Medusa looked up from her book, peering over the narrow glasses balanced on her nose. It was quite an impressive sight, really, given how her nose is a strangely shaped nub with uneven nostrils, barely poking out from her grey-green face. She raised one eyebrow, though as they are always assymmetrical, it took you a moment to recognise the expression as one of curiosity.
Peering at her reflection in your hand mirror, you stepped cautiously backwards towards her. You had passed several ‘statues’ of people dotted throughout the garden outside, but the inside of her surprisingly well-decorated cave wasn’t quite as busy with the petrified remains of erstwhile warriors. There was one cowering in the far corner, another trying to hide their eyes off the size. One was tucked by the door, its stony expression one of frozen rage. Every one of them, inside and outside, were warriors. Some ancient and moss-covered, wielding swords and shields. Some distinctly cleaner ones holding rifles and dressed in modern combat gear.
You cleared your throat politely, and the monstrous woman picked up a bookmark, slipped it into place, and closed the book calmly. After placing it gently on a small table beside her, she laced her fingers together in her lap, and looked expectantly at your reflection from her casually reclined posture upon the couch.
“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was rough and gravelly, with an unusual accent that you could only assume is Ancient Greek. It’s actually the accent of the people of old Ithaca, to be specific – but it made little difference to you. The snakes that act as her hair moved lazily, roused from their previously slumberous state by your interruption. But there was no terrible hissing or sudden predatory response. Just the languid curling of slender, scaly bodies.
Licking your dry lips nervously, you tilted the small mirror slightly to get a better angle on her, noticing that below the neck her body was remarkably human. A little plump, and adorned with a simple creamy robe – not an ancient Grecian toga, but a dressing gown of thin, shimmery cloth. You couldn’t yet tell exactly what the fabric was, but it was draped over her body quite casually. Her legs were covered in dark hair that looks like it would be soft to the touch, and you made a mental note that this shouldn’t really be any surprise. After all, why would she shave them?
You took a deep breath, and a moment to gather your courage. The Gorgon’s unevenly scaled face remained calm and patient.
“I’m not sure if you will want to help me,” you forced yourself to say, hand trembling slightly. Despite her calm demeanor, you knew this woman could still kill you with a glance. “But I thought it was worth coming to ask you anyway.” You paused, scanning her expression for any signs of annoyance. After a moment, the monster raised an open hand, gesturing for you to continue.
At that gesture, words spilled out of you. As though you were hoping if you said it all at once then it would be too quick for her to get offended by any one part of it.
“Right, so, I heard the myths and the stories about you, Medusa the monster, and there are so many – all about being cursed, about being beheaded by Perseus, how you turn people to stone – some of the stories have you alone, some with two sisters, in some you’re ugly and in others you’re terrifyingly beautiful – there’s two different sets of parents, and some said you were in Libya but here you are instead – but also there’s this stuff about how you protected women, and that the curse might not have been a curse, and it’s all just so confusing and messy and none of it feels quite right, so I just wanted to ask you -” finally you took a breath, a tiny pause before your question. “What happened?”
You stopped, breath held, waiting maybe for anger, or for her to simply leap from the couch and murder you on the spot. Your blood pulsed in your ears as adrenaline made the mirror shake in your hand. But there was no fury to come.
Medusa tilted her head to the side, thoughtfully. You winced a little, unsure what may come next. She twisted slowly in her seat, feet sliding off the couch and onto the floor. Leaning forward and placing her elbows on her knees, she peered at your reflection with slightly narrowed eyes.
“You are scared of me,” she said, quietly. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. So you didn’t reply, curious to learn what would follow.
“Yet you hunted me out, sought my home, passed the stone corpses on my doorstep, with only the protection of a hand mirror, simply to ask me what happened?” she continued, frowning with what you had to hope was confusion.
You couldn’t think of how to answer, really. It sounded so stupid when she said it like that, but you couldn’t put into words what drove you to come all this way. You nodded, dumbly. It’s only when she took a breath, opening her mouth to speak again that something popped into your head. You blurted out, “Curiosity killed the cat.”
Your face was hot all of a sudden, and you realised you must be blushing, embarrassed at the whole thing. Thoughts of just leaving sped through your mind, but perhaps you should apologise first, so at least she might not follow you outside. But then, what if she didn’t want you to tell anyone else where to find her –
“And satisfaction brought it back,” Medusa replied. You blinked, then stared back at her reflection, which suddenly seemed to be smiling kindly?
“What?” you said, your mouth moving faster than your anxiety for once. Yes, she definitely was smiling as she answered your confusion. It was a pretty smile, you thought in that moment. Striking how the simple joy was shamelessly displayed on her face, with no coyness or attempt to hide that gentle happiness.
“That’s how that saying finishes,” she replied. “Though of course, it originated from ‘care killed the cat’ – with care here meaning much the same as ‘worry’. You folks are always making a mess of your own proverbs. It’s like you want to forget the parts that matter.” The Gorgon lifted a hand to her face and pulled off her reading glasses, leaning back to place them atop her book.
It was only when she leaned forward again to fix you with that surreal expression, that you noticed when she moved she had to adjust tawny brown wings that sprouted from her back, to avoid crushing the feathers. You cursed that you hadn’t thought to bring a bigger mirror so you could see better – but then you would have had to spend even more money on luggage on all those flights you took, and it had already been expensive enough.
“Go on, what others do you know,” the serpent-haired woman said, her lopsided grin broadening. It was only then that you realised you had expected fangs or shark-like teeth to line her mouth. But her excited grin was slightly buck-toothed, with quite naturally askew. It was probably the most singularly human part of her face, her teeth.
You swallowed uncertainly, still fighting that dry mouth, in spite of how friendly the monster seemed to be. “Jack of all trades, master of none,” you replied, with the first thing that sprung to mind.
“Is better than master of one,” she continued without hesitation. “Though it’s hotly debated whether that’s really the original, or if it’s just a more accurate reflection of the positive intent. Either way, it rather undercuts the negative implications of the modernised version.”
“Money is the root of all evil,” you said, frowning slightly as you tried to think. She chuckled, an almost musical sound that you definitely didn’t expect. With that kindly laugh, the smile, and her relaxed posture, you couldn’t help but start feeling a little more at ease.
“It’s ‘Love of money is the root of all evil.’ Someone really didn’t want to take responsibility for their bullshit with that one,” Medusa replied, rolling her eyes.
You couldn’t help but exhale a snort of amusement. You had stopped shaking so much, the adrenaline starting to subside, but it was still difficult to think of another aphorism. “The devil is in the details,” you said, almost jumping as you excitedly pronounced it. Anyone would think you were hoping to stump her.
“That one was originally ‘God is in the details,’ but I guess it was too hopeful for some folks,” your host said through a sarcastic smirk.
The next one came to you more easily. “A rolling stone gathers no moss,” you said, somewhat pleased with yourself.
She raised a finger, and her expression seemed pleased with you too. “Technically still accurate, but only recently did you forget that a rock with no moss on it is a desolate, lifeless thing. The original meaning was closer to an old Roman saying – ‘A plant often moved cannot thrive,’” Medusa said, definitely enjoying herself. “Next!”
The next one popped into your head instantly. “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
Her smile saddened then, and she nodded to herself as her gaze drifted into the middle distance. “That one I cannot argue with. It just seems too hard for anyone to really live by.”
You bit your lip, slightly regretting your success in the impromptu game of words. You struggled for something to say, but you couldn’t take your eyes off the somewhat mournful reflection of a mythical woman who was not at all how you expected her to be.
“You’re not a monster,” you said quietly. It’s not much, but you needed to say it. It’s tremulous, your voice still holding the remnants of your fear. Then you spoke it again, more confidently this time, as though reassuring both yourself and the mythical creature behind you.
She frowned slightly, focusing on your reflection once more with a suddenly intense stare. “Yes I am,” she replied, her tone hard and cold. “I turn people to stone with a look. I have snakes for hair, scaly skin, and bloody great big wings.” She stretched one of them out behind her as though to prove a point. “Not exactly your average citizen.”
You squeezed your lips together, frustrated at her objection. “You know what I mean. I thought you would get angry just at being disturbed, but we’re just talking,” you argued, gesticulating with annoyance. “You’re not some foul, malevolent beast who’s out to murder and destroy.”
She stared coldly at you, every vestige of her smile gone. “I’ve murdered people,” she said, her voice low. “You saw some of them on your way in. I probably left quite a few behind in Libya, too.” Her severe expression cracked, and she smiled darkly. “You know how it is when you move house, something always gets left behind.”
That looks sent a shiver down your spine. It was getting easier to make out her expressions, but the truth of her words made you suddenly doubt your own assertion. “Self defense, surely?” you asked, uncertainly. You wanted to be right, partly so you wouldn’t be in danger. Partly because you couldn’t accept that this smiling, laughing woman was a monster. Underneath the mishapen face and coiling serpents, she seemed so very normal. How could she be a monster?
The monster shook her head, the smile not entirely fading, as though she knew it was a serious topic, but she couldn’t quite stay serious. “Not always. Some of them were just cunts who had it coming.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. That sentence coming from the mouth of the ancient figure older than civilisations, a legend whose story had lasted generation after generation. Her smile softened from amusement to something almost affectionate, still gazing at your reflection as she chuckled along. Your laughter faded and you stared into her reflected eyes. Eyes that were a deep brown, shining out from her curiously coloured skin. They weren’t slitted or glowing, just pretty, wide brown eyes. Maybe there were flecks of yellow and amber in them, but you couldn’t quite tell from so far away.
It was so awkward talking like this – out of reach and through a little mirror. You dropped your hand, lowering the mirror, but didn’t turn around. You may have wandered into Medusa’s lair out of curiosity, but you were certainly not enthusiastic about the idea of becoming a permanent decoration.
“What happens if I turn around?” you asked her, trying not to sound too serious. Trying to make it just a casual, conversational question.
“Either I close my eyes or you become a delightful new statue,” she said plainly, as though it were the least remarkable thing in the world. Just a casual conversation.
You paused for a long moment. That was not exactly an answer that made you feel good about turning around, but your head twitched a little, as though the urge to see her in the flesh was tugging at your muscles. “Which will it be?” you asked her, your hand gripping the mirror tightly by your side, as you stared out of the entrance, your eyes drawn between dust motes dancing in the sunbeams. You very purposefully avoided the eyes of the lone, eternally enraged stone figure by the doorway.
Medusa didn’t reply immediately. Your breathing seemed so loud in the silence. “I haven’t decided yet,” she finally said, very quietly. It wasn’t said like a threat. There was just simple indecision in her voice.
She took a sharp little breath, then sighed, a little exasperated. “Trusting people is so hard. We always want to, don’t we? But the world is full of monsters, and not all of them have hair that can bite. Even the most sceptical, cynical fuckers want someone to talk to, but it’s scary letting someone in. You sit there thinking, ‘Why do they want to know about me? Are they going to judge me? What if I do this wrong?’ And I remember all that happening even before I had to figure out if they had been sent to kill me because my eyes are literal weapons.”
She sighed again, deeper. A resigned sound. Then there was a soft sussuration of clothing shifting. If you had known more about fabric, you would have been able to tell that her gown was indeed silk in that moment. Egyptian silk, taken from a foolish soldier long ago.
You chewed your bottom lip nervously, your muscles tightening, as though preparing to run. You didn’t know what to expect, what she was doing, and that fear rose up again. You were about to raise the mirror again to look behind you, when her gravelly voice drifted tentatively over your shoulder. “Turn around.”
Something in the tone makes you do it. It’s not hypnotic or compelling, nothing like that. She has cast no spell on you. But it sounded like she didn’t expect you to do it. Like an invitation that expects to be refused. It sounded like she was waiting for you to run. Like she could see your fear still there, despite your claim that she was no monster. Like she could see that you didn’t entirely believe it yourself.
You wanted to prove her wrong. You wanted so hard to be right, to believe it. Something inside you deeply needed her to not be a monster, and you didn’t realise it until that very moment. So you turned on the spot, staring at the floor for a moment before inhaling deeply, and looking up into her face.
Mirrored sunglasses hid her eyes. Big, 1980s style aviator shades that reflected your own face back at you. You stepped forward, towards your own reflection. She smiled with relief, and you could see as you got closer that her smile wasn’t just pleasant and human – it really was quite beautiful. It’s not even, and it’s far from perfect. It’s not some spectacular, pearly-white, Hollywood grin. But it’s beautiful in its honesty. The honesty of appreciation, of surprise, of finding someone willing to take a risk and trust her in spite of everything.
You stood in front of her, easily within her reach, and bent down a little. You peered at the sunglasses, trying to see through to her eyes, wondering with a strange detachment if you were about to turn into stone. She turned her head aside as you squinted at her. “Careful, I’m still a monster,” she said with a somewhat hollow chuckle.
“Yeah,” you said softly, as you sat on the couch next to her. A dozen pairs of eyes turned to follow you, as her hair twisted on her head. The sight was so surreal, so unsettling. A collection of little beady eyes peering back at you. You would wonder for such a long time about whether she could see with those eyes, instead of the ones that were made for murder. “I guess you are still a monster.”
You looked back at the serpents, a little chill darting up your neck. Then your gaze fell on the reflection of yourself in her sunglasses, as she turned back to face you. “But I think you’re still not a monster, too,” you added, smiling as reassuringly as you could.
You began to talk more, then. She answered some of your questions – like how long it had been since Libya, and where she was from originally. You didn’t dare ask the questions about what made her that way. Not yet, at least. But she slowly began to tell you the tale as she relaxed into your company, and you let her.
The conversation continued for so long, the sun eventually set outside the cave. Long beams of the fading sunlight moved across the floor by your feet until you curled your toes under you on the sofa. Gradually your host lit candles to see by – beeswax candles she told you she makes herself. You couldn’t go back out into the darkness, so the monster invited you to stay the night. You agreed. And if I could, I would have screamed for you not to.
That one night became two. Three days becames a week. The weeks merged into months, and every day brought you and she closer together. It’s hard to remember how many days it had been when you began to share her bed, but it was quite soon after she had you go into the nearest town to pick up mirrored swimming goggles.
“I just want my peripheral vision back,” she told you, as you both laughed at the sight of her struggling to pull the strap over the mess of uncooperative serpents atop her head – with her back turned toward you, of course.
Without the gap in her sunglasses, I could no longer catch sight of the look in her eyes as she gazed at you cleaning up the messes she insisted didn’t need any cleaning. There was no mistaking that look.
Nor was it possible to misinterpret how she carefully turned away every night before taking off her eye protection. Or how she started waking without opening her eyes, groping for the shield that keeps you safe before placing a gentle kiss on your forehead to wake you – even though you were usually already awake. You watch her sleep, sometimes, trying to imagine what her eyes really look like, but always turning away if she begins to rouse from her slumber.
She has grown to love you. And it is clear you love her too. This monster abandoned by the world, living quietly in a cave surrounded by reminders of what horror she can inflict.
This monster I had watched petrify so many travellers who came seeking the power of her eyes, or a hoard of riches that she didn’t have. People craving rewards, or to be celebrated as heroes. All of us, every single one, were fools. I see that too, now. I wish it had not taken me the better part of two centuries. I wish I had not spent so long fixated on my rage and the injustice of my fate.
One day you brush the moss from my face. The softness of your touch is remarkable, and I feel honoured that you would be so gentle with me. I can see why the monster cares for you so deeply.
“Who was he?” you ask her, peering curiously into my eyes, as though seeking the answer in the features of my stony face.
Medusa glances over at me, and there is a coldness in her tone as she replies. “I don’t know. They didn’t usually give their names.” Standing, she places one of her books on the table. She has so many – her thirst for stories and knowledge was one of the first things you came to adore. She glides over to stand beside you. “I thought him a monster, then. I’m sure he thought himself a hero.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. I have watched her for so long, I imagine I can tell how she feels as well as you can. You who she tells her secrets and her jokes to. The regret and the sorrow sings out in her voice, though we hear only the smallest inflection.
“Really, he was just a man. A man who made a choice I wish he hadn’t.”
If I could, I would cry. My frozen chest aches with feeling, desperate for release. But I can’t. I can feel the blade in my hand, my other arm up too high in a futile attempt to hide my eyes. But I will never move again.
It’s not fair. I told myself that every day for years. When you first arrived, when you first brought her joy, I told myself the same thing. Every smile a bitter barb in the eternity of my suffering.
And it is not fair. It’s not fair that I’m trapped here, imprisoned forever because I made one damn fool decision. Just like it isn’t fair that she can’t leave, because of people like me.
Perhaps I’m still a fool, because I think you got the rawest deal of all. Stuck here just because you love her. Because how could you leave now? How could you leave someone who has had to be alone for so long, without it breaking your heart?
“Why do you keep them?” you ask her, turning away from me. You look quizzically into the mirror image of your own eyes. “I know thinking about them makes you sad. Why leave them here to remind you all the time?”
The monster turns away from you, and stares at me. I see my own grey face, contorted with rage and fear, reflected back at me. I wish to all the gods that I could change that expression. I wish I could gift her a smile, a little sign of the forgiveness I am trying so hard to excavate from my rocky interior.
Her voice is small when she whispers her reply, almost too quiet for me to hear.
“I don’t want them to be alone.”
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