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Became, Becoming and Will Be, the three decapitated heads of fate, once lived in a well hidden by a large magical thicket. That is, until one day, long ago, a greedy young girl snatched them up and stored them in large jars deep within her closet, behind a wide canister of pickled pigs’ feet. This wicked girl’s name was Tiffany. She wasn’t exactly pretty nor was she ugly. She came from wealth and privilege, though. Her father was a prominent politician who was known to spread lies and hate throughout his kingdom, and this, more than anything else, defined her. She was her father’s daughter, so she hated too. She hated her thin nose, her one crooked tooth, her friends that were prettier and smarter than her. But what she hated most was that her family’s bad character labeled her. So, from time to time, she took down the jars from the shelf in the back of her closet, dusted off the glass, and unscrewed the lids to see if the fates had changed their minds about her. Sure enough, one by one, the heads bobbed up from the putrid water she had stored them in. Became rose to the surface. Her hair was long and gold and often wrapped around her mouth like a gooey soaked web. After spitting out a mouthful of water and a gob of hair she said, “Been a while.” She was more irritable than the others. “Yeah, um, sorry about that. Time just seems to fly these days. You know what I mean?” There was a wall mirror behind the table where she had placed the heads, and Tiffany, being Tiffany, couldn’t help but stare at herself. “Are you serious right now?” Became’s face flushed red. “What do you mean?” Tiffany turned sideways to get a sideways glance. “You stole us from the well. Hid us in a closet. So what? You can look at yourself in the mirror.” “You’re right. You’re right. It’s just–isn’t this dress like the worst? It’s so short you can see my horrible knees. I should probably change, right?” “After all these years, that’s your question?” Tiffany stared at her for a long, hateful second. “Geez. All uppity today, aren’t you? No.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s still the same question. Soo. What do you say now? What’s my fate? I’m nothing like my dad, am I?” “I have bestowed you a fertile womb.” “Gross. Not again. Don’t you freaks ever change your minds? Like I’d get fat. No way. You’re wrong. You’ve always been wrong. I should flush your worthless head down the toilet.” “Please do.” Became excitedly bobbed up and down, splashing water on the table. “Like, as if.” Tiffany shoved Became’s head to the bottom of the jar and very quickly screwed on the lid. “Unbelievable.” Becoming saw that she was next so used her tongue against the glass, licking it as fast as she could so that her head turned away from Tiffany. “You know you can’t get away from me.” Tiffany laughed at Becoming’s efforts to avoid her. Unlike Became, Becoming’s hair was short and vibrant red and never tangled in her mouth. She shouted, “Pregnancy is a blessing. You should be thankful.” She was feistier than the other heads. “Lies. Lies. Lies.” Tiffany crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. Becoming shook her head, too, splashing water on the table. “So, what’s my fate? I’m nothing like my stupid family, am I?” “I bestow you a screeching yell louder than a blue jay’s annoying caw.” “Seriously? You think that’s a gift? I already hate the way my voice sounds and you fate me an even worse one than I already have.” “I said, yell. Not voice. I swear the attention span of the youth these days is eroding.” “What’s the difference? You’re trying to trick me. I can tell. I can always tell. See that knife over there?” Becoming nodded. “I should take that long blade and stab your eyes out.” “Oh, please do. I can’t stand staring at those pigs’ feet for another second longer.” “You know what my father always says?” Tiffany grabbed Becoming’s spikey red hair. “Does it matter?” Becoming’s grimace grew tighter and tighter as second by second Tiffany’s grip hardened. “That torture turns a lie into truth.” “Hasn’t changed your fate yet, has it?” Becoming smirked. Tiffany stomped her foot. “It will.” She then firmly shoved Becoming to the bottom of the jar and quickly screwed the lid back on. “I swear you can’t get good help anymore.” Will Be had black hair that tapered just below her check. She also had the bluest eyes Tiffany had ever seen. So blue and so clear, Tiffany couldn’t help but shudder and question if Will Be could actually see straight into her soul. “Well?” Tiffany asked. “Am I or am I not like my father and my family?” “I have bestowed you the gift of an immigrant husband. He comes from poor means, but he is a trustworthy man, and together you will have a grand family and a life full of joy.” Tiffany chuckled so hard spit flew out of her mouth and into Will Be’s beautiful blue eyes. “It sounded crazy the first time you said it and now it’s the craziest thing I have ever heard. Like I’d marry an immigrant. Hysterical.” Before Will Be could say anything more, Tiffany abruptly shoved Will Be’s head toward the bottom of the jar and closed the lid. “Useless fates. You heads are like the worst psychics ever. I swear. Good thing I stole you because if I had to pay for your services, I’d demand my money back… with interest.” That night with the heads tucked back into her closet, Tiffany escaped to a party that lacked proper security. She knew her dad would be furious and that the dress she wore was too tight, but that was why she had to go. Besides, her friends who she hated would be there. Not all of them, just the prettiest and smartest were invited. Tiffany wasn’t. But a stupid technicality like that was more of a challenge than a stop sign. Besides, she never paid attention to rules. Why would she? Her father never did, so why should she? Not that she was like him. Lies. All lies. Inside the two-story upper westside home, people were slamming down Jell-O shots full of psilocybin mushrooms and tequila. Brittany, the slick hippy chick who had a ton of followers, devoured three, so Tiffany popped five all at once just to show everyone within eyesight and earshot that she was so much better. Twenty minutes later, the room and all the partiers in it turned into psychedelic prisms without mouths. “You okay?” A specter-like white boy asked. He had a huge inflamed pimple on his left nostril, metallic teeth, and breath that smelled like moldy socks, cheap beer, and peppermint. “I need to sit.” Tiffany’s words slurred nonsense that sounded more like “nnn-shit” than the former. “I’ve got just the place.” And somehow, she was on the move. Maybe even picked up. She couldn’t tell the difference, nor did she care. Her eyes were weighty and all she really wanted was a bed to sleep in. And then she was–in a bed, lying down, but something wasn’t right. Her too tight dress was bunched into a confused roll right above her chest, and she could feel a cold breeze sweep over her exposed skin. And down there, where her privates lived, hurt. Like worse and worse by the second. There was also this figure that hovered over her like a smoky vapor. Sometimes when she blinked, she could make out that it had eyes, hungry eyes, menacing eyes. After the third vison of this ghostly figure, Tiffany finally screamed. “Demon.” She shrieked louder and more obnoxious than any blue bird could ever caw. Then a crowd surrounded her, their bodies morphing from solid to liquid to hazy. Sounds came out of their mouths. Loud gurgling noises that pierced her ears. Something, out of nowhere, covered her, a soft warm thing that smelled like marshmallows and roses. She pulled it over her head to drown out the noise and rolled to her side. Her down-there parts felt slightly better curled between her legs and a little less sticky and wet. Eight weeks later, she began throwing up and a pregnancy test confirmed that her rape begot a positive result. And her father, maintaining his conservative political platform, denied her an abortion and locked her up in the house until she went into labor. Never once in all that time did she consult the fates. She hated them more than ever and numerous times when she had to get up to pee in the night, she considered killing them. Then, finally, the day came. It was a rainy spring day and the cab her father called to pick her up was over an hour late. Between pains she cursed the driver. He drove both too fast and too slowly. “Drugs.” She yelled at the sweet-smiling nurse wheeling her away from the cab and into the hospital. “Knock me out so I don’t remember a thing.” The nurse laughed. “You’re a feisty little Chica, aren’t you?” “I’m dead serious.” Tiffany grabbed his arm. “Promise me.” He bent down over the wheelchair and with his deep brown eyes looked straight into hers and said, “I promise.” His accent was thick, but his eyes were soft and honest. Tiffany was so drugged up she was unable to push, so the doctor performed an emergency c-section. When the drugs wore off, Tiffany finally but reluctantly agreed to hold her baby. She hated that the squirmy thing was fragile, so she cradled it extra carefully. She hated when it cried, so she brought her up to breast to shut it up. She hated when the thing didn’t cry and poked it throughout the night to make sure it was alive. The friendly nurse came to visit from time to time and as he held the baby, they talked. Their conversations weren’t about anything significant. He found the simplest things funny and showed her several memes of cats dressed up as clowns. On the second night of her hospital stay, the nurse brought her sushi. “The hospital food isn’t that great,” he said. “How did you know I liked sushi?” “A guess.” He was so kind that Tiffany found herself telling him about her rape and of her plans to give the baby up for adoption. He promised he’d help her find a good family and on the third and fourth days several families came to meet the squirmy thing, but she hated them all. On her last day at the hospital, she asked Cesar (that was his name). “What should I do?” “If you keep the baby,” he said, looking at her with those honest brown eyes, “I will help you.” And she believed him. “But we can’t live with my dad. He hates immigrants.” “Then stay with me and my family. We have very little money, but we have much heart.” And so she did. Together Cesar, Tiffany, and their baby named Maria, lived happily for many years. What of the three heads in jars? Well, once Tiffany’s father died, she was allowed back in the house. She took nothing of his grand estate but managed to grab the three heads, for she had learned what kindness was through Cesar and his family. After years of imprisonment, she finally set the heads free, back in their well behind the magic thicket. “Thank you,” she said to them. “For everything.” They bobbed up and down, spilling water over the well’s edge. “You’re welcome,” they said and sunk back into their home. The End. |
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Victoria Thranow lives in Santa Cruz, California with her husband, two kids, and cat. She has a BA in Literature and an MA in Psychology. She has been a business owner, a teacher, and an experimenter. Mostly, she is an avid reader and writer. She is currently working on a YA Fantasy trilogy and is tinkering with a collection of adult short stories. She is interested in telling tales that bend and stretch the imagination. |
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