end like normal, which would have been slamming doors. It just...stopped. Suddenly. Mid-shout. I weep for several minutes, clutching my knees in the corner of my bedroom, bathed in the rainbow glow of a ceramic Christmas tree. When I stand, it’s not out of bravery, but curiosity. Perhaps things are okay?
Maybe they’re still wrapping my presents?
I decide to check. I move slowly across my room, pausing every time the radiator hisses or clicks. But I don’t make a sound. I open my door, pushing against it with my foot to keep the tight latch from thumping open the way it does.
The stairs are covered in thick rug and don’t creak, so the next part will be easy. Still, I take it slowly, lying down beside the banister at the top of the stairs, peering down into the home’s foyer. The dining room to the right is lit by the warm glow of electric candles in each window. To the left, the living room blinks with light from the TV. They’re watching a show, I think, and I start down the stairs, confident that neither of my parents will move until a commercial.
When I reach the bottom, I slowly peek around the doorway, but my view is blocked by the Christmas tree mom and I put up and decorated. The ornaments are old. 1950s stuff. The bulbs are the fat kind, not the small ones my friends have. My favorite part is the candy canes. They’re real, and no matter how many I steal, my mom keeps resupplying them. I crouch and look beneath the tree. The red and green striped blanket is still draped around the base, but there are no gifts.
Maybe they’re wrapping after the show? Or during and just haven’t put them under the tree yet? Most of my friends still believe Santa does all that work, but I caught my parents last year. Got spanked for it, but now I know the truth. Remembering last year’s spanking makes me wary. But curiosity is blind to the past. I lie down and slide behind the tree, pausing to take a deep breath of its pine scent.
When my father laughs at the television program, the last of my fear melts away. The fight is definitely over. With eager eyes, I push myself up over the side of the couch. My father sits at the far end, turned toward the TV in the corner of the room. My eyes move to the TV. The Golden Girls. Dad doesn’t normally watch this. Certainly not alone. But I don’t see—
A pair of feet on the floor catch my attention. I lift myself up a little higher and find my mother, sprawled out on the rug. There’s blood on her forehead. A scream rises in my throat, but I’m shushed.
The part of me that is an adult spectator is confused by the noise. That’s not how I remember it. When I look up, there is a girl standing above my mother. The me from minutes ago: plaid dress, Hello Kitty backpack, Asian. Maigo is here with me. Watching. She has an index finger pressed to her lips. “Shh! He will hear you!”