Phrontistery Of Monster Kind - Six Feet Deep

Chapter 11

Esmay S. Ambrose doesn't exist.

At least not until now.

I felt pretty alive. The warm air on my skin, the itchiness of mixed fabrics and stockings when you didn't shave. The ache you get when you wear high heels too long and they chafe through and blister the backs of your feet. I can feel the coolness of metal on my skin and my bathroom tiles in the morning. Like an old house that adapted to different temperatures, my body experienced aches in my back and leg as it adjusted to heat.

I exist. You could perceive me and reach out if one was inclined to do so. I could respond back, offer my hand out and lend assistance.

But I was not real, for Esmay S. Ambrose didn't exist.

Some days, these sensations in my body weren't enough. They indicated I was alive but held no story. Sure, the blisters say I cared more for fashion than comfort. My green eyeliner put me on the funkier side, showing I could still be fun despite my conservative dress sense. Yes, my stretched ears would give most middle-aged humans a heart attack, but it wasn't any skin off my back. If they didn't like me like this, I wouldn't want to waste my time.

Looking different gave you perspective on others quickly. You'll see people for who they are. Human or not. The monster world got it right in that regard.

However, none of these matters in the grand scheme of things. I could go through my day and impact so many lives. It didn't make a difference because Esmay S. Ambrose didn't exist.

The question was, what does that make me? I was tangible, so I was someone.

That's my problem. I lived so much in history that I couldn't recall my own.

Marking was getting harder. I was barely two weeks into this trimester and I was already sick of essays that were stolen off the internet or from other students. One kid handed in a paper with an older student's name on it.

It might be nice to not exist, a constant dream, or perhaps nothing at all. Peace everlasting. Not today, I had too much marking to do. So many children to fail.

A bird came into my new classroom in the early hours of the morning. Half man and one whose song I'd die hearing.

"What do you want, harpy?" I said, flipping over the essay I was marking.

"That's offensive. I'm a siren." Walton, in all his glory, hopped up on one class chair so he would reach my seated height.

"But you're part bird."

"As most of us are. You're mistaking us for merfolk."

"I apologise. You look more like a harpy." I didn't look up from my paper as I corrected a spelling mistake on the page. "I suppose you got Liber Monstrorum to blame for that."

"Who?" He asked.

"What," I corrected. "Liber Monstrorum is a book from the late seventh-early eighth century. It was a decent read for the time. Inaccurate, but that's what you get from humans. They called sirens sea-girls most like human beings from the head to the navel, with the body of a maiden, but have scaly fishes' tails."

"You-" he cut himself off. He seemed like he wanted to fight this further, but due to my lack of interest and whatever mental struggle he was caught in, he restrained himself. "I suppose it was an easy mistake. Some sirens did mate with merfolk."

"Which explains the million different depictions. Had one in '04 that gave me a run for my money. She had the most beautiful wings and pearlescent scales," I mused. I snapped back. "Why are you here again? I assume it wasn't to interrogate me about your family history, though I can do that if you wish."