Chlorine

by Jade Song

On the day of my first period, I was more dead doe than human woman. Was womanhood always so violent, raw?

I was furious I was forced to push a cardboard-and-cotton tube into my vagina before a dick or a finger—pain before pleasure.

My loved ones did not suspect anything. They saw what they wanted to see. Humans, ever foolish.

I squinted at Cathy’s ammunition and saw wrappers with white rabbits and Hello Kitty cats, boxes with sticks dipped in chocolate, rice crackers covered in sugar spots like snow. The snacks lay around me like my burial shroud. “You brought—Pocky?” I asked in disbelief. I had anticipated Cathy yanking me out of the library by my ankles, or at least sitting with me until I got annoyed enough to push her out, but these gifts were unforeseen and rather appreciated, leading me to forget my commitment to a frosty attitude.

But I was a quick, disciplined learner, faithful that repetition would bring perfection—a mindset cultivated from endless laps in the pool.

Every time someone calls my name, a fist clenches over my heart, yearning to hear it from your mouth instead.

I am alone. A-lone. A-, a prefix meaning “without.” I am without you.

And the forever unfaithful Ariel ditched her sisters, disregarded her father’s advice, and threw herself under the curse of the evil witch, all for a man and for two legs, the most unworthy of trades in exchange for her magical being.

“Because human lives are situational. Humans think they have free will, free agency, but really, they follow the push and pull of whatever happens.