To Hell & Back

I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast with my parents, and squirming uncomfortably in my seat. It took me a moment to realize what memory this was. With a slightly embarrassed grin in real life, I realized what was about to happen in the memory.

It was the day before my twelfth birthday and something was wrong. Tomorrow was supposed to be a good day, it was the first time my mother was going to be home for my birthday since I was old enough to talk, so I didn’t want to say anything.

Eventually, after debating back and forth internally for some time, I decided to voice my worry to see if my parents could help. If things got worse, tomorrow would be ruined anyway, I figured.

“I’m bleeding,” I announced suddenly.

“What?” my mother said, startled. “Where?”

“I woke up with blood on my thighs and sheets and I don’t think it has stopped and my stomach hurts now,” I blurted out. “Do I need to go to the hospital? I don’t want to go… Father? Father, where are you going?”

My father had gotten up without a word and left the room, abruptly leaving his half eaten food behind. My mother watched him leave, mouth open, but no words came out.

“Where is he going? The eggs I made will go bad,” I whined when the door closed behind him.

“Staysa, that… that isn’t something you should say at the breakfast table,” my mother informed me.

“But they will go bad. He doesn’t like cold eggs,” I whined.

She laughed and said, “No, honey, I meant about your… You know what, don’t worry about it; this is my fault. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much to help your father raise you, but it’s time I taught you some womanly things, since he apparently hasn’t bothered to.”

“Am I going—” I began before she cut me off.

“You’ll be perfectly fine. Every girl goes through this,” she said with a disarming smile. “Let’s go.”

She took me to the bathroom to begin. The rest of the day was dedicated to teaching me everything I would need to know about being a woman. That is how she put it, anyway. She explained at length about a woman’s period, and when I had had enough of that, we moved on to topics like how to apply makeup and the benefits of the different kinds of underwear. She even went over how to walk properly, which I mostly ignored.

After inspecting my clothes thoroughly, she took me to the mall to buy new ones. Underwear was first, because it was the most important, per her. She told me I wasn’t to leave the underwear shop she was taking me to until I had enough to replace everything I had previously gotten with my father.

“Bad underwear means bad living,” she told me firmly.

While I didn’t see the logical connections that she did, it was a good opportunity to spend time with her, which I treasured. My time with her was few and far between, usually cut short by work calls. Thinking about it, I had no idea what she did for a living.

“I do not think my underwear is so bad,” I told her for the hundredth time as we walked into the store.

“Try a few things from here and then tell me whether you still believe that,” she replied confidently. “You know your size, so if you see something that you might like, just pick it out. Don’t worry about trying anything on, we’ll do that later; you just explore to your heart’s content, okay? No pressure at all, it’s all paid for.”

She wasn’t wrong about the difference between what I had gotten shopping with my father and what I got this day, but it all came with a price I had a hard time swallowing.

“One hundred and forty-seven dollars worth of underwear,” I whispered, receipt in hand. “Mom…”

“Hmm… That will do for now, I guess. On your next birthday you’ll have experimented more and have a better idea of what you want…” she trailed off.

“I’m not wearing that,” I said, eyeing the piece of fabric she held in her hand. She had bought herself “a few fun things” which upon inspection were a black g-string and a see-through mesh top to match.

“They are more comfortable than you think, Staysa,” she said with a sigh. “You just have to get used to them.”

“That’s what Father said about beer,” I said, wrinkling my nose at her. “I don’t see how something that looks and tastes like piss is supposed to grow on me, or why I would want it to.”

She coughed, then laughed for a moment before she composed herself and said, “I don’t know what is worse, that he gave you beer, or your description of it… Why would he give you beer?”

“He said it is safer to practice drunk than it is to practice with low energy,” I replied.

“I didn’t know you could simulate having low energy by drinking,” she murmured. “I certainly don’t want to think of you intentionally running yourself out of energy. That is dangerous, Staysa.”

“Yes, mother,” I chirped patronizingly.

“If you start to get headaches, or experience any feedback at all you should stop immediately—”

“Yes, mother,” I chirped again, interrupting her and earning myself a glare. I grinned at her and said, “I got the feeling he just wanted to drink. He seems… stressed. Do you think something is wrong?”

“Life catches up to us all, Staysa,” she said, strangely quiet all of a sudden. “Just… be careful with your studies.”

I shrugged and said, “I will… I don’t like the stuff, anyway.”

“Good,” she said. She looked around, dropped her voice, and said, “Alcohol and witchcraft don’t mix.”

“What happens?” I asked. I wrapped my arms around her arm and leaned in, peering up at her. “What’s it do?”

“It burns through your— Hmm, I guess that’s why— Never mind, that’s not important. The important thing is that if you don’t eat right, casting will burn your body up,” she said. “That much I know.”

“And alcohol is not eating right?” I asked.

“Dear God, no,” she replied, aghast. “Did your father not— No, of course he didn’t. That man…”

“So…” I frowned, thinking it through. “So, if I can keep casting, I’ll be feeding off of my body directly. That’s why the pain… the headache?”

“I guess so. You probably know more details about what would happen than me,” she replied. “I do know it makes your mind more susceptible to mental intrusions.”

“You mean subtle arts?” I asked, my eyes going wide. I knew next to nothing about the subtle arts, except that a good subtle artist could mess with your head.

My mother dropped her voice to a whisper and said, “Exactly. Any subtle artist that wants into your head would do well to get you drunk first.”

“Like when a guy wants to get into your pants?” I asked.

“Staysa!” my mother exclaimed, looking horrified.

“What?” I said, looking innocently up at her.

“That is not a very ladylike thing to say,” she said, calming down.

“Tell that to Sasha,” I retorted.

“Does she talk like that?” she asked.

“She does sometimes. I think she just likes to make her mom blush,” I replied.

She stopped and stared at me for a while before she nodded and said, “Maybe I will talk to her… But enough of that. Come on then, I want to see you in a skirt.”

“Noooo!” I moaned, extracting myself from her to flee. She laughed and hugged me from behind, ending my escape.

“Come on, you’ll love it,” she said, pushing me along the path to her favorite store. “Pants are great, hurray for feminism, but skirts are amazing. If you want to keep dressing like a boy all the time, fine, but you’re not leaving this mall until I see that little butt of yours in a skirt.”

The rest of the day was spent trying on more clothing and makeup. This was the longest and deepest conversation I can recall having with my mother. She was right about a lot of things, but some things still left me confused, like lingerie. I didn’t tell her, because I refused to admit to her that she was right, but she converted me to skirts and boyshorts that day. She never got me to try a thong — one day, perhaps.

I rolled over in the dark, groaning at the pain in my body. I liked this memory. I wanted to replay it over and over, because I had only two intact memories I hadn’t yet visited, and I didn’t want to remember the one that came next. I cried out in anguish, tears streaming down my face, but I couldn’t stop the next memory from playing.