One Weird Day

Misdiagnosed - Part 2

He remained behind the door, speaking to me, but I stopped listening. The desire to smash things around me was overwhelming, but who knew what other unsafe surprises he was keeping there?

The lights hurt my eyes, so I turned them off. Still, even in the windowless room, I could see the white table with glassy equipment, the book shelves, and the table he used to work on with his laptop. I searched for the laptop, but it wasn't there. No phone, either.

"Darling," he kept saying from behind the door, "I didn't want this to happen to you, but it did. You may come out of it stronger, better ..."

The other option, clearly, was that I would not come out of it at all. It rang true. My body seemed to be falling apart. It felt as if thousands of worms were making their way out of my skin, but there was nothing on it when I rubbed it. I crawled to the couch and tried to lie down, but it was too short for me—which was strange, given that George used to sleep on it sometimes. It didn't matter. I knew I was dying.

"I love you," he kept saying. "I really do."

Finally, I drifted away.

When I opened my eyes, the room was bright. The door was closed, and the lights were off, but I could see every little detail clearly, up to the particles of dust dancing in the air. I slipped off the couch with a shushing sound produced by something wrapped around my body, and landed on my knees and hands. Long nails—claws—clicked on the floor. My arms looked elongated. Sinewy. Covered in scales.

I screamed.

At least that's what I tried to do. Instead, a long, yellow tongue of flame erupted out of my mouth and hit the table and the bookshelf behind it. Flask and retorts exploded and melted, the books went ablaze. Amidst the breaking, the burning, the flying pieces of paper, and the black smoke, I sat on the floor, unaffected by the heat. The leathery wrapping around my shoulders slipped off and straightened up, rearranging itself into something big and powerful behind my back.

I stood up, my head nearly hitting the ceiling.

"What are you doing?" A key scraped in the keyhole, fell to the floor, entered the keyhole again. "What's with the smoke? What have you done?"

Finally, he threw the door open, and stumbled back, surprised by the wall of smoke and heat that greeted him. As he coughed and squinted, trying to see me, I saw him perfectly. For the first time, I saw him for what he was—a big, juicy, inviting piece of meat.

I spread my wings and launched.

All that happened a while ago.

Now, I spend my time sightseeing. I always dreamed of doing that. I travel from one blazing city to another—they all go ablaze as soon as I arrive—only going down for occasional meals, or to exterminate one or another group of soldiers shooting their silly rockets at me. Some call me Dragon. Others call me Gargoyle because I like to sit on roofs of buildings, looking at fires. Fires are the second best thing ever.

The first best thing is that nothing can hurt me anymore.