Transcendent

When you wake up with Mother Nature’s throbbing red vengeance between your legs, there’s no need for the Freaky Friday look-in-the-mirror revelation to realize what the hell’s going on.

Yeah, I’m a woman. And yeah, I’m on my period. And you better believe it fucking hurts.

I was a man at one time. Yesterday, in fact. I never believed in gypsy curses. That is, until recently when I dinged that old woman’s car and sped off. In the rushing-wind aftermath, I could just make out the descending screams of her dead tongue hex:

“Et mulier facti sunt!”

And here I am aiming that cotton-packed applicator with shaky hands, angry joints uncooperative as I curse with pissy, bitchy bloatedness. I can’t live like this.

Yellow pages whoosh by in papery panic. When I scan the section for fortune tellers, there is only one name: “Holly Cross.” She’s within walking distance; I burst out the door.

I collect a few catcalls on the way, responding to each with middle fingers of varying vigor. Then some time-battered shanty beckons me with innards glowing deep red.

Inside, a veiled woman hidden beneath layers of flowing indigo and black. She is surrounded by elixirs that borrow from every inch of the rainbow, a shade for every spell. She tells me to sit.

“This is all a mistake,” I say. “I never meant to hurt you.”

Her face remains hidden. “Hurt me? No.” There is steel in her eyes. “My vehicle, that’s a different story. You tainted her. You changed her body, and so I changed your body.”

“I’ll pay for it!” I plead. “Just turn me back!”

She considers the pathetic, warbling creature at her feet. With a sigh, she plucks a tiny crystal vial from what seems like the air. It is filled with liquid black as a prehistoric midnight. “Drink it.”

The hesitation is only momentary, and the concoction soon swims down my throat. She says something else, but I’m already fading. The kaleidoscope haze gives way to darkness and I lose consciousness.

When I awake, there is another veiled woman. She appears to smile beneath the baby blue of her surgical mask. Somewhere in the rafters I make out the words “Hospital of the Holy Cross.”

“She’s awake,” the woman announces, running fingers gently through my hair. “The operation was a success.”