Chapter 2: Loss and weirdness
Her hand went still. The fragile pressure of her fingers on his chest remained, a final anchor. The faint, rhythmic tremor that had been her constant companion for years simply ceased. Her chest didn’t rise again.
Alex stared. The moment stretched, thin and silent, broken only by the distant rattle of a medication cart in the hall.
“Mama?” The word fell from his lips in that borrowed, softer voice.
No response. Her eyes were still open, but the light in them—that brief, terrifying clarity—was gone. The warmth where her palm rested against his sternum intensified. It wasn’t the necklace’s deep, internal hum. This was a surface heat, a localized bloom right under her lifeless hand, as if her final touch was leaving a brand.
A sob hitched in his throat, but it sounded wrong in this higher register. He gently pressed his own hand over hers, holding it there against the strange warmth. He sat for a long time, minutes or hours, he couldn't tell. The room’s lavender scent had soured, mixed now with the stark, metallic smell of absence.
Eventually, there were footsteps. A gentle knock. Marcie the nurse peered in, her professional smile already forming. It faltered, then vanished. She didn’t need to check. She saw it in the stillness of the room, in the shape of Alex’s back.
“Oh, honey,” she murmured, entering quietly.
The procedures began. Alex moved through them like he was operated. He answered questions in that same soft voice, which no one questioned. He was the grieving granddaughter. He signed papers on a clipboard, his signature—Alex Thompson—looking stark and masculine and like a lie next to the ‘F’ he circled for ‘Relationship to Patient: Granddaughter.’ all of which were automatic for some reason. He didn't even notice he marked it like that. The warmth under his shirt, beneath the now-cool weight of her hand which the nurses had finally, tenderly, lifted away, never faded. It was a small, secret sun burning against his skin.
He kept the necklace on. He was afraid to take it off. It was the last thread connecting him to her, to the reason she’d died peaceful and believing she’d seen her daughter. Removing it felt like a betrayal. The nurses brought him water. One put a hand on his shoulder. “She said Beatrice had a recurring event in the nursing home lottery.Any person they expected who was to be contacted first also named another one of her supposed people to talk to.' He just nodded.
He left Willow Ridge as the first grey light of dawn smudged the windows. The warmth on his chest was the only thing that felt real. The rest of him was hollow, stuffed with lint and paperwork.
His apartment was a tomb of normalcy. The pizza box from days ago still sat on the coffee table. A Coors can, flat and forgotten, stood sentinel on the kitchen counter. He walked to the bathroom, the automatic motion of a creature returning to its den.
In the mirror, a stranger gazed back, bleary-eyed and shattered. The changes were more pronounced. The softness of the face was undeniable, the arch of the brows elegant, the jawline a smooth, tapering curve. His neck was slender. His T-shirt hung differently across his shoulders, the fabric draping where it used to sit square. He looked like a very pretty, very tired boy who’d been crying all night. Or a young woman who’d lost her last living relative.
His fingers went to the clasp at the nape of his neck. They fumbled, numb with fatigue and grief. The clasp gave. He slid the silver chain free and held the pendant, the smoky quartz dull in the dim room light.
The moment the necklace left his skin, the persistent, burning warmth on his chest vanished.
Not faded. Vanished. Like a switched-off bulb.
A full-body shudder racked him. The sudden absence of that heat was more shocking than its presence had been. It left behind a patch of skin that felt hypersensitive, new, and chillingly empty. He looked down, pulling the neck of his shirt aside. Nothing. No mark, no redness. Just memory.
He dropped the necklace on the sink. It landed with a definitive click. He stared at his reflection, then at the stone. The hum in his bones was gone, too. The silence in his own head was deafening.
For the first time since his birthday, he was just Alex again. Just a guy who’d lost his grandmother. The surreal horror of the last week collapsed into a single, profound point of grief. He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles white. The tears came then, not for the changes, but for her. For the empty chair by the window, for the finality of it all. He cried for Beatrice, and for the secret she’d taken with her, and for the terrifying, beautiful, cursed thing now sitting on his bathroom sink that he didn't understand.
He cried until his stomach ached and his lungs were raw. When he finally straightened up, wiping his face with the back of his hand, the face in the mirror was still changed. Soft, wet, utterly lost. But his. His problem. His legacy.
He left the necklace there. He didn’t put it on. He didn’t throw it away. He just walked out of the bathroom, leaving it lying there, a dark teardrop on the white porcelain, waiting.
He just walked out of the bathroom, leaving it lying there, a dark teardrop on the white porcelain, waiting.
For three days, he existed in a numb haze. He didn't touch the necklace. The world moved in a muted, grey scale. He called the funeral home, his voice a soft murmur that made clerks call him ‘ma’am’ before he corrected them. He’d force his tone down, a strained baritone that felt like a bad impression of his former self. Each time he hung up, his throat ached from the effort.
His reflection became a daily argument. His facial features seemed similar at a glance, the basic architecture of Alex Thompson. But the details betrayed him. His lips were fuller, caught in a permanent, subtle pout he hadn’t asked for. His cheekbones were higher, more defined in a way that read as elegant, not masculine. He’d run his hands through his hair constantly, leaving it slightly more roughed up, but it was the same dark, unruly color. The adam's apple was still there, but faded, a subtle bump under skin that seemed smoother every morning.
The changes from the night at the nursing home had cemented. His feet had shrunk a full size, leaving his old sneakers loose and shuffling. His legs had shifted, the muscles reconfiguring into a softer, tapered shape with slightly thicker thighs that made his jeans fit differently, tighter across the hips and loose at the waist. He’d cinched an old belt to the last notch.
The softer voice remained. He’d catch himself answering the phone or ordering coffee in that unfamiliar, lighter tone, and immediately try to sound deeper. The result was a clumsy, wavering growl that drew more confused looks than the softness did.
He was becoming a stranger in his own skin, and the metamorphosis was happening all on its own. The necklace just sat on the edge of the sink, a silent accomplice.
A few more days passed in this fog of quiet dislocation. He was staring into his nearly empty fridge, contemplating a dinner of condiment packets, when a knock came at his door. It wasn't a friendly tap. It was a solid, insistent thud, like someone leaning their weight into it.
Alex shuffled to the door and looked through the peephole. His breath hitched. It was Daniel. But not the Daniel he knew.
One of Daniel’s eyes was swollen shut, a violent plum color. The other was a watery slit, surrounded by yellowing bruise. A deep split in his lower lip was held together with a stark white medical strip. Dried blood was smudged across his chin and the collar of his torn jacket.
Alex yanked the door open. “Jesus, Dan. What happened?”
Daniel blinked his one good eye, looking past Alex into the apartment. “Got any ibuprofen? The cheap stuff’s not cutting it.” He shouldered his way inside, moving with a stiff, pained gait. He reeked of sweat, stale smoke, and something metallic.
“Who did this?” Alex asked, following him to the couch.
“Stephanie’s brothers.” Daniel sank onto the cushions with a wince. “The dynamic duo. Chad and Brad. Or maybe it’s Trent and Brent. Who can keep track of cartoon villains?”
“Why?”
Daniel laughed, a short, wet sound that made him grab his ribs. “Why? She saw me at the Quick Mart. Buying a damn lottery ticket and a coffee. She told them I was ‘harassing’ her.” He touched his busted lip gently. “They followed me to where I was parked behind the laundromat. The one with the burned-out light.”
The casual horror of it settled in the room. Alex just stared. “They did this over a… a coincidence at a gas station?”
“They keyed ‘LOSER’ down the side of my car first. In really big letters. Artistic types.” Daniel’s voice was flat, empty. “I said something stupid. I always say something stupid. Then Brad—or Brent—punched me in the kidney. The other one held my arms. They had a system.”
Alex’s hands curled into fists. The helpless anger he’d felt days ago roared back, fresh and acidic. “We have to call the police.”
“And say what?” Daniel’s good eye fixed on him, bleak and exhausted. “That my ex-girlfriend’s brothers beat me up? There were no witnesses. My word against two upstanding guys who‘ll say I slipped in the shower.” He leaned his head back. “The car’s totaled anyway. Windows, headlights, mirrors. They used a tire iron. For what reason? Just because she’s evil, man. And because they can.”
The silence that followed was thick. Alex looked at his friend, broken on his couch, and then his gaze drifted down the hall, toward the bathroom. Toward the sink. The warmth on his chest that night had felt like power. A terrifying, alien power, but power nonetheless. He thought of the nurses’ automatic respect, the way his softer voice had been accepted without question.
“They can’t just do that,” Alex heard himself say. His voice wasn’t the forced baritone. It wasn’t the soft, accidental whisper either. It was calm. Clear. Certain.
Daniel glanced over, a flicker of confusion crossing his battered face. “Yeah, well. They did.”
Alex stood up. “Where are they now?”
“Who, the psycho twins? Probably at the Yardarm. They’re there every Friday, holding up the bar, pretending they own the place.” Daniel squinted at him. “Why? What are you gonna do, Alex? You can’t reason with rabid dogs. And you don’t exactly look like you’ve been in a lot of fights lately.”
That was the truth. Alex looked in the mirrored cabinet door across the room. He saw the delicate jaw, the wide eyes, the body that was slimmer, softer. He looked like someone who needed protecting. The opposite of a threat.
A cold, clear plan crystallized in his mind. It was insane. It was dangerous. It was the only thing he had.
“No,” Alex said, walking toward the hallway. “I don’t look like someone who’s been in a fight.” He paused at the bathroom door, his back to Daniel. “But maybe I look like someone who can start one.”
He entered the bathroom and closed the door. The necklace was right where he’d left it. The smoky quartz drank the light. "Lately people have been mistaken me dor a lady for some reason. I have a pinkish shirt and short shorts from my jogging days. Perhaps I can start something at the bar, and have them attack this.so called woman." Alex said to himself.
He picked it up. The metal was cool. He didn’t hesitate. He looped the chain over his head and fastened the clasp. This will add to the image. Jewelry aways help hid the image. Even though I clearly have a flat chest.
He grabbed his car keys and tossed them to Daniel. "He you good to drive. I have a weird plan. Just bare with it. Ok. Im putting on my old jogging shirt and shorts. Lets see If I can get them to attack me in a crowded area. Especially if they see you there, with me."
The keys jangled in the air before Daniel caught them against his chest, wincing at the impact. “Start one?” he echoed, his voice slurry from his swollen mouth. “You look like you’d blow over in a strong wind, man. What’s the play?”
Alex didn’t answer. He shut the bathroom door. The lock clicked, a small, final sound. He stood before the mirror, the necklace a cool weight against his collarbone. Then the familiar warmth began, a deep tea-kettle hum starting in his breastbone and radiating outwards. He watched his own hands as they unbuttoned his shirt. His fingers seemed slimmer, the knuckles less pronounced.
He pulled on the old pair of charcoal grey running shorts, the fabric loose around his slender waist but clinging to the new, fuller curve of his hips. The pink athletic shirt was soft, worn thin from years of use, and it draped loosely where a chest should be. He looked like a tall, waifish girl who’d raided her boyfriend’s closet. The face in the mirror sealed the deal. The changes, subtle individually, coalesced into an undeniable whole. He wasn't a pretty boy. He was a young woman with a striking, androgynous edge and eyes that held a storm.
"Alexandra," he whispered to the reflection. The name felt foreign, a key turning in a lock he hadn't known was there. His voice was a clean, mid-range alto. It fit the face. It terrified him.
He walked out. Daniel, who had been gingerly probing his split lip, froze. His one good eye widened, then squinted in pained confusion. He opened his mouth, closed it, and just stared.
“The plan is simple,” Alex said, and Alexandra’s voice was calm, practical. “We go to the Yardarm. You sit at the bar, far from them. You’re just a guy having a beer. I’m someone new. I’ll get their attention. I’ll make sure they see me talking to you, a battered guy they just beat down. They’ll see a woman showing you sympathy. They won’t like it.”
Daniel blinked slowly. “And then they… what? Punch you? Alex… look at you.”
“That’s the point. They attack a woman in a crowded bar, with witnesses, after just beating you. The story changes. It’s not a ‘he-said-they-said’ brawl behind a laundromat. It’s a documented pattern. It’s two violent men targeting people.” Alex—Alexandra—slipped on a pair of beaten-up canvas sneakers. They were still a little big. “We get it on video. Phone in the breast pocket, recording audio at least.”
THE PLAN WAS SO OUTLANDISH, THAT DANIEL DIDN’T EVEN CONTEMPLATE IT. HE JUST WENT WITH IT. PERHAPS IT WAS THE INJURIES. The pain was a thick fog in his head, muffling reason. The sight of his friend, now this eerie, beautiful stranger speaking with such detached certainty, short-circuited his ability to argue. It was easier to swim with the current than fight it.
“This is the dumbest thing we’ve ever done,” Daniel mumbled, hauling himself up. “And we once tried to microwave a burrito wrapped in tinfoil.”
“That was all you,” Alexandra said, and a ghost of Alex’s old smirk touched her new mouth. “You drive. I’m… practicing my walk.”
The drive was silent. Daniel gripped the wheel, his knuckles white, each bump in the road making him suck air through his teeth. Alexandra stared out the window, feeling the necklace’s warmth spread through her veins like a quiet brandy. She focused on the feeling of the seatbelt crossing her body, the different way the shorts fabric brushed her thighs. She wasn't pretending. She was listening to the shape of herself.
The Yardarm was a squat, neon-trimmed box at the edge of a weedy parking lot. Bass thumped through the walls. They parked at the far end, under a broken light. The night air was cool and smelled of spilled beer and asphalt.
“Ready?” Alexandra asked. Her heart was a frantic bird in her ribs.
“No,” Daniel grunted. “But let’s get this suicide pact over with.”
He shuffled in first, head down, beelining for a solitary stool at the far end of the bar. Alexandra waited a full minute, counting breaths. She could feel the eyes of the few smokers outside flick over her, lingering. It wasn't the usual glance. It was a different kind of attention, sticky and assessing. She pushed the door open.
Smoke and sound hit her. The air was thick with the smell of fryer grease and pine-scented cleaner. A country song wailed from the jukebox, battling with the clatter of pool balls. Her eyes adjusted, scanning.
There. At a high-top table near the back, flanked by empty longneck bottles. Chad and Brad—or their equivalents. They were big, not from the gym but from manual labor, thick necks and broad hands. One had a buzzcut, the other a greasy mullet. They were laughing, a loud, barking sound that cut through the music.
Alexandra moved. She didn’t think. She let the necklace’s hum guide her, a low current steering her through the room. Her walk felt different—a slight, unconscious sway she didn’t have to manufacture. Tge necklace began its changes at a faster rate. Focusing on the flat chest it rested on. She stopped at the bar, two seats down from Daniel, who was studiously staring into his beer.
“Vodka soda,” she said to the bartender. Her voice carried clearly, a feminine punctuation in the masculine rumble.
The bartender, a tired-looking woman with a tattoo sleeve, nodded and turned to make it. Alexandra swiveled slightly on her stool, her knee deliberately pointing toward Daniel. She leaned over, just a little. “Rough night?” she asked him, loud enough to be heard over the music at the nearby table.
Daniel jumped, spilling a little beer. He looked at her, his good eye wide with real fear and disbelief. He was a terrible actor, but that sold it. “Uh. Yeah. You could say that.”
“Looks painful,” Alexandra said, reaching out. She didn’t touch him, but her hand gestured toward his face. It was a gesture of concern, intimate and clear from across the room. She saw, from the corner of her eye, the laughing at the high-top table stop.
Buzzcut elbowed Mullet. They were both looking now. Their expressions shifted from casual boredom to a slow, predatory interest. Then to a dawning, ugly recognition as their eyes flicked from the battered man to the woman talking to him.
Alexandra turned her head, meeting Buzzcut’s gaze directly. She held it for a second, then looked away, a faint, dismissive smile on her lips. It was a spark to dry tinder. She saw his face darken. He muttered something to his brother.
Her drink arrived. She took a sip, the vodka sharp and bracing. The plan was in motion. The weight of their attention was a physical pressure against her skin. She was Alexandra now, fully, a beacon in a pink shirt, and she had just painted a target on her back.