Yes, My Dark
Listen, she told herself in moments such as these, that's the beat of your heart, right? That fragile echo, that humbled rhythm, that's what keeps you here, that's what keeps your chest rising and falling, your feet firmly on the ground.
A tremble ran through her, her hand right hand unsteady, her palm sweaty, the weight of the thing in her grasp; a tool, a promise.
Don't let them see, she told herself in moments such as these, don't let them know how scared you are; don't let them know how much doubt consumes you.
When you are a child, you have no conception of pain; when you are a child, you think that the only thing that stands in your way is not knowing. You think you can't be hurt, that all you need to do is push yourself, and push yourself, and then one day, you're the strongest in the world.
When you grow up though, you realise what pain is, you realise how much things hurt, and you start to regret, you start to flinch, you shy away from things that cause you pain because you don't want to be hurt any more.
She was tired of flinching, tired of being scared; tired of thinking that she might be hurt.
It was such an innocuous thing, the curl of a serpent embossed upon the stem of its weight. In the old days, they said that snakes were great teachers, but that they were also great deceivers. Was this deception, she asked herself, her hand still trembling.
The shape before her shuddered, the creature born of that enormous mass of extruding black tentacles and slime-dripping mouths; a creature born of Seiko, short, writhing goat legs, curling horns, neither male nor female. There were stories about that too, stories about the goat, legs crossed, eyes towards a heaven betrayed, a thing born of pain, of fire and brimstone.
In her chest, still her heart echoed, the rhythm growing faster, her eyes narrowing, the stamp in her hand.
She thought of Aguilera, ethereal and coy, the smile that pulled at the corners of her lips, thought of her goading, her chiding, her bitter insults, the promise of answers, of happiness.
Her lips moved imperceptibly, an answer to a conversation long since concluded.
"I don't want to be happy," she said softly to herself, "I want to be strong."
The stamp in her hand burnt with hot radiance. She swallowed hard, drove it down into the driver, and her lips twitched once more, her voice loud now, a declaration of intent, a declaration of independence, a single word:
"Henshin."