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dragonswithjetpacks · 3 years

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Theurgist

Chapter Three: A Night with the Magistrate

-dragonswithjetpacks

Summary: Astarion chuckled, pulling another blade of grass from the ground and spinning it between his fingers. There was more to the woman in front of him. From what he had gathered, she had already given more than what she was willing to share. A warlock from Baldur’s Gate with a bag full of books and smirk full of secrets. He may have found decent company in the most unexpected of places.

Read here on Ao3.

“A temple?” Shadowheart glowered behind her. “Are you sure?”

Ferelith climbed up the debris, her hands rough and hot from touching the hot fleshy walls. She brushed off the soot and looked down at the rubble below. Flames were still rolling, sending ash and smoke through the sky, now growing darker. They would have to find somewhere to camp soon. Which shouldn’t be to difficult considering there was fresh water nearby. Now that they had crossed the remains of the crash, it would be easier to find spot.

“I’m entirely sure,” she finally answered between thoughts, waiting for them to follow her up the path. “The architecture resembled something of the sort. I can’t imagine what other structure would be placed in the middle of nowhere. It’s not like it’s a bakery.”

“The luck we would have if it was,” Astarion sighed.

“Then there must be something in there that could help. Perhaps even shelter.”

Ferelith was partial to the idea. If they made it in time. “Let’s focus on what we can, first. It doesn’t look like we’ll have much-”

Her words drifted off as she stopped on the trail. There was a slight buzzing sound, like energy activating at a source. She turned, watching something flicker across a marking on the stone wall.

“What is it?” Shadowheart inquired as she grew closer.

“That glyph,” Ferelith cocked her head to the side to study it. “Sounds like someone’s using it.”

With a loud crack, a large hole twisting with energy opened against the stone. A wayward glyph, one that could be used to travel quickly. She was familiar with such means for transportation. Shadowheart jumped back, her mace already in hand. Ferelith lifted an arm out, holding her back in case whatever came through was not hostile. Though with the luck they had that day, the likelihood of something else trying to kill her was very high. It was a bit of a relief to find a man walking through to the other side, stepping lightly into the brush next to the path. He took one disbelieving look at Ferelith and gave a warm smile.

“You’re alive,” he said as the light flashed again, dismissing the portal. “That’s unexpected.”

“I’m sorry?” Ferelith approached, inquisitive to the nature of their newly appeared friend.

“Last I saw you, you were lying in a crucible’s worth of blood, an intellect devour nibbling at your ear. Glad to see my eyes deceive me.”

Ferelith shuttered at the thought of one of those walking brains near her head, but was somewhat relaxed by his friendly tone.

“I’m Gale,” he nodded. “Well met.”

“Ferelith,” she continued to watch him carefully, observing his stance. “Well met.”

There was a time in her life she had been surrounded by magic users of excellent caliber. And she had grown used to a certain aura they emitted. It was a mix between arcane energy and arrogance, always aggravating her as it made her feel less superior. Wizards were always assuming their magic was the only the kind that mattered. She was never fond of them. But she always knew one when she saw one. And Gale held his confidence at a level where she could not mistake him as anything but. His robes were even loud.

“You were on the ship, I presume?” she shifted.

“The very same,” he replied. “A traumatizing experience, if an instructive one.”

“An interesting way to put it,” Ferelith couldn’t help but chuckle. “By trauma I’m assuming you mean the worm that was forced into my eye?”

“Yes,” he pointed at her. “The ocular penetration by an illithid tadpole which will-”

There it was. The all knowing ramblings of a man who liked to overshare his intelligence. Typical and common in nearly every wizard she had met. Though, she could think of a few who were humble enough. Mostly those in the abjuration school. They were never that much fun, though. No, Ferelith was more attentive to listen to the words of the necromancers and their theories of the dead. Now they had some interesting thoughts.

“You’re staring at me like a Rashemi at a blackboard,” he said when he realized she was hardly listening. “You’re no wizard, are you?”

“No,” she crossed her arms. “I’m a warlock.”

“There’s a gust of Weave about you, but it’s a mere breeze.” he squinted at her. “I need a tempest. It’ll have to wait. The primary need is a healer. I take it you recall the insertion of the parasite?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Quite vividly.”

“Are you aware that after a period of excruciating gestation, it will turn us into mind flayers? A process known as ceremorphosis?”

“I am aware of that, yes,” she noted the intensity in his voice.

“It is to be avoided,” he said firmly, his eyes shifted from her to the other companions. “I assume you’re no accomplished healer, either? A powerful cleric maybe?”

“It seems you’re out of luck. We’re all in the same predicament as yourself.”

“Well, we’re all in a whole lot of trouble. We need help and I’m not sure where we’ll find any in this wilderness. How about we embark on the quest for a healer together?”

“We have been looking for others,” she glanced back to her other companions. “So I imagine that’s just the plan we had envisioned.”

“Most excellent!” he proclaimed, a bit more excited than she had anticipated. “Then without further ado, let’s be off. Besides, it looks like you keep some interesting company.”

His gaze fell back onto Shadowheart, biting the corner of her lip with a menacing glare.

“A woman with shadows for eyes- deep as the Darklake. A pleasure, madam.”

“Is it, indeed?” she tilted her head with a mocking tone. “We’ll see.”

Astarion snicked, remaining hidden behind the two women. Ferelith looked back to cast a look of disappointment, but it hardly phased him. She turned back to Gale, the wizard with the optimistic grin. He would be useful. And if anything other than, he would at least bring some positive musings to their solemn thoughts. Even if those musings were just the truth spoken in a happy manner.

“We were just headed up the hill to the ruins,” she motioned. “We were looking to see if perhaps there were supplies we could scavenge.”

“The ruins?” he looked in the direction she was pointing. “The old temple, yes.”

Ferelith took another look behind as if her eyes would tell the others that she had been right on her earlier assumption.

“I took a peak during my rounds. Looks like the place is covered with bandits.”

“Which means there’s supplies,” Shadowheart stepped closer.

Ferelith turned to her at her left shoulder. “We’ll have to prepare for a fight.”

“Prepare for a fight? You’re going to raid the bandit camp?” Gale looked at them with surprise.

“It’s them or us,” Shadowheart shrugged.

“We can try to ask nicely, I suppose,” Ferelith smirked. “But something tells me they won’t be willing to share.”

“This is going to interesting,” Astarion smirked, his enthusiasm rising in the two women whom he it seems he had not judged fairly.

“Let’s just assess the situation when we get there,” Gale raised his hands, clearly not anticipating a battle ready party so soon.

“He’s right,” Ferelith came to reason. “We should make camp, first. Somewhere close to the water? I’d like to wash this soot from my face.”

“We should head back, then,” Shadowheart agreed.

“Yes, I think I saw a nice bank to camp on from the cliff side. Shall we?”

With the sun setting and weary bodies, the party had agreed to settle on a flat surface near the river. There was enough sand to make the ground soft. And enough dead wood to create a fire. Gale was gracious enough to provide flames while everyone helped collect wood. There was little they had salvaged from the wreckage, but Ferelith and Shadowheart managed to pull together a few bedrolls from the fishermen they had looted earlier that day. They all pooled their findings together to create a meal of bread, cheese, and two apples. Ferelith was even pleased to find she had a few leaves left in her apron to make tea. If only she had a kettle. Feeling around her waste for her belt, she found the component bag which had remained empty. She placed the leaves inside, deciding there would be another time she would need it.

"So," a voice approaching from behind. "We're resting here? Turning in for the night?"

She stood up to face Astarion who seemed a bit uncomfortable if not distraught. He not only seemed worried, but he was shifting as he stood in front of her. As if he were too embarrassed to say what was honestly on his mind.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, trying to catch his veering glances.

“No, not at all,” he smiled, appearing grateful, but unconvincing.

“It’s nothing what you’re used to in Baldur’s Gate, I’m sure. But it’s a lovely spot.”

Ferelith looked about. It had been a long time since she camped in the wilderness. Truth be told, she would consider it one of the best campsites she had rested in. There may not have been beds or tents, but the sound of the river nearby was calming. There was a waterfall close. A ruin to other side. And a group of rocks and logs to provide seating and shelter.

"I suppose," he said politely, noticing her admiring looks around the scenery. "I'm not sure what I expected, really. This is all a little new."

She couldn't help but feel some satisfaction from his suffering. A noble forced to sleep on the ground. It was nice to have some sort of entertainment for the evening. Still, he appeared not to be completely broken about it. She imagined if he was truly upset about the matter, he would be demanding more bedrolls. And for that, she was somewhat impressed by his humility.

"You mentioned you were from the city as well,” he went on. “The night for us normally means bustling streets... bursting taverns..."

His eyes narrowed a bit, searching her face for a sudden realization. But... there was none. Ferelith had not recalled their run in whatsoever. The illithid must have cleared the memory of his face when he mind controlled her. It made having to explain himself nonexistent. And it made smoothing her over all the more obtainable.

"Curling up in the dirt and resting is... a little novel," he went on with a sigh.

"You're being terribly polite for not having much a choice," she crossed her arms.

Again, he saw the hint of tease in her nature. She was going to be fun. A challenge... but fun... He smiled.

"You expected me to be rude?" he questioned, impersonating someone who was hurt. "No, I won't complain. Not while everything remains unsettled."

"Agreed. Not that I want to hear your complaints. But we should get some rest so we can catch up on that unsettled business in the morning."

"I'm in no place to rest yet," he raised his brow. "Today has been... a lot. I need some time to think things through. To process this. You rest. I'll keep watch."

There was something ominous about the idea of resting in the midst of three complete strangers. Her perception had not failed her yet, but it seemed odd to put her life in the hands of someone who had tried to stab her just hours before.

“I’m afraid I won’t be needing much rest,” she stated. “Besides, I’m not so eager to completely trust any of you just yet.”

There was a pause as the two elves stared at one another, as if two predators had spotted each other from across an empty field. It created a tension that could crack the moment it was disturbed. Or could wither away with a simple word. Astarion plotted his next statement carefully, as he knew if he went about it the wrong way, she would never learn to trust him at all.

"You know,” he leaned forward, “if you wanted to spend time with me, you only have to say so."

The drop in his tone during the last few words caused Ferelith's expression to drop. In most occasions, she did very well to conceal her emotions. But the audacity of this man was enough to change that. The familiar flutter in her chest had returned. And she was not so willing to bury it this time. Her jaw had nearly dropped open, but the long pause gave her away.

"But suit yourself," Astarion said smugly. "I'm sure we'll drift off at some point."

"Yes, well," she closed her mouth and shook her head, looking down into her book. "I've got work to do... with this..."

"Good evening, then," he gave a slight nod before he sauntered back across the fire.

As she rummaged through notes she had written that day and the small black leather book she clung to tightly, she couldn't help but feel she was circling back to an unanswered question. There was still no word from her patron. She was lucky she could even still feel him. And as the night grew quieter, she could hear the feint whispers in the back of her head. They were only causing more distractions. As if the occasional on looking eyes were not enough. Looking up from her book, she glanced to Astarion, picking grass and throwing it to the fire. They really were the only ones awake. Then again, they were the only ones who did not need to sleep.

"Is there something you need?" he asked, catching her staring.

"No," she replied, looking back down to her book.

“You look like you need a break,” he suggested, crossing his legs.

Ferelith sat up, stretching her lower back as she pushed her chest out. “What is it they say? No rest for the wicked?”

Astarion chuckled, pulling another blade of grass from the ground and spinning it between his fingers. There was more to the woman in front of him. From what he had gathered, she had already given more than what she was willing to share. A warlock from Baldur’s Gate with a bag full of books and smirk full of secrets. He may have found decent company in the most unexpected of places.

“If that’s the case, you and I have a long night ahead of us.”

“Long nights never bothered me,” she placed her hands on her lap. “What about you? What were your long nights like back in Baldur’s Gate? Other than those bursting taverns.”

He felt a tightening in his chest at there may have been a hint of recognition. “There were nights spent outside of taverns.”

“I see,” she nodded at his quick dismissal. “Likely filled with entertainers and wine, then.”

“Not always,” he shrugged, picking the grass apart just as he did the one before. “Some nights were spent studying. Much like yourself.”

“A scholar,” she shook her head in jest.

“A magistrate,” he corrected. “It was all rather tedious.”

“Oh,” she brought a hand to her chest. “Excuse me, then. I must apologize. I didn’t realize I was in the company of someone so formal.”

Astarion sneered from across the fire, remembering that she had been in the upper district when they crossed paths. “You know,” he inhaled, holding his breath for a moment while he contemplated her remark. “Something tells me you’re not so humble, yourself.”

“I’m quite proud of my work,” she blinked. “And I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“You carry yourself with a strange sense of power,” he glared at her now, as if he were searching beyond what her face would show. “Something greater than pride. You wouldn’t happen to be familiar with the nobility of Baldur’s Gate, would you?”

Her heart sunk as her mind began to search her memories for his face. There were none. She was certain she had never met this man before. But his in-sinuous tone told her otherwise. If he was asking, it only meant he was unsure of himself. And if she gave him the answer he desired, it would mean she was admitting to something she was not certain she was guilty of. Whatever the case, she remained firm in her decision to remain as unapproachable as possible.

“I can’t say that I am,” she lied.

“That’s disappointing,” he threw the rest of what was left in his hand into the flames. “You seem like someone I would have acquainted myself with.”

A commendation cloaking the questions of an obvious interrogator. She knew the tactic and dismissed it, taking it only as a backhanded compliment. Turning her attention back to work to ignore his presence, she began to scratch more useless notes across the paper. Anything to keep her from talking to him further. Her heart began to pound against her chest. And again, she tried to recall the memories of Baldur’s Gate. Even as far back as her time in Neverwinter. But not a thought was found for a handsome white haired magistrate. She was sure she would have noticed.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said softly when she had been quiet for a few minutes. “These are strange times and I find myself in need of… a friend.”

Ferelith couldn’t help but feel he was looking in the wrong the direction. Still, she looked up with interest to find he had rose to his feet, towering over the flames and looking down at her.

“Those are not so easily acquired,” she retorted.

“Weeeell,” there was a shift in his brow, “if you ever warm up to the idea, I’ll be here. For now, I think I’ll take my leave to admire the night. I’m growing ever more anxious for the sun to rise.”

Ferelith said not a word as he strode off toward the ruin. She watched as he hesitated crossing the log, but found his footing to be rather graceful as he strut across it. He was being very careful. Not just about the river, but about how he was speaking to her. There were too many blank spaces that she could fill detailing what he could be hiding from her. That, of course, was also due to her the charade of what she was keeping to herself. And with that distracting her from any more work, she shut her book with the conclusion that she needed rest more than she needed answers. She was anxious now, as well.

#astarion #astarion fic #astarion x mc #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #ferelith #ferelith moonshade #ferelith writing tag #i know it's two in one night #but this one was a quick write

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

The Crucible (part one)

[UK Tour]

not to be confused with the play The Crucible...this is yet another Carrie AU because i still have ideas, but i swear everything is wrote differently! and Kitty is the good guy (Sue) because Jodie!Howard would NEVER. okay, well, she’s a little mean at first, but she gets better!! also there is Katanna, which kills me to write, but i love imagining Anna as Tommy. and Jane is insane! so...enjoy!

oh also Hans Holbein is the principal lol

Word count: 7380

TW: The r-word is said once, blood, bullying

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-Hail of Stones-

“What can you tell me about Joan Seymour?”

Eighteen year old Katherine Howard leaned back in her chair, arms crossed firmly over her chest, eyes set on the detective in front of her. He was a grizzly man named James Mulaney, with wide shoulders, neatly combed brown hair, and hazel eyes. He looked at Katherine like he wanted to open up her brain and read through all her thoughts and memories.

“What do you want to know?”

“Was she a friend of yours?” Mulaney asked.

“Joan didn’t have friends.” Katherine answered without a beat.

Mulaney quirked a brow. “Really? When I was in school, even the losers had birds of a feather.”

Katherine scoffed at his assumptions and gazed down at the doughnut she had been given when she came in for questioning that morning. She scratched at crusted pieces of glaze with her pointer finger; the paint on the fingernail is vibrant pink and peeling. She had chewed off most of her nails during all the funerals that had filled the past two weeks.

“Joan wasn’t a loser,” She said. “She just didn’t belong.”

“And why is that?” Mulaney pressed.

“It’s not rocket science.” Katherine said. “We are talking about Joan Seymour.”

“Maybe she didn’t want to belong.”

“Everybody wants to belong,” Katherine said. Her dark amber eyes flickered as she lifted her head to stare at Mulaney. “Anybody who tells you they don’t is lying.”

------

The early afternoon was glorious. Sunbeams glinted off dewdrops clinging to blades of emerald green grass and the sky was a clear bright blue for once, letting the sun rain down on the high school campus.

And that was exactly why Miss Aragon’s fourth period gym class was inside.

The sound of splashing echoed loudly throughout the indoor pool, the smell of chlorine thick in the air. Girls donned in black or blue or red one piece swimsuits and black swim caps were wrestling and romping in the water as they waited for the ball to be served so they could continue the game of water volleyball. Miss Aragon, clad in a yellow and black tracksuit and her usual shiny silver whistle, watched over them from the sides of the pool, eyes sharp and focused.

“Come on, ladies!” She shouted. “Let’s try to keep it in the air three times, alright?”

Katherine got into a defensive position, eyes narrowed into slits and hands out. Her sharp-tongued, gremlin-like older cousin, Anne Boleyn, got into the same stance at her side and flashed her a smirk before lunging up to hit the ball that flew over the net. Katherine copied her when it came back over, and this process repeated until a girl on the other side missed and the white ball landed in the water with a loud plop.

“Yeah!!” Anne cheered. She and Katherine locked hands and twirled around in the water, giggling. “We are graduating this year, Miss Ar-a-gon!!”

Katherine leaned her head back and saw Miss Aragon chuckling fondly at their antics. She signaled for the girls to get ready and Katherine and Anne parted, ready to get their team another point.

But they didn’t.

Because the ball was hit far and the girl who was supposed to be occupying the back space was standing at the edge of the pool, dry as can be, and staring dumbly at the ball that splashed below her.

All eyes turned to Joan Seymour, the frog amongst swans.

She was an undernourished, stunted mess of a human being. Lanky and gaunt, with a narrow chest, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes that were so bright ice blue that they seemed to glow in the overhead light. Her limbs were too long for her thin body, while her body was too thin for her long limbs. She was pale, like she rarely ever went outside during the day and bathed in moonlight instead, and wiry platinum, almost white, blonde hair fell around her lean skull. The black swimsuit she wore did not compliment her frame very well, hugging tightly around pudgy thighs and forearms with tufts of brown pubic hair sticking out from the crotch area, and the lack of protection revealed dozens of cuts and bruises in various stages of healed to prying eyes. There was one in particular on her left shoulder that was crusted in bubbles of dried pus and blood; it made Katherine’s nose curl in disgust when she saw it.

Joan was only 15, Year 11 and two grades below Katherine, but Katherine had known her since Primary School. Everyone did. Everyone knew about Ol’ Prayin’ Joan and her crazy mother. And that made her a target for even the lowest of losers. There’s been years worth of teasing and messing around with this girl. School days full of pinching and tripping and knocking books over. Peanut butter smeared in too-light-to-be-natural hair when she was sleeping in Algebra and inappropriate notes slipped into her binders. Scorpions put into her shoes, thumbtacks poised on her chairs, lunches dumped over her head. Dozens of games created to see who could make Joan cry first or who could make Joan get down on her knees and pray to God or who could dunk Joan underwater the most at summer camp. Slurs and rude nicknames were tossed her way, worms were put in her food, and spit was spat on her as she passed by. People laughed when she presented, people begged the teacher to switch partners when they were put into a group with her, people destroyed her work so she would have nothing to turn in when she got to certain classes.

Everyone made fun of Joan Seymour, and if she knew this, she never did anything about it.

Joan lifted her head like an impeded cow and blinked slowly at Miss Aragon, who was frowning pitifully at her. She looked back down at the ball, then the water, and then she took a shuffling step backwards, hugging her arms tightly around herself.

“Do you think she’s retarded?” Maria de Salinas not-quite-whispered to Katherine and her friends. Her golden brown eyes were scrutinizing Joan with great distaste that she didn’t bother hiding on her face. At her side, bleach-haired Bessie Blount giggled softly. Katherine shrugged.

“I bet she is,” Impish Maggie Wyatt said, glancing back at Joan, who was slowly inching further and further away from the edge of the pool. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Does she never take that necklace off?” Bessie said, staring at the silver cross necklace coiled around Joan’s gangly neck.

“Doubt it,” Maria said.

“I bet she thinks she’ll die if she does,” Maggie tittered. “That God will strike her down if she does such a disgraceful thing!” And then she does a dramatic reenactment of what that would probably look like and the group burst into giggles. Miss Aragon glanced at them, eyebrows furrowed.

“Alright, let’s get Joan Seymour in the game.” Their coach announced, much to everyone’s dismay. But nobody looked more dismayed than Joan, who gave Miss Aragon a miserable, fearful look. Miss Aragon frowned at her again. “Sorry, honey. You can’t sit on the sidelines forever.”

Joan stared nervously down at the water, then glanced one last time up at Aragon. When she must have realized that she wasn’t getting out of this, she put on her swim cap and slowly eased herself into the pool, pulling her arms close to her chest and cringing at the temperature. The other girls watched her impatiently.

“Good,” Miss Aragon said, smiling at Joan proudly. “Joan, serve.”

The ball is tossed to the girl and she goggled at it with wide pale blue eyes. Tentatively, she picked it up and held it as if it were a fragile dragon egg.

“Yeah, Joan!” Anne suddenly cheered. “Go, Joan!”

Katherine and her friends glanced at her and then began to mimic her. Joan blinked at them in delight.

“Come on! Do it! Serve it!” Anne encouraged. “Throw it!”

Joan shook herself out, tossed the ball up, and hit it directly into the back of Katherine’s head.

“OW!!” Katherine yelled. She reached around to rub the back of her head and glowered at Joan as giggling exploded around her. “What the hell?” She snapped her head to her cousin. “Oh, hahaha! It’s so funny, Anne!”

Everyone in the pool was laughing, now. Joan watched them in silence for a moment before giggling softly, too, and smiling apologetically. She looked just like a stupidly oblivious bovine.

“You eat shit.” Anne said to her, throwing the ball to Maria.

Like that, Joan shut up. Her smile contorted into a frown in an instant and her eyes lost the slight glow they had before. She lowered her head and didn’t raise it for the rest of the class as she tried to sink into the background.

Katherine’s team ended up losing the game seven to sixteen because the other side kept hitting the ball to Joan, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hit it back or make it over the net. Everyone kept glaring at her and shooting barbed remarks her way each time she missed, and Aragon did her best to ward them off, but not even their coach could catch every insult hurled her way.

“‘Oh, I can’t serve the ball! I can’t serve the ball!’” Maggie cried woefully in an awful imitation of Joan’s voice. She whacked the top of Joan’s head with her knuckles as she waded by. “Serve the ball, stupid!”

Joan flinched back so hard she nearly submerged herself in the water. She backed against the pool’s rough edge, watching everyone climb out from the ladders like a plaintive calf waiting to be herded into the slaughterhouse. Anne wrinkled her nose at her, while Katherine rolled her eyes. The girl was so pitiful that it was just pathetic.

“Come on, Joan,” Miss Aragon said, peering down at the misfit child. There was something in her voice that gave the impression that she spent a lot of time managing this particular student. “Hit the showers.” She tilted her head at her, noticing creases of affliction on Joan’s face. “Is everything alright?”

“M-my stomach…” Joan whispered so quietly Miss Aragon almost didn’t hear her over the sound of chitchat and splashing water. “It hurts…”

Miss Aragon frowned. “I’m sorry, Joan.” She said. “You can go to the nurse after you get changed? I can write you a pass if you’d like.”

Joan shook her head, then slowly walked over to the ladder and squabbled out of the pool. She was shivering instantly from her lack of body fat, despite it being quite warm inside from all insulation, and awkwardly shuffled her way to the locker room.

Lavender and rose-scented steam billowed throughout the showers. White bars of soap were passed between hands and loud conversations were made over the sound of sputtering water from stall to stall. Wet swimsuits were peeled off and replaced with regular school clothes, jewelry, and expensive shoes. Girls pinched and poked one another playfully, but no one dared to touch the gangly, emaciated girl who stepped inside and looked around dumbly.

Joan passed everyone with a lowered head, not daring to look up as she hobbled her way to the showers. She shifted from foot to foot anxiously, white-knuckling a cream towel against her flat bosom. Prying eyes watched her with cruel interest.

A stall opened up and Joan slipped inside. She shed her tight bathing suit, dropping it onto the tile floor with a soggy blop. She grasped the faucet handle and cranked it until the shower head groaned and shot out a torrent of hot water.

Slicking her hands with white soap, Joan began to tentatively scrub her body clean of chlorine. She rubbed her palms down over her flat stomach, sensitive chest, and around her narrow neck. Her nails raked over her breasts; the nipples were dark and dull and warm. An uncomfortable shiver went down her spine when she scratched them. Mama said touching the body like this was wrong, and she could see why. It hurt to put too much pressure on them, like her breasts may burst like balloons if she pressed too hard.

Joan shook herself out, scattering droplets through the shower. She moved her hands down, caressing her waist and lower stomach, where an odd, uncomfortable pressure has built up. She prodded the area gently and winced when bolts of pain lanced through her. She shifted, hunching her shoulders in, and gritted her teeth until it passed.

But it didn’t. Not exactly. The sensation dulled, but she could still feel it churning in her lower belly. Joan frowned, cupping her hands over her abdomen and taking a few deep breaths. Then, slowly, she started cleaning herself again.

Down her stocky legs, over her knobby knees, and in between her flabby thighs. She shuddered, chewed fingernails brushing across her private region, and pulled her hand back quickly.

And saw that her fingers were red.

Joan stared with wide eyes. Red. Blood. On her fingers. Blood.

She extended her other hand and reached down, scooping out another fingerful, just to make sure…

And there it was. Blood. Even more. It was thick and globby and had clotted chunks in it. The smell was sickly sweet. Joan began to tremble.

Her blood. She was bleeding.

Beads of red bubbled out from pale pink vaginal lips like the early blooming of spring flowers. They squeezed free out of the wrinkled, pruned folds, drooling lazily down quivering thighs. Clouds of crimson billowed through the water when the streams hit the tile and ran into the next stall where, unbeknownst to Joan, Maggie was just finishing drying off.

Maggie noticed the river of bloody water with a jolt and reared back into the far corner of her stall. She wrinkled her nose in distaste and stood up on her tippy toes to peer into the neighboring shower compartment, where she saw Joan trembling, gasping, and staring down at her shaking hands, which were stained with blood.

Click, went the pieces in Maggie’s head, and a wicked smile curled on her lips.

Hopping over the reddened Rubicon, Maggie bounded out of the shower and to the locker room, where Katherine, Anne, and her other friends chatted over their prom plans in their bras and underwear. They paused and turned to Maggie when she skidded to a halt in front of them.

“Guys,” Maggie whispered, “Joan’s Aunt Flo is in town.”

The other girl’s eyes lit up.

“Really?” Katherine asked with great interest.

“Yes!” Maggie answered. “She’s, like, freaking out!”

“Oh my god!” Anne shouted in glee.

“Come on!” Maggie urged them.

In a herd of bras and underwear and towels and bobbing breasts, the entire class bustled into the shower area and surrounded the stall where the blood was coming from. There, they found Joan on her knees, gasping and wheezing and panting. Her weird pale eyes were wide and shiny and she was shaking so bad it looked like she was having a seizure. Clouds of blood ripple around her folded legs. Clots are caught in her bush of brown pubic hair and Bessie made a mock throwing up gesture. Joan looked up at all of them in shocked bewilderment.

“Got your period?” Maria called, peering into the stall. They were all standing up on their toes or on stools to peek into the stall.

Joan blinked rapidly, her breath hitching. She lifted her hands slowly, watching them drip blood, and then raised them to the spectators, making a strangled sound of distress. Katherine and Anne exchange looks.

“Uhhhnnnh?” Joan lowed wretchedly. She was like a confused cow calling for help.

She’s fifteen... Katherine was thinking. Surely she knows...

“Know what this is?” Anne asked, waggling a tampon in the air.

“She thinks it’s lipstick!” Bessie giggled. All of their minds flashed back to that story, when Bessie had told them she had walked in on Joan dabbing the tip of a tampon against her lips like she was applying gloss. Bessie said it had been the stupidest, funniest, but also most pitiful thing she had even seen before.

“Plug it up, bitch!” Anne hurled the tampon at Joan and it struck her in the head before falling into the bloody water accumulating throughout the stall. Joan flinched, but didn’t grab it. She just continued to shiver and hyperventilate and make choked, bovine noises. Frustration boiled in Katherine’s veins.

“It’s you period, you stupid cow!” Katherine shouted furiously. “You’re bleeding everywhere! Clean yourself up already!”

They expected Joan to scream, to cry, to gobble helpless pleas to God, but she didn’t. Joan just hunched in on herself and began to shake harder. She didn’t even clasp her hands together like she was praying or anything.

“PER-iod!”

It was impossible to discern who let out the first cry; Katherine thought it may have been Maggie, but it didn’t matter because once was enough.

Everyone began to join in.