Eliza and Her Monsters(2)
Under Mom’s elbow is today’s issue of the Westcliff Star. I pull it over and turn it around. The front-page headline reads REMINDERS PLACED AT WELLHOUSE TURN. Below that is a picture of the sharp turn in the road past Wellhouse Bridge where wreaths of flowers, ribbons, and toys decorate the ground. That’s local Indiana news for you: they have nothing, so they fill their pages with the reminder that Wellhouse Turn kills more people every year than great white sharks. Also local Indiana news: comparing a turn in the road to a shark.
I finish the first egg. Dad comes out of the back hall smelling like a pack of spearmint gum and wearing slightly different running gear than what he wears when he goes out with Mom, which means these are his work clothes for the day.
“Morning, Eggs!” He stops behind me, puts his hands on my shoulders, and leans down to kiss the top of my head. I grunt at the nickname and stuff egg in my mouth. Hard-boiled heaven. “How’d you sleep?”
I shrug. Is it too much to ask that no one speak to me in the morning? I have just enough energy in my mouth to eat delicious eggs; there’s none left to form words. Not to mention that in twenty minutes I have to get in my car to go to school for seven hours, where I’m sure plenty of talking will happen, whether I like it or not.
Mom distracts Dad with her health article, which is apparently about the benefits of cycling. I tune them out. Read about how the Westcliff High band bus driver fell asleep at the wheel and drove off Wellhouse Turn last summer on their way back from regionals. Chew. Before that it was a guy driving with his son in the winter. Drink juice. And before that, a woman taking her two kids to day care early in the morning. Chew more. A group of drunk teenagers. Finish off the egg. A lone girl who hit the wrong patch of black ice. Finish off the juice. They should put up a barrier to keep people from flying off the turn and down the hill to the river, but no. Without Wellhouse Turn, we have no news.
“Don’t forget, your brothers have their first soccer game this afternoon,” Mom says when I drop off my stool and take my plate and cup to the sink. “They’re really excited, and we all have to be there to support them. Okay?”
I hate it when she says “Okay?” like that. Like she expects me to get angry at her before the words are ever out of her mouth. Always prepared for a fight.
“Yeah,” I say. I can’t muster any more. I return upstairs to my room for my backpack, my sketchbook, and my shoes. I jump up and down a few times in an attempt to get more blood flowing to my brain. Eggs eaten. Energy up. Ready for battle.
I resist the urge to go back to my computer, open up the browser, and check the Monstrous Sea forums. I don’t read comments, and I don’t check the forums before I leave for school. That computer is my rabbit hole; the internet is my wonderland.
I am only allowed to fall into it when it doesn’t matter if I get lost.
Amity had two birth days. The first was the same as anyone’s, and she didn’t remember it. She didn’t spend much time dwelling on the fact that she didn’t remember it, because she had learned years ago that nothing good came of dwelling. The second birth—or the rebirth, depending on what mood she found herself in—she remembered with stunning clarity, and imagined she would for the rest of her life.
Her second birth was the day the Watcher took her as its host.
CHAPTER 2
Some people have called Monstrous Sea a phenomenon. Articles here and there. A few critics. The fans.
I can’t call it that, because I created it. It’s my story—it’s the one I care about more than anything else, and it’s one that a lot of other people happen to enjoy—but I can’t call it a phenomenon because that is pretentious, and narcissistic, and honestly it makes me queasy to think of it that way.
Is it strange to be nauseated by recognition?
Lots of things about Monstrous Sea nauseate me.
The story is at once very easy and very hard to explain. I’ve never tried to do it in person, but I imagine if I did, I would end up vomiting on someone’s shoes. Explaining something online is as simple as pasting a link and saying, “Here, read this.” They click. Read the intro page. If they like it, they keep reading. If not, oh well, at least I didn’t have to talk.
If I did have to explain the story without the very handy reference of the story itself, I imagine it would sound something like this: “On distant planet Orcus, a girl and boy fight on opposite sides of a long war between the natives and colonists from Earth. The girl and boy are hosts to parasitic energy creatures whose only weakness is each other. There’s lots of ocean, and there are monsters in that ocean. Stuff happens. Colors are pretty.”
There’s a reason I’m an artist and not a writer.
I began posting Monstrous Sea online three years ago, but it blew up when the origin post appeared on the Masterminds site. People actually saw it. They started reading.
They cared.
That was the weirdest thing. People other than me cared about it. They cared about Amity and Damien and the fate of Orcus. They cared whether the species of sea monsters had names. They cared if I put the pages up on time, and how good they looked. They even cared about me, who I was, though they never got past my username. The fans didn’t, the trolls didn’t, the articles and critics didn’t. Maybe the creator’s anonymity made it more of a phenomenon. It certainly kept me from getting too nauseated to work. I get emails from agents and publishers about putting Monstrous Sea into print, but I delete them right away; traditional publishing is this huge, terrifying thing I have to fend off with a stick every once in a while so I don’t get overwhelmed by the thought of a corporate machine manhandling my baby.