Brigits_Flame February Entry 03 - Harmony
They’re a lot smarter than I think they are. They always hide in the most inconvenient places, for one. On the rooftops of churches, where the gargoyles and grotesques are. Like to confuse a girl, I tell you. You can’t see them on a winter’s night up there unless you tag them with a laser and watch them refract like a cut gem. For another thing, they’re great at second-guessing you. You lunge for one and it feints the other way, and you sort of stop short - and then it rockets forward and tries to claw out your eyes. Nice way to spend a Sunday evening.
I’m Grace. I hunt glass demons, I guess? Is that my job? It’s not a hobby, and I get paid for it. But I only do it on weekends, none of my friends know I do it, and it’s really dangerous. I guess that makes me like a hooker. Well, the kind of hooker that kills people. They have those, right? I’m pretty sure one of Angelina Jolie’s characters posed as one in an action movie, and snapped a guy’s neck between her thighs. Badass.
Anyway, I don’t snap the necks of demons with my thighs, for, ah, clarification.
Y’know, once upon a time I was just a voice major. An innocent young thing from Peoria. And once upon a time there was an ocean, says Paul Simon in my earbuds. Why is he so mellow, now? I bet it’s ‘cause he’s old. This album’s so mellow. Well. Some of it is.
But I used to be perfectly normal. Then, one day in undergrad, I’m practicing with a jazz band and we’re in a practice space on campus - beautiful old lounge in the Psych Building, nobody uses it - and I sustain a high F for fifteen seconds, and crack the front panel on this beautiful grandfather clock. This professor walks by while I’m doing it, sees the thing shatter. Young guy. Looks at me funny.
Three weeks later I find myself on the roof of Graham Chapel with Professor Burke, and his gloved hands reach out and grab something behind a crenellation - they come back grabbing a struggling something. He shines a light on it, and it sparkles like a Meyer vampire. (Hah.)
“This is what I mean,” he says. “I told you I wasn’t crazy. And I say again that I wasn’t trying to sleep with you.”
“I wouldn’t have slept with you anyway, Married With Kids,” I say. He rolls his eyes and then, looking at the tiny glass imp that wriggles in his hands, emits a low tone - a surprisingly deep one, sustained. It tries to bolt but is transfixed by the sound. It clasps its tiny paws to its head, shrieks, and … cracks open. Burke’s hand opens and the critter falls in dusty motes to the rooftop.
So I find myself here, tonight, chasing that critter’s mama through the rooftops of St. Louis. And Christ, is it cold.
I see a flicker of movement. Paul Simon goes off now - sorry, babe. Past the air conditioning condenser on this rooftop, I see it again, and race to chase it - a flicking of tail. A glassblower mamasaur. I mean, they are kind of lizardy. And this one has been laying lots of eggs. Little crystal clutches, cold with glittering, wicked intent. Fuckin’ things. Burke says it’s really best not to think about why they’re around, and why they eat children - but really, simply to annihilate them and find the next one. I’m inclined to agree.
Come back here, you - and it’s seen me. I unholster my net gun and take cover behind a piece of corrugated steel just as a hail of shards prick by me. Some of these fuckers breathe glass. Did I neglect to say that?
I make a run for it and fire off a net-round at the glass lizard, and it falls, wrapped, stumbling. I place my boot on its snout, hard, and point it away from me, so it can’t bite, so it can’t breathe shards. And I take a deep breath. Always support yourself, Grace, Professor Burke says. Yeah, thanks.
And the voice of the cold universe sings through me as the dread note thunders out of my mouth, picking up harmonics like a rolling snowball from every cavity in my head. My skull whistles. My sinus cavity hums. I am a heavenly chord of righteous destruction.
The lizard winces in expectation, and goes stock-still for the end. The crack forms in its head, and I crush it with the heel of my boot. The rest of it follows, crumbling to silica and dust. They don’t bleed. I feel no remorse.
Hey. They eat babies.