Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
I told Merrick I was going back to bed, and I really didn’t want to lie to him—not now. Almost childlike, I crawl under the covers, even though my mind is racing and my body feels anything but restful.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, willing sleep to come. It takes longer than I’d care to admit, but eventually, despite my whirling thoughts, exhaustion wins and I drift off.
When I wake, I sit on the edge of the bed, breathing hard.
Everything feels… different.
The air smells like me—vanilla body cream, the chemical strawberry scent of my shampoo, faint perspiration clinging to the sheets, and the metallic tang of coins in the bowl by the front door. It’s as though the apartment is steeped in every smell I’ve ever left behind. It’s eerie how a room can capture so much of its occupant.
Outside, I hear a bike. I can even hear the rider’s breathing and the crunch of tyres on gravel.
My ears twitch—wait, no, that can’t be right! I slap a hand against my perfectly normal-shaped ear, shake my head, and try to clear it, but it’s no use.
The faint ticking of the wall clock swells inside my head like a relentless metronome, tick, tick, tick, hammering against my skull.
I clench my teeth, and even that feels wrong.
“Oh no,” I whisper, rubbing my temples. My voice sounds too loud.
I’ve changed again.
I don’t feel human—not any more.
In the hallway, I see the jagged edge where the wooden floor meets the skirting board and the tiny scratches in the varnish. I can pick out every fibre of the duvet cover under my hand. It’s startlingly crisp against my fingers, almost painful. Every thread, crease, and imperfection is suddenly vibrant beneath my touch.
It’s as though my body no longer knows how to filter the world.
I stand, and the motion feels alien—too smooth, too deliberate. I prowl. My eyes widen, and a raw, frightened sound escapes me.
“Why is this happening to me?” I mutter, gripping the edge of the door.
The wood groans under my fingers, and somehow, I know that if I squeeze just a little more, it will crumble to dust.
“It’s too much. Way too much.”
Moving with bizarre, fluid grace, I head to the dressing room and grab the cotton wool balls I usually use to cleanse my face. I pull a couple apart and shove a generous wad up each nostril and into my ears.
The cotton wool muffles the world, muting the onslaught of these new sounds and scents. My heart rate finally slows, and I manage a deep, steady breath. I can still taste the smells on my tongue, but the cotton helps. At least I no longer hear footsteps outside anymore.
Short of blindfolding myself, I can’t do much about my vision. For now, I will just try not to focus too hard on anything.
I check the time.
At least one thing is going my way—I haven’t slept the day away. There are still hours left before I’m supposed to see Merrick tomorrow. I have time.
Time to figure this out.
I need to work on these overwhelming senses and learn how to control myself. I can’t spend the rest of my life wandering around with wads of cotton wool shoved in my ears and nose. That’s hardly a solution—it’s barely a stopgap.
Whether I like it or not, I need an ally. I need Mr First Class’s help. But he is not going to lift a finger for me if I turn up rocking in a corner, screaming about the ticking clock or the smell of loose change by the door. He wouldn’t understand. How could he? He has lived with these senses all his life, learned to adapt, probably does not notice them any more. For him, this is normal.
If life has taught me one thing, it’s that panic never helps. Acting in panic only digs the hole deeper and makes things worse.
So I inhale deeply and plant my feet on the floor.
Positive thinking for the win. I can do this.
“Okay, let’s see what this new body can do.”
I’d normally go to the gym, but nobody needs to see me like this—the madwoman with cotton wool everywhere. Not yet. I’m not ready to leave the apartment, let alone the building.
I push the furniture aside to create space and stand barefoot in the middle of the living room.
Extending my arms, I study my hands, flexing my fingers before curling them into fists. They look familiar, but they are not the same. My nails feel sharper, and I can sense the currents of cool air sliding over each finger, as if the slightest movement stirs a breeze.
My balance also feels different—more centred, lower, and stable. I crouch, testing the muscles in my legs. They are tighter than I expected.
“Okay,” I say, my voice sounding strange in my blocked ears.
I assume a basic Judo stance, one I’ve repeated thousands of times. This time, however, it’s too easy. My body reacts before my mind can catch up, flowing into the movement. I shift my weight, testing a throw in slow motion, and nearly stumble when the force comes too strong, too fast.
“What the heck?” I pause, concentrating on my feet, rolling from heel to toe and feeling the floor beneath me. My steps are lighter and more precise.
I’ve lived with awkward, sometimes clumsy joints, but suddenly everything fits. A grin spreads across my face before I can quell it. I’m terrified and exhilarated all at the same time. I’m faster, stronger, more agile than I ever imagined.
I spend the next couple of hours doing light gymnastics, footwork drills, and strength exercises to adjust to this new body.
After the first hour, I need to breathe properly, so I remove the cotton from my nose.
After two hours, I feel calmer. The exercise helps, and being immersed in my own scent grounds me. My vision is also less distracting, though sound remains a problem.
I’ve got a plan.
First, I go online and order some noise-cancelling headphones—the sort they say can block out everything short of an air raid siren. Then I add various strongly scented items to my cart: menthol, vanilla, and eucalyptus. Anything I can apply near my nostrils to blunt this overwhelming sense of smell. It might be ridiculous but I’m willing to experiment; I will try anything.
If I can mute these senses, even a little bit, I might stand a chance of feeling normal.
Next, I add a pair of sunglasses. Brightness isn’t really the issue, but maybe wearing tinted lenses will trick my brain into thinking I’ve got a new prescription—a sort of mind-optical placebo. I don’t know. It’s worth a shot. Anything beats teetering on the brink of a sensory meltdown.
I fill my cart to meet the minimum delivery requirement and hit send. Relief fills me when the screen confirms my items will arrive tonight. Maybe the universe is cutting me some slack for once.
Then I order a takeaway.
Whatever is happening inside me demands food, and I’m not about to argue. If movies and books have taught me anything, it’s that when you are dealing with a werewolf, vampire, or any other supernatural creature, you always feed the beast.
Chinese it is.
While I wait for both deliveries, I jump in the shower and scrub away the sweat from earlier. The exercise cleared my mind, but now I’m sticky and uncomfortable.
After towelling off, I grab a pair of scissors and tackle my hair.
Clumps of wet, unruly strands fall to the floor as I hack away. By the time I’m finished, it’s still halfway down my back, but at least it’s not as wild. It will do for now. I will go to a proper hairdresser eventually, but for now, I need to feel like I’m taking back control of my life.
I’ve got this.
Everything is going to be okay. I have to stay positive and keep moving forward.
When the deliveries arrive, I waste no time testing different fragrances.
The first few items are a bust—too strong, too weak, or just plain useless. But then I find a vanilla lip balm. I smear it across my lips and dab some under my nose. The scent is warm, sweet, and just strong enough to drown out the most overwhelming odours without stinging my nostrils.
The sunglasses help, too. They feel like a shield, even if it’s all in my head. The headphones are a godsend, silencing the constant drone of noise to a low, manageable hum.
Sure, I probably look completely ridiculous—a mismatched mess of sunglasses, headphones, and shiny vanilla-scented mouth and nose—but at least I’m no longer shoving cotton wool up my nose.
Small victories.
I settle down with the absurd amount of Chinese food I’ve ordered—enough for two—and eat every bite. By the time I’m finished, I feel stronger and steadier.
For the first time since all this started, I feel almost… okay.
If they don’t kill me, I might just be all right.