Page 81 of Strange Familiars
In fact, I don’t have to feel at all guilty about objectifying him, because he means nothing to me.Nothing.He’s ceased to be an actual person. He’s just a face, a body, a collection of physical attributes that trigger a purely physiological reaction. Dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin: chemicals that activate the pleasure centers in my brain.
Or perhaps I’m self-sabotaging, fancying the one person who I hate the most, the one individual who has so thoroughly ruined me. Like a stress fracture that won’t heal because I stubbornly continue to run on it.
Stop thinking about him, Gwendolynne.Sighing, I sit up, pushing aside the plate of soggy chips.
Tonight is the night I usually video call my parents, a weekly ritual we started because their restaurant closes every Monday. It’s fortunate that this week they’re away, visiting family in Kent, unaware I’m back in Manchester. Ignorant of the shame I’ve brought to the family by being unceremoniously suspended a literal week before graduation.
When my parents answer, my mum is on the screen, though it only shows the upper half of her forehead, the majority of it being bare wall. My dad is somewhere offscreen, his voice coming through just fine. No matter how many times I’ve tried to teach my parents how to video call, somehow they manage to routinely mess it up.
Still, my heart fractures at the sound of their voices, talking excitedly at me.
“Guiying.” Having obviously saved up all their news to tell me on our weekly call, my mum launches straight into it. “Your father saw nice man speaking on the TV today—Minister for Magical Agriculture. You should write letter to this man, he could get you good job.”
The screen shifts, and my father comes into view. He’s sat beside my mum, nodding solemnly, dark circles carved into the spaces beneath his eyes.
“Ma,” I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. My parents tell me about completely unattainable job and networking opportunities on a semiregular basis. “I can’t just write a letter to a minister and get a job, it doesn’t work like that—”
“You get Ministry job anyway, Guiying,” my father says, cutting me off. “Because you come first, yes?”
“Bà ba, I…” I stop short, my hands curling into fists. What am I supposed to say tothat?
I’ve been kicked out of university.
I’m going to fail my degree.
I can’t help you save the restaurant.
I am a…disappointment.
My insides shrivel at the thought of admitting the truth, so instead I just say, “I’ll…try my best.” There’s still time to turn things around. Isn’t there?
My dad’s eyes soften. He raises a triumphant fist. “We are so proud of you. Our daughter, best at Seamere College!”
Surreptitiously, I sniff, swiping at my eyes with my sleeve. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Have you eaten?” It’s my mum now, once again making sure I’m not wasting away from severe and sudden malnutrition.
“Yes”—I glance at the half-eaten box of chips—“I’ve eaten.”
After my mother has filled me in on all the family gossip, including how appalled she is that my younger brother is threatening to pursue a theater degree, the call finally clicks off. I bury my head in my hands. Tonight, my mother’s incessant chattering was kind of a good thing—it meant I didn’t have to say much, which kept me from bursting into tears. Plus, it’s killed some time, helping me to delay the thing I’ve been dreading.
But it’s time now; I can put it off no longer. Without Percy to channel magic for me, I’ve had to restart my nightly rationing spells, though with each passing day it’s becoming harder and harder to care. There’s no chance I can afford to get a familiar permit: The cost for one permit is more than half of what my parents make over an entire year. And it’s only six days until exams start. I’ll almost certainly miss sitting them and fail the entire course.
But still, like a fool, I’m unable to completely let go, so I go through the routine every night on the off chance that a faerie godmother will appear in my living room and tell me that it was all a dream. That I can go back to Seamere and finish my degree…withoutmy family finding out.
Plus, I’d be lying if I said the pain didn’t provide some semblance of distraction from the absolute shit show that is my life.
I’ve just dragged the blade across my skin for the first time, reciting the rationing spell as I go, when my doorbell rings.
I freeze. No one should be here. It’s almost eleven p.m. I haven’t ordered any takeaway deliveries, nor am I expecting visitors. The neighbors usually keep to themselves, and my parents are at the other end of the country and wouldn’t use the doorbell anyway.
Tightening my hold around the scalpel handle, I creep to the door and look out the peephole.Fuck.I pull away, spinning to the side and flattening myself against the wall.
What the hell is Harrisford Briggs doing at my flat?
At least, I think it’s Harrisford—it’s hard to tell through the fish-eye lens of the peephole.
The doorbell rings again, and I try to quell my panting breaths. If I stay quiet for long enough, maybe he’ll think no one’s home. Maybe he’ll give up and go back to wherever the hell he came from. What is he doing in Manchester, anyway? Is he here visiting someone? Perhaps he’s like one of those sleazy celebrities, with a side piece in every city.
