//------------------------------// // In the Dark // Story: Five Score, Divided by Four: Salem's Lot // by Chicken Waffles //------------------------------// The air leaves me slowly, like from a leaky balloon. I can’t do anything but stare- I can’t think to do anything but stare. Finally, the first clear thoughts break past the dam in my brain. Is it the light making it look this way? I mean, that’s probably why my eyes look a little lighter blue than normal. But the hair? I tilt my head, gaze trained on the locks as they react to the gravity. No, can’t be. My hair is usually dark brown. At most, lighting or extended exposure to the sun might make it look a little lighter, but that’s not anything close to what I’m seeing. Not only is my hair usually dark brown, it’s also a wild, wavy, shoulder-length mess of locks only tamed by frequent sweeps of a paddle brush. Now, though? The hair around my crown looks like someone took a flat iron to it. I huff. Okay. Think, Percy. There’s clearly no natural explanation for this, at least as far as normal human genetics are concerned. The only way my hair could get this color is if someone dyed it. But I certainly didn’t do it. I don’t have hair dye lying around, nor do I have the desire to dye my hair in the first place! So, someone else has to have done it. But that doesn’t make sense either! Isabelle, Nat, and Bree all left before I went to bed, and I seriously doubt any of them were the type of person to break into a person’s house and dye their hair. Hell, I don’t think anyone is the type of person to do that. Blue or not, I take my brush and run it through. It’s just a change of color, I reassure myself. People dye their hair all the time nowadays. Even my mom tried out some pink streaks a couple years back. When you cater to tourists in Salem, looking a little strange is practically mandatory. If it doesn’t go away on its own, I’ll just re-dye it my natural color. I’m just glad the store isn’t open on Sunday. The most public interaction I need to worry about today is running some errands later, and everyone usually minds their business there. I’m in the middle of rinsing toothpaste out of my mouth when my phone buzzes on my nightstand. I wipe my face and return to my bedroom, unlocking my screen. [please tell me you weren’t the one who convinced bree to get mlp tattoos last night] My brows furrow. What? Mlp? Like My Little Pony? I open my messages and quickly type out a reply. [????] Nat’s response is immediate. [hold on] I do. Soon enough, a new message arrives, picture attached. [here. it’s on both thighs!] Above the message is a photo taken of what I can barely recognize as Bree’s thigh. A vivid image of a grilled cheese sandwich in the middle of being pulled apart marked the skin. “Oh Christ,” I whisper. That’s a cutie mark alright. Whose is that again? The uh… the Weird Al pony, right? Cheese something? I guess it fits her profession, but still! Jesus, what on earth was Bree thinking, getting a tattoo like that? And on both thighs? Good god. Well, at least it isn’t somewhere visible. My phone lights up with another message. Shit, I was so surprised at the tattoo that I forgot to reply. [well?] Not wanting to type out a whole block of text, I hit the call button. Nat picks up immediately. “Dude, what the hell?” The words come out in a defensive rush of breath. “It wasn’t me,” I preface. “I’ve never seen those before in my life.” “Well it can’t have been Isabelle, she never watched the show!” “Hey, I never liked it nearly as much as you guys did!” I point out. I mean, sure, it was good, but there were plenty of other above average children’s shows out there. “Besides, why don’t you just ask Bree who put her up to it?” Bree shouts something in the background, but I can’t make out the words. Nat sighs. “She says they just showed up this morning.” “Just showed up?” I echo. Bree shouts something again- I think ‘they did!’ “Yeah, not her best lie.” Nat sighs. “C’mon, Percy. I’m not mad if you told her to do it, dude, I just need a straight answer.” I frown. “I gave you my answer. I had nothing to do with it! And besides…,” I trail off, realizing my mind is running away with a thought I’m not sure my mouth is ready to say. “Besides? Besides what?” Shit. I chew the inside of my cheek. Well, here goes nothing. “Besides,” I continue, “are you sure she just got them? They don’t look recent.” I’d never gotten a tattoo before- I’m way too squeamish with needles- but I know that freshly inked skin is red and swollen. The images Nat sent me are way too clear to be something done last night. Nat falls silent on the other end of the line. For a moment, all I can make out is her soft, stressed breathing. “I’ll call you back,” she finally says. “Uh, sure. Good luck with your um… thing,” I tell her. “Yeah. Seeya.” The call ends, and I sigh. First my hair, now Bree getting a surprise My Little Pony tattoo- and after that abysmal finale, no less. Ugh. I’ve barely woken up and the universe is slinging weird shit in my direction. As I remove my pajamas to put on normal people clothes, I can’t help but look at my own thighs. There’s no tattoo there, thank god. Just a light layer of short hair. That’s hardly surprising, though. I never bother shaving above my knees. I run my fingers over the otherwise blank space, like I’ll uncover my own weird marking if I press hard enough. It seems like such an awkward place to get a tattoo… Once dressed, I find a beanie in my closet and pull it on. I can’t fit all my hair inside it, but I can at least hide the weird, straightened bits. Better than nothing, at least. I just hope mom isn’t around to ask about it when I head out later. With nothing better to do in the meantime, I open YouTube on my phone and scroll mindlessly, curious as to what the algorithm wants to me watch today. Unsurprisingly, most of it is about Dungeons and Dragons- some worldbuilding tips, a collection of RPG horror stories, the latest rando trying to make their actual play podcast happen… An overproduced thumbnail catches my eye amidst my typical recommendations. It’s an image of Lauren Faust sitting at some convention panel beside a handful of other creatives. The video creator’s circled her in red, adding an arrow just for good measure. ‘NOT THE END!’ stretches across the bottom of the thumbnail in white impact font. The video’s title reads: ‘MLP Finale Movie Confirmed? New Con Footage Revealed!’ I roll my eyes. Just more bronies trying to cope after such a dumb, ridiculous ending episode. I might not have been the show’s biggest fan or anything, especially considering I’m friends with Nat and Bree, but that doesn’t mean I can’t recognize a series shitting the bed when I see one. With both MLP and Game of Thrones ending like they did within a five month span, 2019 was the year of terrible finales. Now that I’ve been reminded of ponies twice, I figure I might as well watch an episode or two before I head out. I grab my laptop and open up Netflix, typing the show into the search bar. It comes up immediately, and I skim through the available seasons to find a classic. Curiously, while they have the rest of them, season nine still isn’t available. I faintly recall Bree sending me screenshots of fanatical, desperate bronies on Reddit using its absence as proof that the finale ‘wasn’t legit’ or something. But it’s been over half a year- what’s taking them so long? Maybe they don’t want to offer such a controversial episode on their platform, but if that’s the case, why not offer the entire season except the finale? Eh, I’m not a marketing expert. This stuff is beyond me. Eventually, I settle on an old favorite- “Luna Eclipsed”- and press play. I’d never found a favorite in the main cast, but I’ve always had a soft spot for the princess. We were both the weird kid who spoke too loud, talked funny, and wanted to be respected by her peers. As the episode starts up, I’m surprised by how much I remember, even though it’s probably been years since I watched it last. Twilight arrives on the scene, revealing her Star Swirl costume and confusing Spike. “I’m Star Swirl the Bearded!” the purple unicorn exclaims. “Father of the amniomorphic spell? Did you even read that book I gave you about obscure unicorn history?” I snort. Obscure my foot- by the end of the show, that unicorn had his hoof in every important lore event. Guess the writers hadn’t figured that part out yet. Then again, I think, there’s plenty of people in the real world who don’t know anything about historical events and figures, so it’s not entirely unrealistic. The episode goes on, with Luna arriving and frightening the ponies despite her best attempts at friendliness. It’s a children’s show, though, so it all works out in the end, and “Luna Eclipsed” leads to “Sisterhooves Special” leads to “The Cutie Pox” leads to “May the Best Pet Win” leads to- Buzz. Glancing down, I find Isabelle’s sent me a text. [Percy! Hey! You wanna get lunch in a bit? Craving some togetherness] I grimace. Damn it, I’ve told Isabelle time and time again how I don’t like it when people spring same-day plans on me, especially when I have other things to do. I draft a polite decline, but a welling feeling of guilt prevents me from pressing ‘send’. She’s so busy with work that we rarely get to hang out outside of sessions anymore. Hell, I think this is the first time she’s texted me on a day other than Saturday in months. Pressing backspace, I shoot her a thumb’s up, followed by a [where were u thinking] While she’s typing up a response, I close my laptop and hurry into the kitchen to grab the shopping list. No sense in making two trips. “I’m headed to Stop & Shop!” I call out in the direction of my mother’s room. “Be back later!” “Have fun,” her muffled voice teases. “I’ll try!” I vanish downstairs and leave out the back door. My 2010 Camry is waiting for me, and I climb inside, looking into the rearview mirror to prepare to pull out of the space- Oh, fuck, my hair. I totally forgot. Well, at least I have the beanie on. Actually, now that I look at it, I’d managed to fit more of my oddly-colored hair under the hat then I remember. It’s all almost entirely under the beanie! Maybe I was fiddling with it while watching the show. Sounds like something I’d do. Stop & Shop proves uneventful, and the next thing I know a hostess is leading Isabelle and I to a seat by the window in the Witch’s Brew Café. Isabelle is her typically overdressed self- a burgundy blouse, white slacks, a sun hat, and sunglasses. I can’t help but wonder why she’s wearing the latter indoors, but I don’t think I have it in me to fight Isabelle Logic, especially after the way my day started. The hostess tells us someone will be with us shortly, and I pull out a chair to sit down. “Why are you walking like that?” Isabelle asks. “Do your feet hurt or something?” I raise a brow, hovering over the chair. “Like what?” “You’re like… tiptoeing around.” I look to my feet. Sure enough, I’m standing on the balls of each one. “Oh.” I chuckle. “I just… do that sometimes. Autism thing, y’know? I’ve done it since I was little.” Toe walking, it’s called. Apparently it’s common for people on the spectrum. I looked up the explanation at some point, but I can’t recall what it was. I settle down in the chair, sitting back. “So, what’s up? Why the sudden meeting?” “Oh, you know,” Isabelle starts. She tucks a black lock of hair behind her ear, scooting a little closer in her chair. “I just needed a change of scenery. There’s only so much time I can spend backstage before I start going stir-crazy.” “You could have fooled me,” I say, peering over the menu. “Everyone’s got their limits, Persephone,” Isabelle points out, “theater just happens to be full of people with thick skin. At least, that’s how it is with established people. There’s plenty of newcomers who’ll wash out as soon as they get their first rejection.” She scoffs. “They’re a dime a dozen, honestly. Entertainment is a revolving door of people thinking it’ll be all fun and games until they hit tech week.” A waitress finally arrives and takes our orders- a black tea and grilled cheese for me, and a macchiato and veggie burger for Isabelle. “A grilled cheese?” Isabelle observes as the woman walks away. “And not from The Cheese Whiz? I don’t think Nat and Bree’ll like that.” I roll my eyes. “I’m sure they’ll get over it.” Besides, I think, they’ve got weird tattoos to worry about. A part of me wonders whether Nat told her, but I can’t imagine why she would. After all, Isabelle knows nothing about the show. Either way, I elect not to bring it up. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask… what’s with the beanie?” My eyes shoot toward my headwear, and I pray my cheeks don’t look as pink as they feel. “Oh, well. I forgot to wash it yesterday,” I lie. Shit, is that a good enough excuse? I’ve never really cared about appearing anything past ‘decent’ in public, especially when compared to her. “What’s with the uh. Sunglasses?” I digress. “Oh!” Her fingers rise to the eyewear, like she’s forgotten she’s wearing them. She pushes them hurriedly up her nose, practically fusing them to her face. It takes her a few moments to reply. “Well- I had an appointment with my optometrist this morning, so they’re all dilated and sensitive.” I blink. “I thought you were in the costume shop this morning.” That’s why she wanted me to come over, right? Isabelle shifts in her seat, fumbling with her words. “Oh, well, no- because of the optometrist! When I said I was ‘craving togetherness’ earlier, I meant… it was meant more as a general thing. I’ll be headed there right after this.” My brow cocks, but I let it go. She’s clearly got theater stuff to worry about, and I’m not about to pry on the off-chance it upsets her. Her stuff isn’t any of my business- just like my weird, Sudden Onset Blue Hair isn’t any of hers. Our entrees arrive, I dig in, and holy shit, this grilled cheese is amazing. I mean, I guess it’s kind of hard to fuck up grilled cheese given that there’s very few ingredients involved, but this stuff is incredible. It’s not The Cheese Whiz-tier, but it’s up there. It only strikes me then that I haven’t had anything to eat since last night. Oh Jesus, no wonder why I’m tearing into this thing. Despite the deliciousness of my sandwich, however, my mind continues to wander- back to me and my weird, changing hair. Should I tell Isabelle? I know I decided I shouldn’t pry earlier, but it’s not prying to admit something about yourself. Hell, that’s practically like… anti-prying. Then again, what kind of reaction am I even looking for? What do I expect her to say? She’s not a medical professional- would she even believe me if I told her it happened on its own? Would she think I’m pulling some kind of prank? No, that can’t be it. I’ve never pulled a prank in my life. I’m too much of a goody two-shoes. Maybe she’ll think I’ve lost a bet? Humiliation roils in my gut just thinking about it. God no, the last thing I want is to feel embarrassed on top of all this confusion. So I say nothing, and we finish the rest of our meal in relative silence. Sitting back down in the driver’s seat, I instinctively check my face in the rear-view mirror. My hair hasn’t slipped out from its beanie sanctuary, thank goodness. Wait… what’s that? Shit, my eyes still look lighter than usual. I thought it was just the bathroom lighting, but… I shove the thoughts aside, adjusting the mirror so I can’t see my reflection. Maybe I’m just freaking myself out, and that’s making me see things that aren’t there. If you look at anything too long your brain is bound to start bullshitting. People’s minds love making sinister shapes in the dark, or stringing together a pattern from nothing. Yeah. That’s it. I just think my eyes look lighter because I’m comparing them to the vividly blue hair still trapped under my hat. Satisfied with my internal logic, I start the car and put it in drive. I’m just about to pull out of my parking spot when I catch sight of Isabelle walking out of the café. She walks past the car parallel parked in front of mine, and opens the door of her own. My eyes stare, unblinking as I watch her turn out of her spot and drive off into the distance. Didn’t she say she just came from an optometrist appointment? That’s why she was wearing the sunglasses, right? Why did she drive herself here if she’d just gotten her eyes dilated? How did she parallel park with her eyes dilated? I get back home and begin unloading the groceries from the trunk. I put the bags on the counter of our kitchen on the second floor, beginning to pull out the supplies I’d gathered. Bread, a couple boxes of cereal, those roasted edamame snacks mom’s obsessed with for whatever reason, apples- Apples? The sight of the fruit stops me in my tracks. Why’d I buy apples? I turn the red thing I’ve grabbed over in my hand a few times, like I’m expecting it to suddenly transform into something else. I haven’t had straight-up apples in ages. I don’t have anything against them or anything, they’re just not my go-to fruit. Maybe they were on sale or something and I forgot I grabbed them. Wouldn’t surprise me. I leave them in a bowl on the counter and quickly put the rest of the food away. Random apple purchases are low on my list of concerns at the moment. I still need to deal with my hair. I march out of the kitchen and into my bathroom. Might as well rip the beanie bandaid off and assess the damage. Reaching out carefully, I grab the top of my beanie and give it a tug and Oh Jesus, what the fuck? My once brown, shoulder-length wavy locks have shortened and straightened between my errands and lunch, now only long enough to flop out into a dweeby, flat blue bowlcut. But that positively pales in comparison to what’s sitting atop my hair. Ears. Animal ears. Pointed, fuzzy, gray animal ears. Equine ears. Pony ears, my brain corrects, much to my horror. They swivel as my eyes make contact, like they’re trying to hide in shame from my gaze. I want to scream. I need to scream, but it’s like the sound is trapped in my throat sideways, choking me, and no matter how much I try to force it, nothing comes out. I just stand there, staring, eyes growing wider and wider and wider. I try to pull the beanie back on in a desperate attempt to hide the development, but my ears splay at the confinement, the sounds of my breathing muffled. I take it back off. Those are my ears. My ears. I have pony ears. My legs give out beneath me, and I tumble to the floor. The polished tile collides with my tailbone, and through the haze of sharp pain and confusion, it occurs to me that there’s so much more of it than usual. Fingers scrabble along the floor, groping behind me until I find the source of the feeling. Hair. Hair? Why is there hair? I grab a fistful of the stuff, only to feel something beneath it- something long, thin, and connected. I pull it closer, dragging it into view. A tail. My blood runs cold. That’s a tail. An equine tail, maybe a foot long, covered in the same straight blue hair on the top of my head. The appendage writhes in my shaking grip like a snake, still aching from the impact with the floor. My racing brain gallops faster in the confines of my skull. How long has that been there? Was it there when I was driving? Before? No, Isabelle would have mentioned if I had a fucking tail. Between the café and here? Oh fuck, did anyone see it when I got out of my car? Oh my god. Oh Jesus. Finally, a single thought breaks through the thrashing tempest of my brain, coming to surface for air. Mom. Mom. Mom. I have to tell mom. The hair was one thing- I can’t hide this. I shouldn’t hide this. I fight myself to get to my feet, my legs limp and sliding under me like a fawn on a sheet of ice. My feet refuse to stay flat on the ground, heels still tilted upward. Despite my body’s best efforts, I get myself vertical and scramble the short distance out of the bathroom to her bedroom. I stop short at the entrance, every inch of my body rigid with dread. Standing outside her door, I feel microscopic. It’s like I’m a little kid again, come to tell my mother I got sick and threw up in the middle of the night. Gathering my courage, I open the door and step inside. She’s already sitting up by the time I pass the threshold, stirring from the nap I’ve interrupted. “Mmmh? Percy?” she blurbles. “Mom.” I barely choke it out. “Something’s wrong with me.”