A Curious Moon

By Nadia Amina Rabbani

Capricorn 𖤓 | Sagittarius ⏾ | Cancer ↑

I woke from a deep sleep. From such a deep sleep my brain fumbled to even remember what being awake was, what sleep was, and who I was. I didn’t remember falling asleep and though my vision felt crisp, I couldn’t really make sense of the space I was in. I decided to go back to sleep and hoped when I woke again, everything would make sense. 

I turned over, but my shoulder was jammed between me and whatever the solid thing was underneath me. My forehead bumped something hollow and rectangular shaped that protruded from behind me. I grabbed the protuberance and hoisted myself into a seated position with my bare feet tucked, trapped next to me. 

Every inch of my body rioted as I moved. It was as if, that one spot between my left shoulder blade and spine that was always sore no matter what I did, had spread out and subsumed my whole body. 

I had been having more aches and pains lately, which was to be expected. But this was too all encompassing to be natural progression. The pain only ceased when I stopped moving and stopped breathing. But moving also felt good, a gratifying pain, necessary to shake the stiffness out, like an overly starched shirt. 

Cool, red satin pooled around my hips. I remembered trying on the new cocktail dress and twirling around like a girl, the skirt bloomed out, off my thighs. It had felt so good to buy a new dress for the conference reception. One that highlighted what curves were left after the ravages of treatments and then clinical trials.

Sitting up and sandwiched between two short, smooth porcelain walls, comprehension of the shapes in front of me slid into place. I was sitting in a tub. I flung the curtain aside to reveal a rather plain looking motel bathroom. There was a short counter with a sink and toilet both across the cramped room from me. My anemic face and dark eyes hauntingly stared back at me out of the mirror. 

I hauled myself up, gripping anything around me to support my mutinous muscles and joints. I finally stood straight, locking my knees and gripping the ground with my toes to keep from swaying. The tile and linoleum rearranged themselves back into place as the vertigo ceased. 

Bracing myself on both walls in the tiny room, I stepped out of the tub and flipped the light to get a better look at myself. The fluorescent overhead light, shuttered to life. I squeezed my eyes shut, to stop the buzzing brightness from burning my eyes. 

When the negative of the room, faded from behind my lids, I risked a peek at myself. My squinting eyes looked so dark in my reflection. I tucked my short bob of chocolate hair behind my ears and leaned forward to get a better look. My pupils slowly receded from the very edge of my hazel iris. I rubbed my eyes roughly to clear the illusion. I knew pupils couldn’t consume all the color. The trick of my vision fixed, the mirror reflected my normal eyes.

Looking passed my eyes, my face looked like porcelain. I had been pale for a while, even the repeated blood transfusions hadn’t brought back my olive complexion. But instead of the expected sallow pallor, my skin was pearlescent. I practically glowed, even in the abrasive fluorescent lights. 

I grabbed one of the short stubby glasses sitting on the counter, flicked the paper cover off, and flooded the cup with water. I gulped down the cool water, but still my mouth felt crammed with cotton. I swallowed another glass full. No change. The unhelpful water abandoned, I took in my surrounds again. I had no idea where I was. This wasn’t the bathroom of the suite I booked for the medical conference. 

I walked out of the stark bathroom and into a brown room—brown carpet, brown comforter, brown furniture, and even orange-brown walls. At the foot of the bed sat my suitcase and my black strappy heels. Above them on the bed sat my periwinkle phone, my clutch purse, and a single key with a large brown, plastic card attached that read: Room 103. I picked up my phone and woke up the screen. The multiple missed texts and calls caught my eye first. One text was a reminder about my appointment about being “unresponsive to treatment,” but the rest were all from Miriam. I quickly sent her a text, that I was on my way back to the Stonewick and dismissed the calendar alert for my appointment, which was days away. I clamped the clutch around my phone, grabbed the key, slipped on my shoes and rolled my suitcase behind me as I left.

At the front desk, dark, petite woman with the name Jasmine on a pin, stood alone. Her eyes skittered around the room. I caught the sight of a dozen shimmering butterfly clips surrounding her thick bun in the mirror behind her. She gave me a tight smile and asked, “Checking out?” I handed her the key and nodded. I focused on the click clack of the keyboard under her fingers, and looked down at my hands. Two muffled sounds arose nearly hidden by the typing: one a faster staccato, and the other a strong knocking noise. Her fingers stopped and she said, “Looks like you’re all paid up for the four nights Ms. El-Malesh.” 

“Doctor,” I corrected absently. I brushed away her apology reflexively. “Four nights?” 

“Yes, you checked in Friday night.” That was the night of the reception. I had had a reservation at The Stonewick, where the conference was located, why would I have left and checked in here. Misreading my confused face she said, “It’s Monday night, Tuesday morning technically. That’s four nights.” 

“It’s Tuesday—” My question was interrupted by a sound of exasperation, but the woman in front of me looked contrite and hadn’t made a sound. I looked up to the mirrored wall behind Jasmine to see if someone had gotten in line behind me and I saw something I had missed the first time. A man in a balaclava crouched under the counter and pointing a gun at Jasmine. My eyes darted to Jasmine, her eyes widened and she visibly swallowed.

A smell I couldn’t place invaded my nose with a tangy sweet taste, that reminded me of eating Warheads—acrid initially and temptingly sweet after—embraced my tongue. I indulged in the taste. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. 

The keyboard sounds hadn’t resumed, and the two others had just gotten louder. The sounds were muffled somehow, the faster one sounding somewhat like the heavy cover of a book being dropped over and over again, while the slower one sounded like the clip-clop of a horse walking. That thought reminded me of something from medical school. I hadn’t examined a patient since I started focusing on research and I hadn’t heard a Split S2 heartbeat since school.

“Ma’am?” I looked up at Jasmine. Her face flinched. I don’t know what she saw, but her heartbeat sped up. Because that must be what the faster sound was. Which meant, the slower, pathological heartbeat was the man with the gun.

I glared at him through the mirror. I don’t know if he felt my eyes on him, or he was growing so impatient he decided to check the mirror, but his eyes caught mine. 

It’s a cliche, but time slowed, dilated. In the time it took me to inhale, he shot up out of his crouch and reached his free hand for Jasmine. Cancer had stripped my agency for some time, but I could do something to stop this. I screamed for Jasmine to run and scrambled across the counter. I moved fast. Too fast. Certainly, faster than I ever had even healthy. I had been aiming to force his arm away from her, but instead I landed and stumbled into the man. He stepped back to avoid me, preventing him from grasping his prey. That was good enough for me.

He shouted, “Stop,” and swung his gun towards the fleeing Jasmine. I grabbed the top of the gun and pushed it back and down, hoping to prevent him from aiming properly. The piece I gripped slid back. I hit some resistance, but kept pushing backwards, it detached from the gun completely, with a masculine cry.

There was a chime as Jasmine made it through the front door, followed by a sharp hiss of pain coming from the masked man. I exhaled and looked down at the gun, now in two pieces. I saw the piece I was holding had cut a deep slice to the webbing between his thumb and index finger. I smirked. The thenar muscles in his hand would heal slowly. My mind was sharp again—jumping from thought to thought without slogging through noxious chemicals that kept death from collecting me.

I dropped my piece of the gun and turned to look at the man, still grinning. I had changed. I had never felt better.

He threw away his broken gun. “You bitch!” He lunged forward, reaching for my throat. I gulped some air before he could strangle me and tasted the sweet, peppery taste of harissa. My vision shifted, washing out the images in front of me. My gums ached. The sound of his damaged heartbeat bombarded my ears.

The man stopped trying to reach for me and stumbled back. “What the fuck?”

My lips pulled back from my teeth. My grin widened. The man blanched. Warheads and harissa mingled together and my mouth watered. 

No longer his prey, I lunged for him. My limbs encircled his large muscular body. I clung to him. We fell to the floor in an embrace. He squirmed beneath me, as I gripped and straddled him. My lips found his neck and felt for the perfect spot. Within one of his busted heartbeats, I found it. I licked the spot. The man shivered and froze. Satisfied with his submission, I bit down. A hiss and a sigh escaped his mouth. They would be the last sounds he made. 

I swallowed mouthful after mouthful of the most intoxicating nectar. I felt hot liquid ooze out around my mouth and seep between us. The chill and ache in my bones, that had been my constant companions for the last two years of treatments and testing, were finally being pushed out. I felt warm, cozy, and brimming with light. I stayed like that until the force it took draw out the last drops was too much. My thirst finally retreated.

I disentangled myself and stood. I turned to the mirror, desperate to see my internal transformation translated externally.

I stared at the woman reflected in the mirror. A stranger stood in front of me. We wore the same hair style but her hair was darker and fuller than mine had been. Synchronously, the mirror woman ran her hand through her hair, as I did. Her skin looked healthy. It glowed. My skin hadn’t glowed in years. Her irises were completely black. The dusty rose hue of her lips shifted into a dark red that trailed down her chin and chest. 

We smiled at each other. My reflection and I. A big happy grin, showing elongated eyeteeth. Using our tongue, we felt the new sharpness, that fit perfectly with the new me.

Nadia (she/her) is a Muslim and Moroccan-American writer. She recently graduated from Writing MFA from Sarah Lawrence College in the Speculative Fiction track. She formerly worked as a Registered Nurse–this and her North African Heritage frequently make appearances in her writing. She also streams daily writing prompts and discussions on twitch under the name SpeculativeScribbler.