Mad.

All of this comes over me at the exact same moment the organic material crystallizes in my head. Oh yes. I know what this is. I recognize that scent. Copper. Oh, I know it well.

It’s blood.

Not much of it, just about a teaspoon. Here, at the bottom of the glass. Almost black. And in it . . . a few odd hairs. As if plucked. Meticulously placed. In the blood.

Well, this certainly is not my salt and vinegar chips.

I know some people might get queasy at the sight of blood but, trust me, I’ve had enough periods to just see it as a regular old nothing. Oh, yes, blood . . . that happens once every twenty-eight days and is really annoying. Associated with cramps, crying, a desperate need for chocolate, and the throwing out of at least one pair of underwear a month. The grossness of blood is not a thing for me. It’s more like the inconvenience of blood. The ugh of blood.

But, that said, you have to admit, whatever this is . . . this little glass jar of runes, blood, hair, and burlap. It is a bit strange. I mean, this has to be some experiment. Akin to the frog, ever swimming in his jar in the library?

It’s a spell, some dark part of my brain whispers. And I scoff at the thought.

But perhaps this wife is into witchery. Maybe there are books strewn across the house with magic potions and spells. Witches aren’t inherently evil, after all. It’s just the patriarchy that made us think of them that way.

A potion. That’s really all it is. A nothing thing.

But just as I am about to think the next comforting thought, the cupboard door swings open and the jar falls to the floor.

The kitchen door frames Mike as he looks up at me, there on the chair, having just dropped the glass jar, now shattered on the floor.

“Sorry . . . I just wanted to ask you if you’ve seen a hammer around. We seem to have misplaced one.” He looks around. “Did I scare you? I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, it’s just . . . um, a hammer?” I try to act normal. “You know, I haven’t seen one. I haven’t been looking. But . . . if I see one, I’ll be sure to leave it out for you. Maybe by the shed?”

“Yeah, okay,” he replies. “Again, I’m really sorry. Here, I can help you clean it up.”

“No!” If he comes closer, he’ll see what it is. “No, it’s fine. I’ve got it. I’m just . . . clumsy, I guess.”

I shrug. This is what I do. I make myself small. I sigh. I swat it all away.

Just a girl.

Just an absentminded girl.

Why do I feel the need? Why does the presence of this jock-like guy make me feel the need to erase myself? Or make myself slight?