Tyler hoped those ties would outlast her flesh and bone, outlast the thin flesh and soft bones of the creature growing inside her. That whatever was left would be scattered, evidence washed up on disparate shores.

He was certain the thing would have been born a monster. It would have been contorted, as twisted as his face had been when he shot his seed into her young body. Her disgust for him would have brined the baby in poison, tainted any creature born of that union. Girls like her make monsters out of men like me. Breed monsters from us.

When he’d moved into Karen’s home, the whole house smelled of Mandy. Her room was only feet from the one he shared with his new wife. The couch would be warm where she’d been sitting. Her wet towel hung on the bathroom door. Her underwear was in the dryer when he washed his clothes.

He wasn’t made of stone.

***

I’m an underwater thing.

Make me a harpy now

Make me a hydra

Make me

Make me Mother

Father

A part of you.

Let the water cut me free.

***

Tyler lay on his bed, half-watching the news as Karen dressed for a night with her friends.

“Make sure Mandy studies. She has exams tomorrow. And she needs to be in bed by ten.” Karen threw her bag over her arm and straightened her jacket.

“Yep. I know, she knows—we’re good. She’s already in her room studying.” Tyler smiled and waved at Karen. She’d be back late, giggling, cabernet on her breath. She’d fall into bed, sleep deeply, wake late, and leave for work hungover in the morning. It was her night-out tradition.

She repeated her instructions at Mandy’s door. Tyler heard Mandy’s quiet, agreeable response. She was a quiet, agreeable girl. They blew kisses and Karen left.

The news droned on. The ticker hadn’t changed for ten minutes as talking heads repeated the same points, rephrased, with increasing drama.

At ten, Tyler listened as Mandy brushed her teeth. He heard her gargle and gag, counted out the quiet minute while she braided her hair. He heard the bathroom doorknob turn and saw the rectangle of light spread across the hallway floor, till the switch was flicked and it went dark.

“Night, Tyler,” she said from the hall.

“Night, Mandy,” he said.

The news faded into a sitcom, then an infomercial; then he went to her room.

***

Karen kept her hand over her eyes in the morning, flinching from the light, so she didn’t see the pale shock of her daughter’s face. She didn’t notice the tangled hair, lack of makeup, and glazed eyes. Eyes that moved too quickly, that jumped to every movement or sound. She didn’t notice Mandy’s raw bottom lip, or the way Tyler couldn’t stop staring at it, couldn’t sit still.