Chapter 1: The First Wish
The attic was a tomb, a forgotten crypt where the dead things of the past went to gather dust and rot. The air was thick with the smell of mildew and old paper, like the inside of a book left too long in the rain. The single bulb hanging from the frayed cord cast a sickly glow over the clutter, picking out the rusted radio humming faintly in the corner, the stack of *Life* magazines from '59, and the moth-eaten *Star Trek* poster peeling at the edges. The crew of the Enterprise stared down at me like silent witnesses, their eyes following me as I moved around the attic, my footsteps echoing in the silence.
The poster was faded, the colors dulled by time, but I could still see Kirk’s determined jawline, Spock’s intense gaze, and the faintest hint of George Takei’s smile—always George Takei’s smile, the one that made my stomach do a little flip every time I saw it. I ran my fingers over the edges of the poster, tracing the outline of the starship, feeling the rough texture of the paper beneath my touch.
The attic was a shrine to things I couldn’t have, things I could only dream of. My room downstairs was small and cramped, the walls lined with *Star Trek* trading cards and a collection of comic books that my father had confiscated more than once.
But up here, in the attic, I was king. No one ever came up here, not even my mother when she was looking for something to dust. It was my sanctuary, my secret hideaway where I could be whoever I wanted to be.
I had found the book tucked away in a corner, hidden behind a stack of yellowed newspapers. It was old, its cover worn and tattered, the pages brittle and yellowed with age. I had picked it up out of curiosity, flipping through the pages filled with strange symbols and odd phrases. It looked like a journal of some sort, but the writing was unlike anything I had ever seen. I had tucked it away, forgetting about it until tonight.
I had come up to the attic to escape the whispers downstairs, the knowing looks from my mother and the sniggers from my brother. They thought they knew something about me, something they couldn't quite put their finger on. I had heard the rumors, the hushed conversations in the hallway, the laughter in the locker room. I was different, and they knew it. But they didn't know the half of it.
I sat down on the old wooden chair, the one with the wobbly leg that I always had to prop up with a book to keep it steady. I opened the book, running my fingers over the pages, feeling the texture of the paper, the way it crinkled under my touch.
The symbols were strange, almost like a code, but there was something about them that drew me in, something that made me feel like I was looking at a secret language. I had been fascinated by the book since I had found it, but tonight, for the first time, I felt a desperate need to understand it.
I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanning the symbols, trying to make sense of them. There was a passage that stood out to me, a phrase written in the margins that seemed to jump off the page. It was written in a different hand, older, more deliberate.
I leaned closer, the bulb’s dim light casting long shadows across the symbols, and read:
*"When the ink bleeds into the skin, the wish becomes flesh."*
My breath hitched. The words weren’t just written—they *pulsed*, like a heartbeat beneath the page. My fingers trembled as I traced the letters with my fingertip. The paper felt warm, almost alive.
I had spent weeks reading about *Star Trek*, memorizing every episode, every line, every dream of what it might be like to be part of something bigger than myself. But this—this was different. This was *magic*.
It had to be. I had read enough fantasy novels to recognize the signs. My heart pounded in my chest like a drum, echoing in the silence of the attic. I looked around, half-expecting to see something—some *sign* that this was all real. But there was only the attic, the same as it had always been.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself. I was Clyde Adkins, the kid who got picked last for dodgeball, the one who spent his weekends alone in his room, dreaming of alien worlds and starship adventures. I was the kid who was *different*, who knew it, and who was tired of being afraid of it.
The whispers in the hallway, the way my brother’s friends would snicker when I walked by, the way the girls in my grade would pretend not to notice me at all—it was all a part of the same cruel joke. I was small, and I was quiet, and I was *not* what anyone expected.
But for the first time, I felt like I could change that.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the pen I’d stolen from my father’s desk. It was a cheap ballpoint, the kind that leaked when you pressed too hard, but it was all I had. I held it over the page, the tip trembling just a little.
*Make me beautiful.
Make me wanted.*
The words burned against my tongue before I even wrote them. The pen felt heavy in my hand, the ink a dark, viscous promise. I exhaled slowly, my breath fogging the air just slightly, and then I began to write.
The first stroke was shaky, the ink bleeding unevenly across the page. I had to start over twice before the words settled into something legible. Make me wanted.* The symbols beneath them seemed to glow faintly, like embers in the dark.
I sat back, watching the page. Nothing happened.
I had expected a flash of light, a crackling of energy, something.
But the attic remained still, the only sound the faint hum of the old radio in the corner. I waited, my heart pounding in my chest, my eyes scanning the page for any sign of change.
I sighed, running a hand through my stringy hair. Of course it wouldn't work. It was just a book, a stupid, old book with weird symbols and even weirder ideas. I was an idiot for thinking it could be anything more.
I was about to close the book, to tuck it away and forget about it, when I noticed something strange. The symbols on the page were... *shimmering*.
I leaned in closer, squinting at the page. The symbols seemed to ripple, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a stone. I blinked, rubbing my eyes, but when I looked back, the symbols were still there, pulsing with a light that seemed to come from within the page itself.
I held my breath, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum. The light grew brighter, the symbols more intense, until the whole page was glowing like a beacon. I could feel the heat of it, like the sun on a summer's day, warm and inviting.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the light faded.
The symbols on the page went dark, leaving only the faintest afterglow, like the embers of a dying fire. I exhaled sharply, my shoulders relaxing just a little. It hadn’t worked. It couldn’t have.
But then I saw it.
My reflection in the cracked mirror above the old wooden dresser.
I hadn’t even realized I was looking at it until now. My eyes were drawn to it, as if by some invisible force. The mirror was small, the glass yellowed with age, but it was clear enough to see my reflection.
And it wasn’t me.
The face staring back at me was different.
The acne that had marred my skin for years was gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished flesh. My nose, once prominent and slightly crooked, was now straight and aquiline, giving my face a sharp, almost hawkish profile. My stringy hair, once a mousy brown, was now a glossy black, styled in a way that framed my face without looking too deliberate. My eyes, always a dull brown, were now a piercing green, like the first leaves of spring.
But it wasn’t just my face. My body had changed too. I was still small, but where before I had been skinny, almost gaunt, now I was lean, my muscles defined beneath my skin.
My shoulders were broader, my chest more muscular, and my arms—my arms were no longer the scrawny things that had earned me the nickname "Twig" in the locker room. They were strong, capable, and when I flexed, the muscles moved beneath my skin like something alive.
I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the wooden floorboards. I couldn't take my eyes off my reflection. I reached up, touching my face, my fingers tracing the line of my jaw, the curve of my cheek. The skin was smooth, warm to the touch. I ran my hands through my hair, feeling the silky strands slide through my fingers. It was *me*, but it wasn't.
The Clyde staring back from the mirror was a stranger, a version of himself that had always existed in the back of his mind, just out of reach. He wanted to laugh, to scream, to collapse into the chair and weep with relief or terror or both. Instead, he stood there, frozen, as if the world had just tilted on its axis and he wasn’t sure if he’d survive the fall.
The attic was too quiet. The radio’s hum had faded into silence, as if the universe itself had held its breath. The *Star Trek* poster above him seemed to glow faintly, the characters’ faces sharp and clear, their expressions almost knowing.
He reached out, his fingers hovering over the glass, as if he could brush away the dust and step into the scene. The crew looked back at him, their eyes filled with something like hope—something he’d never seen in his own reflection before.
His hands trembled. He had spent his whole life pretending, adjusting, shrinking to fit into a world that had never wanted him. But now, standing here, he felt like he was standing on the edge of something vast and unknown.
He turned slowly, his new, broader shoulders filling the space between the attic walls. The air smelled different now—cleaner, sharper, like the crisp morning air after a rainstorm.
The attic, which had always felt like a tomb, now felt like a place of possibility. Clyde exhaled slowly, his breath fogging the mirror just slightly, and then he turned away, his new posture making the space feel suddenly too small.
He paced, his steps light and deliberate, his muscles moving with a confidence he’d never known before. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he were itching to prove something—*anything*—to himself. He stopped in front of the old radio, its dials still and silent. He reached out, his hand hovering over the tuning knob, but then pulled back. What if it worked again? What if he just *became* something else entirely?
The thought sent a shiver down his spine, a mix of fear and exhilaration. He looked back at the mirror, at the stranger staring back at him, and then at the book on the table. The symbols on the page seemed to pulse in the dim light, as if beckoning him.
He picked up the pen, his fingers wrapping around it like it was a lifeline. He flipped through the pages, his heart pounding in his chest. He had no idea what he was doing, no clue what would happen if he wrote something else down. But he knew he had to try.
He stopped at a blank page, the paper yellowed with age but still smooth to the touch.
He hesitated, the pen poised above the page, the tip trembling slightly. What did he want? What could he dare to wish for?
His mind raced, a whirlwind of possibilities and fears. He could wish for anything, be anyone. But what if he wished for the wrong thing? What if he messed it up? What if—
*Stop it,* he told himself, his grip tightening on the pen. *Just write.*
He took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the page, the symbols around it pulsing faintly, as if encouraging him. He closed his eyes, letting the words come to him, letting them form in his mind before he put them down on the page.
He didn't want to rush this, not after what had already happened. He wanted to be sure, to be *certain* that he knew what he was doing.
*Make me brave,* he wrote, the words flowing from his pen like they had a mind of their own. *Make me fearless.*
He paused, the pen hovering over the page, the ink glistening in the dim light. Those were the words, the ones that had been building in his chest for as long as he could remember. He had always been afraid, always held back, always *waiting* for something to happen. But now, he wanted to be the one to make things happen. He wanted to be *brave*.
Not the kind of brave that was just a word, but the kind that burned in your veins like a second heartbeat. The kind that made you stand up even when the world was screaming at you to sit down. He wanted to be the kind of brave that didn’t care about the whispers in the hallway or the way his brother’s friends would roll their eyes when he walked by.
The pen hovered over the page, the tip trembling just enough to make him nervous. He stared at the words he’d just written, the ink still wet and glistening, and wondered if he was crazy for even trying. What if it didn’t work?
What if he just stood there, staring at the words, and nothing happened? The attic’s silence pressed in around him, thick and suffocating, like the weight of all the years he’d spent waiting for something—anything—to change. He exhaled sharply, the breath fogging the mirror just enough to make the reflection waver.
He set the pen down carefully, as if it were a fragile thing, and leaned back in the wobbly chair. The symbols on the page shimmered faintly, like embers in the dark, but nothing else moved. No crackling energy, no sudden gust of wind, no voice whispering from the walls.
Just the attic, the same as always, except now it felt different—heavier, like the air had been replaced with something thicker, something that clung to his skin.
Clyde exhaled slowly, his breath fogging the mirror again. He watched his reflection in the cracked glass, the stranger’s face staring back at him, and wondered if he’d imagined it all. Maybe he’d just needed a good night’s sleep. Maybe he’d been so tired of feeling small that his brain had played tricks on him.
But the acne was gone. His fingers traced the smooth skin of his cheek, the absence of the bumps that had been there for as long as he could remember.
He turned his head, examining his profile in the mirror, the sharp line of his jaw, the straight slope of his nose. It was like looking at a stranger, someone he'd never met before. He reached up, touching his hair, the silky strands sliding through his fingers like water. It was still black, still styled in a way that framed his face, but now it felt *right*, like it belonged to him.
He stood up, his chair creaking softly beneath him. He felt different, *looked* different, but he didn't feel *changed*. Not yet. He paced the length of the attic, his steps measured, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
He felt a restlessness, a *need* that hummed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. He wanted to *do* something, to *prove* something—to himself, to the world, to the stranger in the mirror. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the tuning knob, but then pulled back.