#writchal!!

Author swap

Second

Soundtrack

I think there is something wrong with my bones. The evidence of it is most clearly shown in the yellow of my teeth, but I've long since bullied myself out of hating that.

No, my bones are wrong in their weight.

Most days, I am the athlete I trained to be before the contents of my skull sabotaged me to a screeching halt: solid, rooted, something approaching strong. My feet don't ache to step forward, my arms hold on tightly, and my jaw smoothly opens as I laugh.

But on other days, I'm immaterial. The wind slices through my translucent skin and echoes in the hollow spaces where my bones belong. It's terribly loud, but my hands aren't solid enough to block out the sound inside me. I wear heavy shoes and bulky clothing to weigh me down, to keep my feet on the ground as my head wants to rise like a child's lost balloon. It only halfway works.

Taking calcium and Vitamin D doesn't help; believe me, I've tried.

God, how I've tried.

The remainder of my days remind me of the fact that despite years of swimming lessons in a lake I feared and only learned to love once I left it, I cannot float. My bones aren't calcium then. They're something heavier, heavier than lead, and while I should be able to identify it, the name slips my mind like most other things do. Those days, I sink through the water, through floors and stone. Gravity drags me - I'd kick and scream if I could muster the strength to move - and the black hole of my skeleton tears my muscles and snaps my ligaments as I'm forced to curl into myself, smaller than I'm meant to be.

None of it lasts. My bones grow back, and my feet settle flatly on the ground. I stretch out my limbs, and I claw my way back to the surface.

And it all evens out, I suppose. For every day I need to be tethered to the earth, I have one in which I need to be excavated from it. And, more often than not, my body is easy and predictable to move.

You pull on your old varsity jacket. It's the only one here that fits. That's what you tell yourself, Truth is, the walls keep you seventeen, And the people keep you bitter.

It doesn't fit. Oh, the jacket does, But your skin doesn't. It pulls and pinches and itches In all the wrong places.

They tell you it looks perfect. It's the one they like you best in.

Gray sits on you like a haze, And your fingertips are see through. Your feet float above the floor. And when you speak, Only your hollow breath comes out.

You know you were vivid, once. That your hands were strong, That your feet were steady, And you sang better than you spoke. So you try to add some color.

Why bother with the red lipstick, they say. You were always translucent anyway.

So you flatten. And silence. And devalue. And stretch yourself. Waiting it out.

For as much as you stick here, You'll sing again soon. You'll wear your new jacket With red lipstick and heavy boots. There are other places, babes,

"Today's lesson - next slide, please - is about how to destroy a world."

I rush to swap out the image underneath the light of the projector. The image of it wasn't very good when I first obtained at at Mistress's request, but after a bit of cleaning and polishing, it looks something close to nice. That is the case for the rest of the room, too; this little makeshift classroom doesn't even look makeshift anymore, not with the chalkboard, desks, and chairs I cobbled together. It looks like it could exist in a proper school, not just as one of many side projects in Mistress's evil lair.

As she instructs the class on the typical, boring methods - nuclear war, bioweapons, climate change, et cetera, - I tune out of the actual lecture content. I don't need to listen because I've heard it all before. I'm set up in the same way I always am: I have Mistress's notes, my own schedule of the slides, and rapt attention directed at the front of the room.

It's difficult not to. All of Mistress's outfits - which I wash, dry, and iron every Thursday - are eye catching, and this is no exception. Her blood red dress, with its high neckline and wide bell sleeves, is easily the brightest thing in the room. It swishes against he floor as she paces in front of the board, instructing the dozen or so prospective henchmen on the ways of evil.

Mistress knows all about evil. She frequently battles with local heroes, thwarting their silly "do good" ways and enacting her own schemes. She doesn't always win, but that's the most evil thing of all: she always rises again.

As she talks, I have to take great care to not be mesmerized by her beauty. I have a presentation to assist with, and though Mistress has never let me apply for the henchman position, I take great pride in being the best personal assistant I can be.

Maybe that's what she wants to see from me. Maybe if I prove myself to be an absolutely indispensable personal assistant, she'll let me go on the front lines to execute her evil schemes instead of staying in the lair all the time. Maybe then I'll finally be her henchman.

Maybe then Mistress will really notice me and how I care for her. In the evillest way possible, of course.

These are the same things I've told myself over the past two years, but I try not to lose hope. Having hope isn't very evil of me, but I don't think I let it show.

As the class progresses, I switch out the slides seamlessly and find myself mouthing the words of the lesson along with Mistress. She has run a lot of these classes. They're a part of her vigorous vetting process for the perfect henchman, along with an obstacle course, an interview, and other components I'm not privy to.

I don't know how effective it's been, as the longest-lasting henchman we've had only lasted a few months before mistress fired her for incompetence - it's always incompetence - but it isn't my place to question. I'm supposed to take care of the laundry, the cooking, the cleaning, the slideshows, and want to be at Mistress's side at any time, in any capacity. I would kill a man to be her henchman.

Hmm. Maybe that would please her.

I idly think about how I would kill someone to please her as I continue to assist with the slides. The rest of the presentation proceeds as smoothly as it always does, and once Mistress dismisses all the prospects, she collapses into the nearest chair and puts her head in her hands.

"Are you alright?" I ask, rushing to her side. "Do you need water? Medicine? Food? I can cook right-"

She holds up a hand to stop me.

I swallow thickly and hope I haven't disappointed her.

"I'm just frustrated with this batch," she says. "I think they might all be busts."

She picks her head up and looks at me intently. I find myself, as I always do, completely enraptured by her face. Her lipstick matches the blood red of her dress, which glows against her brown skin. Her high cheekbones and arched brows make her face regal. Her long dark hair is kept back in a very practical bun.

But what most captivates me are her eyes. They're framed by long lashes, beautiful, and unfathomably deep.

I feel my best when Mistress has her eyes on me.

"You know more about the ways of evil than any of the prospects," she murmurs.

It's true. I know how to maim, kill, torture, kidnap, steal, lie, cheat, concoct, resurrect, and every other evil skill in the book. I've learned everything at Mistress's side.

"You're unflinchingly loyal," she continues, keeping her eyes on me.

I would die for evil, and, more importantly, I would die for Mistress.

"And you've always demonstrated the utmost competence."

I take very great care not to smile. This is it. She's going to finally see me. She will realize that I am the best possible henchman she could ask for, that I have two years' worth of learning at her side under my belt. That there is no better cause, no better purpose in my mind than serving her.

Mistress reaches out, and I steel myself for what might be coming my way. An embrace? A grasp? A kiss?

"I guess that's why you're such a spectacular personal assistant," Mistress says, patting me twice on the head, like a dog. "I need a new batch of candidates. Send the ad into the newspaper again."

Mistress truly is evil. I know this, but right now is the first time I have ever hated her for it.

That makes me evil, too. Doesn't it? Do I not qualify?

"Yes, Mistress," I say, keeping my voice and face level.

She smiles, and I realize I hate myself more for wanting to know what those blood red lips would feel like against mine.

"And start dinner as well, please. Stupidity makes me hungry."

With that, she leaves me in the makeshift classroom to clean up the chairs and the projector from this little room in the lair, and I do it as I always do: alone.