Whatever you do, stay out of the grass and away from the understory.

***

My mouth fills with venom.

The instant I recognize the sound of knocking on the bathroom door, my nerves seem to jump, and my skin washes over with goosebumps in an icy serrated wave.

My first impulse is to block the door, or to press myself down lower under the surface of the water as Christopher George raises his voice to make himself heard through the thick walls, “The water’s stopped working in the other bathroom again, and Dad’s not home yet.”

Mmph. Of all times…

Isn’t this the fourth time in three days?

I can’t go out there yet - I need a minute-

I feel like I’m being surrounded and my chest constricts.

I imagine footsteps until I can hear them echoing on the street outside - listen into the slightest irregularities until I think there are four bodies, five, circling the house and blockading the bathroom door, to trap me in here.

Cornered. Stuck.

The room changes colors, and I try to force my mind to stop raging-

Calm yourself.

Everything tastes like toxic-

And the last thing you need is to be caught drooling and spewing black.

Taking a deep breath, I break from beneath the surface of the water again and swallow the thickness coating my tongue.

The knocking sounds so much louder now…

“Alright! I’m hurrying! Give me ten minutes!” I call evenly, and I think Christopher George walks away, but it’s too hard to tell.

Grabbing the bar of soap, I scrub quickly, listening for motion - a sign of anyone standing outside the door- but the only sounds and smells I can detect are the water running from the shower head and laundered towels, fat and lye, the scent of unscented artisan soap.

Unplugging the tub, I let it drain as I step out of the water onto the thick, braided rug, grab my towel quickly, and dry off like I’m trying to sand away my skin. I watch until the shimmery blue cracks staring out at me from the mirror start to dissipate, or evaporate, hiding themselves back beneath my sea of blotchy black and purple skin like a timid sea snail tucking in her head.

Out of habit, my hand reaches out to the edge of the sink, and I realize I forgot my makeup.

Ohhh, god.

Opening the medicine cabinet hurriedly, I double-check just to be sure I didn’t leave it there the last time by mistake, but I’m greeted with nothing but a perfume of herbal tinctures and essential oils that make my head spin even from within their bottles.

No. no no no no.

How could I forget to grab my makeup when I grabbed my clothes? I can’t just walk out there-

I’m getting too careless. 

Even for life in a sanctuary-certified harbor home.

Letting panic cloud my thoughts. Letting clouds muddle my actions.

Never mind, just hurry up.

There’s nothing I can do about it now but get to my room before anybody sees me.

Walking around looking like…

An advertisement for recklessness.

They’ve told me time and time again to do everything in my power to avoid attention, even if this one of my many eccentricities has nothing to do with my being less…or more…than human.

Doesn’t matter…

I can’t imagine there being a lot of good kinds of attention I’d get walking around looking like human graffiti, and I’m better safe than taxidermied.

Draping my towel over my still-wet hair to shade my face, I grip the door knob and lower my head against the off chance that Christopher George decided to wait in the hall outside the bathroom.

To my surprise, it’s Mr. George, not Christopher, who is standing in front of the door when I open it - his fist raised and within an inch of my head.

“Yikes!” he jerks his hand back in a sort of startled flinch just in time to keep from knocking on my cranium, “Sorry, sweetpea. I was just about to let you know that you didn’t have to rush. The water is running in the other bathroom again.”

“Oh…great,” I smile anxiously-

As if that’s going to come through.

Recalibrating, I try to make the cheerful relief come through in my voice as I keep the towel wrapped close around my face, and my head lowered.

This is going to make him worry…

And that’s a bad thing, right now. Always…probably.

Mr. George tilts his head, his blue eyes sparkling curiously, and I almost wince, my own eyes starting to tear up as the scent of fabric softener oozes from the towel and bites my nose.

“I forgot my makeup,” I say quietly, hoping that will be a sufficient explanation.

“Bathing in the middle of the day?” Mr. George queries in unison with my statement.

He raises his eyebrows and they get lost in his mahogany bangs as what I said registers.

“Ohh…makeup.” 

His eyebrows don’t lower, and I’m sure he’s thinking this is a teenage girl thing.

Let’s go with that.

At least it will keep him from finishing his question.

“For some reason, I thought track was tomorrow. Did you take up another sport…?”

Or… never mind.

“Still just track,” I smile casually from under the towel again.

Knee-jerk dishonesty.

“And it’s still just on Tuesdays, but I w…”

My tongue slows itself, forcing me to think out my answer.

“I ran anyway.”

Mr. George nods, but his eyebrows furrow slightly.

I wonder if that’s something Judith told them about me, the same way she lied to the last family.

“She likes to go running. It helps her with her anxiety.”

I mean.

It’s not entirely a lie.

Mr. George places his large hand on the top of my head with something like an empathetic pat, and smiles kindly, though his eyes look a little sad.

“You can tell us anything, Mora, you know that. If you’re ever feeling stressed…”

My chill returns as I open my mouth, ready to formulate a lie the moment the words fall from his lips-

It’s just a coincidence. A coincidence-

They couldn’t know yet, right?

“I wi-” I start to say, but then I hear the back gate opening and closing outside, and Verner’s attention immediately diverts to the sound of his wife moving about through the tall grass.

She brings the scent of flowers with her almost like she IS a flower.

And just like that, I’m saved by the belle. Verner rumples the towel playfully, since it’s covering my hair, and makes his way to the stairs, no doubt to surprise Therese with a kiss as she walks through the dining room door.

Hurrying to my room, I close the door quickly and pull out my foundation and concealer -my lipstick so I can look like I’m trying to be pretty, not just un-freakish.

Just hurry up and be ‘normal’ before dinnertime.

It takes me about 10 minutes to cover all my spots and swipe on some lipstick that’s too pink and yet too purple at the same time, but at least nobody has come looking for me.

Knocking on my door.

I wonder how much Judith told them about my ‘quirk’ when they first agreed to harbor me.

She likes to paint these paint-like splotches on my face as an insecurity - something I’m sensitive about anyone seeing.

But that only makes sense, since it’s the way she taught me to feel.

Fear can be surprisingly useful. 

It taught me to lie so naturally, that I almost believe myself.

Opening my bedroom door, I start to make my way down the stairs and to the murmuring kitchen where masculine quips and feminine laughter mix in little whispers.

I prepare my casual, “What smells so good in here?” greeting for Therese.

Prepare to pretend I didn’t hear her calling me, just in case she asks about it.

My mouth is painted with my very best ‘I’m not hiding anything’ smile that I’ve perfected through ages of practice as I step into the kitchen and Therese looks up at me with her cheeks full of Maiden Pink and her arms stuffed to the spilling with violets.

Both of our eyes go blank with shock and confusion when we hear Christopher’s scream and a clatter like a dozen bottles and containers falling onto the bathroom floor.

In an instant, the violets are on the kitchen floor and I hear Therese thundering up the stairs, Mr. George following, and his voice shouting “Christopher?!!! Chris-!!!”

I try to turn around to follow them but am greeted by a stench that almost brings me to my knees.

What…is that…?

I can’t see, strangled by the dry heave and dizziness as the room is flooded with - or drowned in that - too familiar-

RAZING - IT SMELLS LIKE THE RAZING ALL OVER AGAIN!!!

Stop-I can’t-can’t see-

All my senses are overpowered by the scent and the taste of black making its way into my mouth again-

Don’t…

…Let it slip. It stains.

Cupping my hand over my mouth I force the virulent liquid back into my mouth and try to swallow, but it just keeps coming.

Judith would tell me this was my imagination. It could be confused for anything-

Misfirings of my delusional brain - trauma haunting me with scenes I thought I remembered-

But it’s easy enough to confuse-

Because it couldn’t - it couldn’t be there - be-

My head is on the tile.

It could be confused for the smell of wool, or tallow candles and human blood.

But that’s a bad enough combination in and of itself.

And phantosmia has never been this pungent before.

There should be-

No way-

They’re banging on the door upstairs and the ceiling echoes an almost inaudible voice-

No way I could catch even a whiff of that fetor again - from the night everything burned-

Because I know it was no human creation they were burning when the smoke choked our lungs.

And then it dissipates.

Almost as quickly as it appeared the smell is drowned or snubbed out by the scent of sandalwood soap and shaving cream as the bathroom door crashes open and is slammed again with a violence that seems to rattle the house- and I hear Christopher George shouting- his voice hoarse like he’s been shouting the whole time-

“SNAKE! GIANT…GIANT SNAKE! IN THE BATHROOM! IN THE PIPE-!”

You can run but he’ll always find you.

***

There are creatures hiding there that feast on secrets, and we are…

…