I Chose to Die (Siren Suicides, Book 1)

Chapter 13. Pike Place Fish Market

"What?" I ask, and it unfreezes everyone, as if I've given them permission to move and talk. And maybe I have, maybe that Shut up! made them all pause? My thought process gets interrupted.

The fishmonger drops the fish to the floor with a smack.

"What the... Oh, God. Oh, my God, are you two all right? Jesus, you crashed your bike right into the pig. Guys, call 911. Guys?" he says and bends to pick up the fish.

There are gasps and swears and cries and moving bodies and camera flashes, but they're all a good few feet away from me. I sense their fear.

"No need for 911," I say, because mechanical sirens come alive behind us.

Amidst this confusion, the old lady stabs her finger at me, her knee-length nylon raincoat shakes, her crumpled face ablaze with terror. She keeps silently stabbing the air, pointing at me like I'm some horrible movie monster, an ugly Godzilla the size of a building that's about to eat all of Seattle, destroying the entire city in the process.

"Christ Almighty, it's a she-devil. White she-devil, mark my words," the lady finally manages to say under her breath. She continues mumbling a prayer, crossing herself. Her words get lost in the general crowd murmur, but I hear them, as I hear her soul reeking of mothballs, old cat meows, and fried mackerel, sharp in taste, almost toxic.

I can't help myself. The lid I so carefully put on my new anger flies open. Everything that's happened since this morning spirals out of my guts, up and up, forming a bile of fear, regret, disappointment, shame, guilt, hatred, helplessness, and anguish. They all demand revenge, some sort of action to express themselves.

Remembering how easy it was to pull out that young maple tree from the ground in the park, I bend, scoop up the bike on both sides of its cracked fairing, lift it with a grunt, twist, and then throw it into the street with a loud yelp of pain. The bike utters a sickening crunch, slides to the middle of the road devoid of cars, revolves once, and lays still. Both wheels quietly turn several times before stopping. Silence again descends on the market. Great, just what I needed. I turn back, hobble on my good leg toward the old lady, and retch into her face and into the crowd.

"Good morning, shoppers. May I offer you our special of the day?" I point at myself. "Siren, hundred bucks a pound. Would you like it whole or filleted?" If I'm in a freak show, I think, might as well act the part.

Hunter yanks at the good sleeve of my rain jacket. "What the hell are you doing?"

I turn to him, unable to contain my anger anymore.

"Oh, you think I'm selling myself too cheap? Good point."

Hunter's face flashes an unhealthy red, his lips quivering, his eyes watering. He looks like a drug addict displaying symptoms of withdrawal. And fear, I see fear.

"Ailen, don't, please."

"Why not? Give me one reason why not?"

I don't wait for him to answer. I turn back to face the people in front of the fish stand, ignoring Hunter, ignoring two cop cars and two motorcycles that finally arrive at the scene behind me, parking before the bike wreck and busting through the crowd. I can't stop now, I've crossed the line.

The crowd gawks, so do the fishermen, the flower lady, the butcher two stands down, a couple of fruit merchants, and a few tourists with their cameras at the ready. I realize that they're all mesmerized by my voice.

I wipe my nose and take the stage.

"Excuse me, dear shoppers, but I have to apologize. I was just informed that our prices went up due to limited supply. Current tag reads at a thousand dollars a pound. However, we guarantee unprecedented freshness." I glance at Hunter, then back at the crowd. "From a girl to a siren in three hours flat. Caught, oh, about thirty minutes ago. Wild, fresh, hundred percent organic. You can't find a better deal anywhere else."