Sometimes I’m back in my grandfather’s garden. I’m a little girl, dirtying my feet in the wet mud and grass of his flower garden. His brick manor is so large it seems to chase after me as I scamper through the bushes. I’m careful not to prick myself on the rose thorns, and not to touch the poisonous roots native to this planet. I’m going somewhere I’m not supposed to, and I know it. But I need to see her, so I still run towards the blue Hyacinths. Her beautiful azure palace.

Sometimes I can picture the details of her lilac dress, and the pressure of her needlepoint feet as she fluttered onto my open palm. I was easily impressed by Hummingbird’s mature smile, and her honeyed words made my heart leap with joy. I was young. I didn’t know what she was trying to do. I didn’t know why she kissed me the way she did, and I still don’t understand why the image of her smile disappeared from my mind the moment it was over.

Sometimes, I visit my grandfather’s manor, and he still doesn’t let me into this beautiful garden all these years later. I don’t blame him. Butterflies still flutter like caged, desperate creatures in my stomach when I think of her-- the possibility of knowing her again. But I follow his advice, because he’s right. Even if she kissed me and cursed me, I don’t think I can regret the time I spent with her. That’s the effect of a parasite.

Sometimes, I think I can pinpoint the moment the problems started. Her curse? Spore-like eggs lodged in my skull, hatched years and years ago. Her children? No one can see them, but they haunt me like refractions of her ghost shining through a glass pyramid. The youngest ones barely have shape. They are as small as fruit flies, and their cheering laughter sounds like the desperate cries of human infants. They circle my head like planets orbiting an imploding star. The older ones are monsters, with unceasing buzzing wings and too many eyes and too much agency. They are hers, and I cannot forget that. They are hers and they will kill me.

Sometimes I wake up and fail to stand. My arms and legs won’t move, and her ghosts dance above my head without hesitation or apology. They provide me with an inspired musical performance as they grow stronger and I fall weaker. When I crumble to dust, will they scatter my ashes with their cloven hooves and their battering wings? When that happens, will I be able to see her again?